A Difference in Skill
> “Liona.” ~Frill Veli
Frein approached Ral with opened confidence; the black knight’s greatsword pointed directly at him. Behind him, Hal, the silver knight, emerged from the sands, coughing up dust while he recovered on his feet.
The Visitor calmly took one step at a time amidst the danger surrounding him. At some point, one had to give, and he had no intention of stepping back.
Red lightning surged from Ral’s greatsword, blasting in a line of electrified branches.
It was unbearably slow. Frein had already taken a sidestep before the lightning even left the blade.
A flying chained sickle sliced, aimed at his neck. Once again, he had already swayed away. The two knights attempted their ranged attacks a few more times, all missing their marks only by hair-thin margins with Frein moving preemptively at the exact split-second moments of their attacks.
So obvious, so unbearably obvious.
Frein reached Ral within striking distance. Even the term was deceiving at this point since he was already in range ten meters ago. The approach was to prove that he was better than them, or at least better than what they were currently showing. Best case—he hoped—they would choose to surrender after this display of confidence, or—even better—this would provoke an improvement compared to whatever slow music these two knights were dancing to.
Because of the helm, Frein could barely see the black knights bewildered eyes as he raised his greatsword in a standard guard to his side. It was a defensive pose the Visitor recognized and was glad that this world wasn’t entirely far removed with regards to the basics of swordplay.
Ral’s eyes shifted ever so slightly, looking past behind Frein.
That alone was opening enough.
Ral wasn’t slow by any means, not really, but Frein effortlessly matched him in terms speed. Information was the only defining factor.
At the exact moment the black knight decided to swing his lightning-infused greatsword, Frein dashed in and low. He spun underneath Ral’s swinging arms and slammed a Siffera intensified elbow straight to the man’s middle section.
Forged Armors—according to what he had read—amplified the practitioner’s resistance to meiyal. It would allow them to withstand, for example, a Meiyal Art of pure flame, provided that their resistance was ultimately more powerful than the Meiyal Art practitioner. Otherwise, these protections were only a tad bit stronger than normal plate armors.
The strength and sturdiness Frein’s body now possessed with Siffera—the single Meiyal Art he had spent the most time practicing during his training—enabled him to punch holes in reinforced metals like they were made of thin cardboards.
Ral doubled over with a violent grunt. Frein followed through by grabbing the knight’s forward momentum and throwing him over his shoulder, disarming him at the same time.
He sent Ral flying rather than slamming him straight down, sending the poor guy straight across and colliding with the flying sickle that was supposed to catch Frein by surprise if he had dodged the greatsword backwards instead.
Hal had a split-second to decide whether to catch his brother or not, and he made the wrong choice.
Frein had been dashing underneath Ral’s shadow the entire time he flew, his eyes observing for any retaliation. The moment Hal caught his brother, Frein was already sending a multi-spun flying roundhouse kick.
The impact reverberated across the entire battlefield. Echoes of meiyal sent sand and dust in the air and unprepared bodies off their feet. The same force pushed the sibling knights away by a few meters, but as the dust settled their silhouettes showed their arms numbing from a successful block.
Frein landed on the ground, impressed. He had fed Siffera half of his current meiyal reservoir for that singular strike, tanking him to the last third. Without a second thought, he Gathered and Milled.
Ral removed his black helmet, revealing an auburn hair with yellow eyes fixed wide underneath his frown; his bewilderment apparent from his slacked jaw. His damaged helmet dissolved into meiyal, but his attention was more focused on Frein.
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“You’re Gathering?” Ral asked, accusingly. With a single grasping gesture, he summoned his greatsword flying grip first towards his hand. “You expect us to wait for you?”
“Are you going to wait?” Frein asked as he doubled his Milling efforts, sending a message. His meiyal system started to feel the strain, but it wasn’t a cause for panic.
Katherine had warned him about this. No sane practitioner would Gather and Mill—or whatever terms their discipline called it—during a fight. The process took so long to complete and obviously left the practitioner defenseless as if asking to get killed. It was simply outright rude. But Katherine had given the warning simply in order for Frein to be aware, not for him to avoid. Because unlike everyone else, this was his sole glaring advantage to make up for his lack of Meiyal Arts.
“You think we’re that stupid?” Hal retorted.
I think so, yeah.
The thing was, Perpetual-Layered Milling Form, now that he had gained mastery over it, allowed Frein to never stop Gathering and Milling. Even while he fought, the two processes continued in a reduced, almost subconscious, effort tantamount to that of breathing. Frein only ever had to pay the minutest of his attentions to increase the intensity and yield.
Unlike those that utilized this Milling Form sparingly, he had no need to stop and meditate, leaving him truly free to take and refill his reserves whenever he wanted to as long as his meiyal system could afford the strain.
To complement this overall style, Katherine had made sure Frein made three major investments during his training: mastering the Perpetual-Layered Milling Form, increasing his meiyal system’s endurance and stamina, and mastering Siffera down to the last nuanced detail of the Art.
All three suited Frein’s way of fighting.
“Are you seriously just going to keep asking me questions?” He focused and tripled his effort just for the plain insult. “Did somebody say a timeout?”
A sickle flew straight for his face. It was still the same straightforward trajectory, no change in pattern at all.
How in the world are these guys Lord Knights?
Frein caught the sickle effortlessly; his Milling focus undisturbed. The meiyal from the sickle immediately rejected him, as if the very nature of the world didn’t make any sense when he held the weapon. The sensation was surprising but not unexpected; he had The Forges of Vyndival to thank for that.
Forged Weapons and Armors, especially named and powerful ones, were signature locked. It meant only those that Forged them—barring any special rules in some cases like heirlooms—using meiyal-charged materials could use those weapons and armors.
Frein assumed he could force it with Siffera, but the sickle slipped off his grasp after a few seconds as easily as though he just let it go.
The two knights stood side-by-side, standing a few paces away in front of the black dragon’s hind leg. Frein was so absorbed with the fight, he almost forgot about Elizzel.
Suddenly it all clicked in his head.
There was a war going on. He and Katherine appeared at the heart of the enemy’s base of operations, but the actual battlefield was probably far from here—Schrodie had been sparse with the details prior to their jump.
Where they appeared, they were surrounded mostly by monsters and conscripted men. Most knights who could fight properly were already probably on the frontlines. The ones that remained here kept the monsters in check.
These two Lord Knights were monster hunters first and foremost. They studied their prey, specialized their skills and weapons for hunting or capturing them. Dueling against another person was a far cry from stalking and hunting mindless beasts. And while it would seem that they had some experience in combating their fellow men, they haven’t met someone like him.
Like Frein. A man who, throughout his whole life, only ever fought other people. He read their intentions like an opened book, exploited every tell they unknowingly spoke, took advantage of every opportunity to get ahead with no regard for norm or tradition.
It quickly dawned on Frein that this was not a fair fight.
It wouldn’t be proper to test out all his skills right here, it was simply disrespectful. The best he could offer them was an honorable exit.
That was the actual problem.
While the two siblings did their best to land a blow or deal a scratch, Frein spent the next five minutes dodging them, shoving them to each other, or stopping one of them with a heavy blow. All the while, he Gathered and Milled, with his mind pondering on how best to end this boring match with all their honors and integrity intact.
He could only think of one.
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Frantic. Disoriented. Desperate. Frill scampered the war-ridden Flat Lands without mind for any Vyndivalian soldier. She was thankful for the orders to stand down, but her mind focused solely on finding one person.
Liona.
The moment Ashtine delivered the ill news, Frill had gone blank, ignoring any orders and scouring the entire battlefield for any signs of her sister.
“Liona!” she called out as loud as she could with an echo Meiyal Art, hoping to hear a response.
Nothing.
A gust of wind called her attention. Only then did her eyes showed her the aftermath of battle. Corpses upon corpses carried by either side, most of them Vyndivalian. Injured people screamed and groaned as they were moved or healed right then and there, some dying regrettably at the moment of rescue.
Death and fire surrounded Frill. The foul stench of corpses filled her nose while the silent eerie crackles of burning flesh and wood whispered to her ears, sending a dangerous thought into her mind.
What if she’s one of them?
She desperately pushed it away and continued her search, calling out her sister’s name with a frantic voice.
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