Geld parried Malt’s thrust with a flick of his wrist, retreating several paces away. Malt quickly closed the distance, taking a forward pace every time Geld retreated one.

Only a few weeks ago he was barely a novice, only being able to poke aimlessly from behind his shield. At this point he’d ditched the shield altogether, opting to wield the spear with both hands.

He made up for the lack in protection by reinforcing his gambeson with scraps of mail he’d scavenged from the battlefield. Wielding the spear with two hands granted him more power and better handling, which was perfect for his increase in skill.

Geld parried another thrust with one blade and attempted to slash at Malt’s face with the other. In one deft motion, Malt brought the blunt end of the spear up to protect his face. The scimitar bit deep into the wooden shaft.

Seeing this, Malt used the leverage that came with using a longer weapon to wrench the sword away and out of reach. Following the motion of the maneuver, he morphed into another attack, aiming to bash in the man’s face with the butt of the spear.

With almost inhuman speed, Geld dodged to the side. Before Malt could correct his stance and guard his now exposed obliques, Geld’s curved blade lashed out, stopping just inches below Malt’s unarmored armpit.

Malt immediately tensed, dropping the spear and raising both hands. The man retreated into a casual stance, sheathing his blade and walking to retrieve the other.

“I’ve more or less taught you the basics. If you want to train just do it alone or with some of the others from now on.” And with that brief parting message, he began strolling off.

“W-wait a minute!” Malt scrambled to his feet and jogged to him. He raised an eyebrow, obviously irritated. After he saw that the boy wasn’t backing down, he sighed, turning to address him.

“Make it quick.”

He nodded several times and took a deep breath, still recovering from the sparring match.

“Teach me your techniques.”

He raised his eyebrows, “You daft, kid? That’s what I’ve been-”

“I think you know what I mean.”

He seemed slightly taken back. He then realized that playing dumb wasn’t going to be enough to discourage Malt. He crossed his arms, face suddenly becoming serious.

“Reason.”

Malt tilted his head, “Huh? What do you-”

“You heard me. For what reason should I teach you all the techniques I’ve spent more than a decade developing and perfecting.”

“Well, we’re comrades an all-”

“Not enough. Not to brag, but there’s a thousand swordsmen out there that would pay me a fortune to instruct them. Why should I teach you for free?”

Malt opened and closed his mouth several times, unsure of what to say. The veteran was definitely bragging, which was a little irritating, but it was probably true.

From the tales he’d heard, Geld was nothing short of a legend. Nearly every swordsman on the continent had heard tales of his exploits and skill. A wandering mercenary, traveling across the land to hone his skill with the blade. The techniques and experience he’d amassed throughout his journeys was the ire of warriors everywhere.

There was really nothing Malt could offer him. The thought of leveraging his connection with the king crossed his mind. Maybe he could get the royalty to recognize or award Geld.

No, even if Malt was technically a hero, the King probably wouldn’t be willing to reward someone who hadn’t done much to contribute to the kingdom.

With no money or valuables at hand, there was only one thing he could do.

Malt straightened his back and held his chin up high. In a determined, unwavering voice, he spoke.

“There are things I want to protect, but I know that I’m too weak as I am now. I know I can’t offer you much of anything, but I’m begging you-” He did a full bow, nearly prostrating himself.

“Please continue instructing me!”

Geld’sis analyzing gaze seemed to pierce straight into the boy’s psyche. It was as if he could read each and every one of his intentions, he got the sense that there was no hiding anything from the man.

After a long and uncomfortable silence, he snickered, “Looks like you’re real desperate. You really think I’d give up my life’s work that easily?”

“I know it’s unreasonable...but honestly, I’ve run out of options. If this front falls, the capital’s done for.”

The man scoffed, “You think you can get strong enough to have any real impact in battle?” He crouched until he was at eye level with Malt. A look of disdain was plastered across his sneering face.

“Listen here kid, I’m about to tell you somethin’ real mind blowing.” He inched closer until their faces were only inches apart.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“You’re weak. Really fuckin’ weak. And it pisses me off when brats like you think they can be heroes just because they’ve fought in a couple battles.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, “You know how many good men, how many loyal soldiers go to battle with that same mindset end up rotting in the mud?”

This was the first time that Malt had ever felt so much pressure. Geld’s gaze was making it hard to swallow, hard to even breathe.

“What makes you different from the rest, huh? What can you do that they can’t? What will you be better at? Better than all the warriors who’ve asked for my guidance?”

Malt lifted his head up and met the man’s gaze head on. After multiple failed attempts, he swallowed his hesitation.

“Killing.”

Geld froze, taken back with the response. He suddenly leaned back, roaring with laughter.

“This kid! What a goddamn lunatic!”

Malt was utterly confused. Why did he burst out laughing? And why was he being called a lunatic?

Geld wiped the tears from his eyes, catching his breath. “Interesting! Most brats sprout some shit like ‘I’m gonna try the hardest!’ or ‘I’ll be the best at never giving up!’ or some sappy rubbish like that.”

He strolled to the nearby armory (just a pile and some racks of weapons really) and began rummaging.

“You’re weak and you’ve got nothing to offer, but I’m interested to see where a nutcase like you will go.”

Malt tilted his head, “Nut case…?”

He looked at the boy like he was dumb, as if the answer was obvious. “What normal person says that they’re gonna be the best at killing?”

Malt froze as he tried to process his remark. Now that he thought it out, the guy was right. Why didn’t he sense anything wrong with the statement when he’d said it? It seemed so natural at the time.

Before he could get any more troubled by the question, Geld pulled a sword from the armory pile. He walked over to Malt and held it out in front of him.

His face suddenly became serious. Any trace of laughter or disdain was immediately flushed away and replaced by grimness.

“Listen. I’m not responsible for anything you do with this sword. I ain’t gonna tell you who to protect or who to kill, or when it's ok or not ok to use these techniques. I ain’t a knight.”

Malt reached out his hand and grabbed the sword, still encased in its scabbard. Geld didn’t let go just yet. Ignoring the boy, Geld continued.

“I’m not teaching you how to protect your friends. I’m just giving you the tools that’ll help you protect them.”

He narrowed his eyes,

“Am I clear.”

Malt gulped as a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek,

“Crystal.”

“Good.”

He let go of the blade and let it rest on Malt’s hand for the first time.

The sword wasn’t anything special. It was plain and decorated only with scratches and signs of heavy use, but it was obviously well made.

Geld’s usual smirk crossed his face again as the stiffness seemingly disappeared from him entirely. “It’s called a hand-and-a half sword, or a bastard. Most of the techniques I’ve mastered are for curved blades but it’ll do.”

He swept his leg bag and drew one of his scimitars.

Malt quickly drew his new sword, “H-hold up, isn’t it a little reckless to start sparring right away? Shouldn’t I like, do some drills first?”

The grin on his face widened, “C’mon, getting scared already? The benevolent Geldfre Kharus just offered to teach you his techniques, free of charge.”

His eyes glinted dangerously, “If I can’t charge you in gold, I’ll charge you in pain.”

***

Geld yawned, stretching his arms above his head. The night was eerily quiet and the gentle glow of the patrolling soldier’s torches was about to put him to sleep.

Suddenly, a voice called from nearby, “Oi, Geld.”

He lazily looked over to see Stromund sitting at a small wooden table. He wasn’t wearing his armor, instead opting to just wear simple cotton worker’s clothing. He gestured with his hand, beckoning Geld over to the table.

He strolled over and plopped himself down onto a seat opposite of Stromund. A small lantern illuminated a few glass bottles of brandy and spirits laid across the table.

“Now where’d you get all this?”

Stromund grinned, “The innkeep living a few miles from here gave us some leftover booze. ‘A soldier only fights his fullest when his keg is too’, or so he said.”

Geld snickered, pouring himself some. “Damn straight.”

The two men lifted their cups in unison, tapping them together before guzzling the liquor down in great gulps.

Geld exhaled in relief, a momentary wave of bliss overcoming his senses. “Oh yeah, that hits the spot. Haven’t had any drink in a while.”

Stromund did the same, wiping his mouth with his forearm, “Its cheap, but it's some seriously good stuff.”

The two sat there for several seconds, enjoying the simple things in life. Stromund was the first to break the silence.

“So. Why’d you decide to teach the kid?”

Geld took another sip, “I was interested to see how he’d turn out.”

“That’s a bad idea. You could tell right? He doesn’t know why he’s fighting.”

He nodded, “Yeah he kept sprouting some bull about helping his friends or something. I think it’s pretty obvious he’s just confused right now. He’s too guilty about killing someone that he’s just clinging to some excuse that makes it seem like killing’s ok, he’s gone off the deep end for sure. Soon enough he isn’t even gonna think twice before killing.”

Stromund sighed, furrowing his brows. “I can see why he was hit so hard though. I’ve heard that he didn’t experience or live near any conflict back in his old world.”

“That’s one hell of a culture shock. He’s been pampered all his life, no wonder he went crazy when he took his first life.”

“That’s why I’m worried for the kid, and also scared for him. Someone who knows how to kill but not why to kill is dangerous.”

“That’s what I was going for.”

Stromund furrowed his brows in confusion, “This is what you were hoping for?”

Geld placed his cup down, “Right here and now we don’t need heroes with stalwart morals. We need killers, and skilled ones at that. I know it’s not a good idea but it's the only one I have in this situation.”

Stromund wanted to say something, to retort somehow, but Geld was right. They were in truly dire straits.

He leaned back, gulping down another mouthful of drink. “I guess you’re right. I still feel bad for the kid though, he’s not going to have an easy time reintegrating back into civilian life if he has the chance to.”

“I know. But all we can do is wait and see.”

Stromund poured more into his cup. He looked up into the night sky, taking in the sea of glistening specks. “Let’s just hope that we haven’t just destroyed a young man’s life.”