The Baron strode into the square, the sharp click of his boots against the cobblestones a rhythm that silenced the murmuring crowd. With a flourish, he drew his jet-black blade, the motion precise and deliberate. Cheese’s eyes locked onto the weapon as it left its sheath—a moment ago, it had been a bastard sword. Now, its profile had shifted, the blade elongated and its edge thickened into that of a longsword. A faint hum of dark energy emanated from it, enough to make the hairs on Cheese’s arms stand on end.
The Baron dragged the blade across the palm of his hand with deliberate slowness, showing no sign of pain. He turned his hand to Cheese, revealing an unbroken surface. “See this?” he said, his voice clipped with authority. “Cynthia does not harm her own. Neither will she harm you.”
Cheese’s throat felt dry as he nodded, his eyes flicking nervously between the Baron and the blade.
The Baron motioned him closer with an impatient gesture. “Have you ever performed a Glíma?” he asked brusquely.
Cheese hesitated, the unfamiliar term hanging in the air. Slowly, he shook his head.
The Baron sighed; his gaze sharp as he studied the young man. “The Glíma is an exchange of body and momentum before a bout,” he said, his tone like that of a schoolmaster forced to explain the obvious. “Mainlanders call it wrestling, but they miss the purpose. They treat it as sport. We do not. It is a ritual—one that loosens the muscles and prepares the mana beneath the skin.” He tilted his head toward Cheese. “You’ll understand once you’ve felt it. Come.”
He raised a hand, summoning a figure from the sidelines. The man approached with an unhurried stride. He was short, barely a meter and a half in height, but his compact frame radiated strength. Every step was balanced, every movement deliberate. His muscles, corded and sinewy, reminded Cheese of a coiled spring ready to strike.
“This,” said the Baron, gesturing toward the man, “is Gelrock, my court’s Master-at-Arms. He will see to you.”
Cheese held his tongue, unsure whether he was expected to bow or speak. Gelrock’s eyes locked onto him, a piercing gaze that seemed to take in every detail—the set of Cheese’s shoulders, the stiffness in his gait, the faint grimace that betrayed his still-healing injuries.
The silence stretched. Then Gelrock turned to the Baron and, with a firm shake of his head, said, “No.”
The word struck like a hammer. For a moment, Cheese panicked. Had he already failed? The Baron’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing around his blade, but before either could speak, Gelrock continued.
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“He is untrained,” Gelrock said, his tone calm but resolute. “He is injured. His spirit is erratic and dark. If I am to take him as a pupil, it will be done properly. No shortcuts. No rushing.” His dark eyes flicked back to Cheese. “I will not waste my time, nor his. If you want him ready, you must allow me to do this my way.”
The Baron’s nostrils flared, but after a tense moment, he gave a curt nod. “Fine. Do as you must.”
Gelrock turned back to Cheese, his expression unreadable. “Boy,” he said, his voice carrying an edge of command, “you will follow my instructions exactly. No hesitation. No questioning.” He stepped closer, the weight of his presence pressing down on Cheese. “I don’t care how much it hurts or how much you think you know. If you want to survive, you will do as I say. Understood?”
Cheese swallowed hard and nodded. “Understood.”
Gelrock gave the faintest of nods, his approval measured. “Good. Then we begin now.”
Cheese nodded slowly as Gelrock explained the steps. He wasn’t new to forming parties—he’d been in a few before, like when his father had taken him and his brothers out to clear the woods of pests. Those memories brought a faint warmth to his chest, his father barking orders while patiently teaching them to work together. But this… this felt different.
Focusing on Gelrock, he navigated his skill menu. The process was simple: select Party Settings, add a member, and confirm. The moment he completed the sequence, a ripple of energy passed between them, and a new option lit up.
Teacher Access Enabled.
Cheese frowned. He’d never seen this before. “What’s this… Teacher Access?” he asked, pointing at the glowing option.
Gelrock smirked, the expression both reassuring and sharp. “That’s new. The System added it not long ago. With my Teacher skill at Level 25, specialization in martial training, I can grant you access to learn faster. While you’re under my instruction, if I have a skill higher than yours, your progress will accelerate by 25%. If my skill isn’t higher, you’ll still learn, but at half the speed. Clear?”
Cheese blinked. That was… powerful. “And you get something out of this too?”
“Of course,” Gelrock replied with a shrug. “I receive a portion of the experience you gain from any skill you improve under my instruction. The returns are proportional to how much you’re able to push yourself. Think of it as my way of growing stronger alongside my students.”
Cheese’s eyes widened. His mind immediately jumped to the possibilities. “That’s incredible for group sessions. Imagine a whole team training together with a teacher who’s got high levels in everything they’re working on. It’d make an entire squad stronger in no time.”
“Exactly,” Gelrock said, clearly pleased that Cheese grasped the potential so quickly. “But it only works if you’re willing to put in the effort. Laziness kills progress. Now, stop daydreaming and finish enabling Teacher Access.”
Cheese toggled the option, and another notification appeared:
Gelrock Irontide’s Teacher Access activated. You will learn skills at an accelerated rate when instructed by this teacher. Note: Experience gain is shared with teacher.
The moment the notification faded, Cheese’s menu adjusted. A subtle overlay highlighted his stats and skills, as if marking them for Gelrock’s scrutiny. Cheese let out a slow breath, nerves prickling as he studied his menu alongside the smaller man.