The cold steel blade sparked against Conor's artificial wrist, sending his knife skidding off into the blazing hot sands. Several onlookers leaning against the training grounds railing skipped back to avoid the razor-sharp projectile.
The scalding heat made the heavy padded gear Conor and Vuraley wore nearly unbearable. Their coats and trousers were weighed down by gallons of sweat, and the ballistic glass visors had steamed up, making it almost impossible to see..
Despite the sweltering heat and the fact that they had been sparing for the last three hours, Vuraley showed no signs of slowing down. He was still as nimble as he was during the first strike, even though he was swinging around a massive two-handed sword like it was a small tactical blade.
Fighting the man was undoubtedly surreal. Each strike and parry almost seemed to phase through his blade, resulting in Conor being slammed into again.
Conor had been trained in dozens of martial arts and had years of practical experience, but Vuraley had been thoroughly whooping his ass. The vast gap in their ability was as wide as the galaxy.
Vuraley seemed to effortlessly float around the shifting sands. He parried, repositioned, and reposted so quickly that Conor could not keep up.
As Vuraley danced around Conor's attempts to fight or draw the man in, he constantly gave a lecture. Most of it was genuinely solid advice that Conor had heard before but never focused on. Having those lessons literally beaten into him, Conor was beyond frustrated.
The Human was a gunfighter, not a blade master. The techniques Vuraley used—watching for feints, distracting with false strikes, and targeting glancing blows—were not Conor’s forte. Sure, Conor had learned them in the past and knew how to put them into practice, but this day of being treated like a toy by the older warrior showed how sloppy he was.
No matter what Conor attempted, Vuraley had an answer to defeat him in a near instant. Fieng high and strike low, the pommel of his sword ended up in Conor's back. If he attempted the opposite, Vuraley would flow his long blade into Conor's guard and into his neck.
All the other soldiers of the royal guard had long since abandoned the morning sparring sessions. Instead of training until they dropped, the armored soldiers stood around drinking water, ogling the High Champions' duel against the Human and flirting with the female servants who liked to watch the fight.
The ladies and soldiers oohed and awed and constantly gave colored commentary about their performances. Some coached their favorite, like an all-star armchair quarterback, while others even placed small bets on how each round would go.
Most had spared with Conor and Vuraley, and each was horribly put down; none could hold a candle to either of the well-seasoned fighters.
However, a few used the fact that they had brawled the high Champion or the Master of War as a bragging point to tell the nearby maids.
Initially, having such a crowd was odd to Conor, but Vuraley had made it plain for the Humans to understand. Every royal guard member was the pinnacle of the Kurlatra species, and most were nobility.
The servants that lingered around the training grounds passing out water and snacks and giggling bashfully at the men's bravado were fishing for a Champion of their own.
While Conor was not an angler or a hunter, he could understand the methodology. To snag a prize, you must go where the trophies are. They had mixed success.
Without a weapon, Conor stepped back, creating distance between himself and Vuraley. But the older warrior was not done with Conor, not by a longshot. The High Champion stepped into Conor's guard and thrust his massive two-handed sword straight at the Human's chest.
“You are still too predictable,” Vuraley barked.
It was too bad the Humans still had one last desperate act for their mock battle.
Using his high-strength alloy arm as an impromptu shield and parrying dagger was something Vuraley had not expected when Conor joined them for sparring while Eivaley was preparing to go out into town with the Human.
The move would work only for Conor or someone clad in power armor. Vuraley could technically do the same with his shimmering golden armor, but power armor could only withstand such impact as a last resort.
Unlike Conor's alloy arm, power armor could only take so much of a beating before its shielding would run out of power and leave you vulnerable.
Acting quickly, the High Champion skidded the blade along Conor's arm, twisting the angle of attack to plunge the sword straight into the Human's chest. To Vurlay's surprise, Conor did not continue to retreat like he had initially predicted; no, the Human assaulted forward.
“I can say the same thing about you,” Conor sneered. “You always aim for my chest.”
In reality, Vuraley's fighting style was not predictable; it was fluid and only attacked in hundreds of ways. But, after being thrashed all day, Conor was beginning to understand.
Conor twisted his metal arm with lightning-fast reflexes and grabbed the sword's crossguard and Vuraley's hand. He squeezed tightly enough that even through the fog of their masks, Vuraley's pained wince was visible.
Conor then twisted around while pulling Vuraley in close. “It's my win!” The Human roared while sending the older warrior ass over teakettle.
Vuraley landed hard, sending a wave through the sands. He groaned in pain as all the air left his lungs. Conor had to admit that a landing like that, even with his artificial lungs, would make breathing difficult.
As soon as Vuraley was on the sand, Conor ripped Vuraleys sword from his hand and tossed it off. Conor did this because Vuraley had taken his knife each time he won.
Disarming your opponent was part of how the Kurlatra trained and fought. The royal guard believed that losing your weapon meant death, so some guards had tattoos stating that fact.
The group of soldiers roared in excitement, with a few passing credit sticks to one another. They had lost their bet that Conor would not win a single match with the high Champion the entire day.
Well, the Human just showed them—even though he had only won one out of the fifty or so, he still won.
“Fuck, is that what you did to Therulay?” Vuraley groaned in question, rubbing one of his horns, which took most of the force of the impact.
“Not that one,” Conor chuckled, holding a hand out to help the man up.
“Well, show me that next time,” Vuraley replied, standing with Conor's aid.
“Sure,” Conor replied.
Conor was over the moon that Vuraley was not upset about what he had done to his youngest daughter. Namely, he mammed the woman for the rest of her life by breaking off one of her horns.
Once Conor had explained what led up to him throwing the princess out of his room, all was forgiven. After today's training, he knew that was a good thing because Conor woke up the following day to Vuraley trying to break down his door with a sword and pistol in hand.
The father was fully prepared to rip Conor's cock off and choke him with it after the princess had spun him some tall tale about him attempting to rape her.
If it was not for one of the servants having witnessed Conor kicking the princess out, he likely would not have gotten away with beating her up.
Once the air was cleared, Vuraley joked with Conor over a few glasses of Stulk that he was surprised that it took as long as it did for one of his daughters to attempt to seduce the Human; Vuraley assumed they would have all tried the first opportunity that presented themselves.
He was surprised that his youngest had been the bold one to try and grateful that Conor hadn’t truly harmed her. But Vuraley was clear that if a Human ever harmed his daughters without just reason, his life would be short and painful.
Vuraley and Conor retrieved their weapons and moved out of the training circle, wanting to clear it just in case any of the soldiers wanted another go or show off to a prospective lady.
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The pair crossed the bustling training yard toward the shelter where padded armor was stored. They weaved their way around the soldiers, practicing drills and others taking breaks.
Seeing the Kurlatra royal guard's training effort warmed Conor's artificial heart. Almost all of his worries about Eivaley's safety had been put to rest. These troopers were well-prepared and disciplined.
Every royal guard member was an elite athlete, an expert in multiple martial arts, spoke more languages than Conor knew existed, and could shoot the color of a gnat's ass at a hundred meters..
They embodied the motto 'never shall I fail,' treating every movement, task, and training drill as if their very lives depended on it.
Each knot tied, trigger pulled, or blade sharpened was given the same sanctity and respect as disarming a bomb.
Over the last three weeks, Conor has been training and learning alongside the royal guard. Each day was a grueling regiment of early morning physical training, late-night weapons drills, and even shoot house training in the repurposed catacombs below the palace.
Several of the other champions even joined in from time to time—although they mainly seemed interested in listening to the stories Conor told to explain his ideas about warfare.
Despite Conor's vastly different background, he worked incredibly well with the royal guard. Their standard operating procedures were identical, save for a few procedures regarding clearing houses.
The largest difference between their operations was their preference in how they attacked a house. The royal guard attacked like the shock troops they were.
When the royal guard was clearing a house, you knew it. They were fast, violent, and assaulted as a group. Their clearing procedures were like watching a crashing tsunami raging through a house. They left no couch unturned and no enemy alive. Their tactics were ruthlessly efficient, leaving nothing but carnage in their wake.
Conor, on the other hand, used a far more subtle and silent method of room clearing. He did not yell, kick in doors, or shoot unless necessary. The Human moved in like a deadly revenant, shooting targets through windows, peepholes, and door frames.
Most of the guards did not seem to like the idea, believing it was dishonorable. Although a few did change their tune when Conor's solo time in the shoot house was faster than theirs.
The only ones who seemed to genuinely see the reasoning behind why being subtle, silent, and able to garrote a throat without being seen were Vuraley, Vitul, Cur’sh, and, unsurprisingly, Burlai.
Vitul and Cur’sh believed in what Conor said because they were his guards and, at this point, friends. They trained with Conor every day and quickly adapted to fight alongside him to keep Eivaley safe.
At least the pair was quick on the uptake. Conor had drilled them on everything and gave them no quarter. The two guards could use every weapon Conor knew how to use and could fight just like him.
They were still sloppy in some regards, but overall, they had learned everything Brakul had taught Conor, and he had taught them in return. It was an act Conor had not reflected on; in Conor's mind, all he was doing was ensuring they were capable of doing their duty alongside him without issue. Vuraley, on the other hand, saw it for what it was—passing the torch.
Conor had subconsciously grown. He had become a mentor, teacher, and friend to many troopers who attended his training sessions, eager to absorb everything he had to offer.
For the Kurlatra, a militant and martial expectation for males was typical. Now, through the Humans' influence, the royal guard was far more lethal. Conor was acting like a High Champion, even if he did not believe what he was doing meant anything more than guarding Eivaley.
Vuraley and Burlai did not even need to train with Conor to be able to fight like silent monsters. They were already well adept at being the monsters in the dark. The shades haunt their enemy's dreams, and the demons grabbing throats.
As Conor and Vuraley entered the small, air-conditioned building where the lockers were, Conor scanned the area. It was not a neurotic clearing of the building; it was casual, just seeing who was around. That was a vast improvement and showed his comfort within the palace.
Dozens of guards were around the room, changing out of physical training gear and chatting about their lives. The conversation topics covered the gamut, from early morning chow, to what little piece of Kurlatra ass was trying to snag them; overall, the vibe in the room was one of safety and understanding.
Conor did not mind this place at all. Being surrounded by soldiers who could kick teeth with the best of them and were dedicated to protecting the same things as him was comforting. He knew that any of the royal guards would work as solid impromptu battle buddies when in doubt.
Each guard ditched their shorts and tank tops for the drab grey utility uniforms and golden sashes, marking them as royal guards before assuming their daily posts. However, that was not before their battle buddy checked their uniforms, ensuring they looked prim and proper.
Only three within the building stood out. One stood out because he had always listened to Conor's classes but rarely participated in practical application.
Burlai lounged in the first room, reading something on his datapad—or at least tried to appear like he was.
Conor had spotted him watching the sparing matches from the window. It was the same thing each day. The man was just uncertain of Conor and kept tabs on him.
They both knew the other saw them, but the act remained.
Burlai had made no effort to harm or approach Conor, nor did the Human do so. Both were, in their own ways, building a profile on one another. Each saw the other as a threat, an unknown factor, a wildcard.
Both understood they would speak to one another soon enough. Who would make the first move? Neither knew; it was just a matter of who thought they had the other figured out first. As such, a short nod was shared, acknowledging once again that they saw each other and moved on.
The only others who were odd in the building that wreaked of stoic desire to kill anyone who dared oppose them were Vitul and Cur’sh. The dynamic duo were lazing about on the benches in the locker room. They were loudly jeering at one another about who was more of a billy badass.
One would tell the tale about their extraordinary accomplishments in one battle, before the other would rebuff with a story from another. It was comical to Conor and Vuraley; in their minds, both were fine fighters and capable warriors; a dick-measuring contest did nothing.
Sure, both had a pension for laziness and wanted nothing more than to go out, have a few drinks, then go home and rail their wives. But what warrior did not want that? Conor and Vuraley certainly understood the desire, even if only one could do that.
“Oh, so you two must be hitting the two-kilometer target now?” Conor crossed his arms, recalling the order he had given them this morning.
While the pair were excellent warriors for the most part, they did falter in one area Conor sought to correct: long-range shooting. Both were abysmal at the artform because it required a steady hand, sharp mind, and unparalleled fundamentals. They were capable of being snipers; Conor knew it. They just had to get the patience to do the math in their heads and take the shot.
“We were,” Vitul said, sitting slightly straighter and looking toward Conor while Vuraley went to his locker to change.
“Each shot?” Conor raised a brow.
Vitul started to him and haw, attempting to draw out time to build an argument for him not meeting the standard of one hundred percent accuracy at that range. But like the brothers in arms, they were Cur’sh chimed in.
“I did,” Cur’sh chuckled before pointing at Vitul. “Allstar shooter her only hit eight out of ten.”
“Fuck you. I did my best,” Vitul argued, pointing at Conor. “Not everyone had a ballistic computer in their head.”
Conor shrugged. It was true that he did have a ballistic computer in his head. All he had to do when shooting at long range was input the calculation into the scope and shoot straight. Sure, he had an easier job than most due to his augmented beyond belief, but his point of their training still stood.
Brakul could shoot ten out of ten at two kilometers, and Conor could shoot it. Now, it was Vitul and Cur’sh’s job to be able to shoot it. While Conor liked having the two around as a company, they still had to meet his standards as their impromptu boss.
Hell, most days, they ate lunch, trained, watched holoflicks, or just shot the breeze together. Conor and Eivaley even went to both of their houses to meet their families for dinner.
By Urla, the way Eivaley looked at Conor after meeting their children and Ladies was downright feral. The little ruby looked like she was ready to rip Conor's clothes off on the way back to the palace—something Vitul and Cur’sh were more than willing to taunt Conor about.
Their teasing only doubled once news of Conor and Eivaley’s late-night sparring had slipped out. Conor had returned from the bathroom to the pair dancing with music while pretending to be Eivaley and him whispering sweet nothings to one another.
Even with his cold synthetic heart, Conor admitted it was funny. But he would have preferred if one of them had worn a dress. That would only have added to the little show in his bedroom.
“It’s alright,” Conor said patting Vituls shoulder, “we can practice more tomorrow.”
“Ok, boss,” Vitul nodded nervously, knowing damn well that meant Conor would have them running gun drills while he and Eivaley lounged nearby in the shade.
“Now, Get dressed,” Conor ordered. “We are going into town in a few minutes.”
The pair nodded and started to get into their low visiblity gear. Meaning they were going to dress similarly to Conor, and wear the same equipment he was. They even would sport the same handcannon Conor had gotten from Brakul.
They had already been briefed about the plan of the day, meaning Conor did not have to explain to them what he needed them to carry and what was expected of them. The plan was to visit the veterans center Eivaleyu managed; while it was a safe route and location, Conor ensured they were as armed as he was and then some.
Conor would be the face standing at Eivaleys side and visiting the old warriors at the venter. Vitul and Cur’sh would be the heavily armed backup hanging out in the car. They would be ready if anything went down and Conor needed extra firepower.
While this preparedness was not needed, Conor treated each excursion out of the neutral zone that was the palace as if he were protecting Urla herself. He and his two teammates knew every alley, shop, and location within a kilometer of their destination, like the back of their hands.
It did not matter who tried to touch Eivaley. Conor and them would be there, ready to protect her. It could be Voodal, the GU army, or even Thuraley; either way, they would meet the end of Conor's gun long before touching his woman.
Now, the only thing Conor wondered was why Eivaley seemed so excited about going to the veterans center and walking through a garden called the Field of Heroes.