“You’re sure?” Jonkins the guildmaster asked. "I remind you that each stage will cost, regardless of whether he succeeds or fails.”

“Rank twelve,” Tiarraluna insisted. “With a staff in his hands, he will be fine.”

He shrugged and excused himself to make the preparations.

“Remember, Jack san,” she called to Jack, standing in the center of a large training floor. “You are not allowed to call FoeSmite to you.”

“What was that?” the guildmaster asked over his shoulder.

“Hmm?” she put hand to mouth. “Nothing, Master Jonkins. Nothing.”

Jack ignored them. He was busy trying to get the feel of the staff he was holding after growing accustomed to the weight and heft of FoeSmite. Outwardly, the only differences between his own staff and the one the guildmaster had provided were color and ornamentation. The weapon he was holding looked to be ordinary ash, a light blond in color. Practically, it felt far lighter than he liked, but without a corresponding increase in speed. Was added speed a function of FoeSmite’s enchantment?

Across from him, lining the far wall of the arena, were arrayed a couple of dozen or so large mannequins. He wasn’t sure how this was going to work, but the hair was standing on the back of his neck. They didn’t really look like practice dummies.

He was wearing a heavily padded gambeson now, with wide gaps at the joints for freedom of movement, and a barred helmet. Some protection, but by no means proof against injury. A fact magnified by the waiver Tiarraluna had been made to sign. If something in this process killed him, the guild was off the hook.

“Ready on the floor?” the guildmaster called through Tiarraluna’s voice.

“Ready!” he called back.

Three of the mannequins lurched into motion, causing Jack to jump a bit. They strode with increasing steadiness to the rack from which he’d drawn his staff. Two of them took up staves, the third continued until it had reached the rack of swords, taking up a cruciform waster of about thirty-four inches in the blade. They turned to him forming a shallow triangle, and began to approach.

He cast a nervous glance to the ready area where Tiarraluna was observing with seeming calm. The guildmaster didn’t seem so sure.

Jack began to back and shift. Did he take out the sword first or the staves? The mannequins seemed pretty fluid. Not so much as the jaegers had been, but moreso than what he thought a puppet ought to be.

As they approached, the sword wielder moved to the center and slightly forward. Ah, so the staves could cover it as it closed.

Making his choice, Jack moved quickly to his right and in, somewhat surprised at how quickly the mannequins adapted. He beat aside the near staff and got a spear strike into its face as the sword wielder flowed around its falling comrade. But Jack was already backing away, and now there were no staves to protect the sword. Jack waited for the first thrust and swept it clear, before riding the arm inward and striking the chest. The automaton didn’t go down, just like a real person wouldn’t. But it did hesitate enough for Jack to swing the staff around for a killing blow.

Except that the remaining staff was there to intercept the strike. He backpedaled and slid to the side. His next attack was a feint and thrust, but that was blocked as well. Okay, so that was the way it was going to be.

He was breathing heavily, and he wondered if these things were programmed to get tired. Another ignored feint, but now he was in measure, so he rode the feint in, risking a cut. He torqued the staff sideways and struck at the knee of the sword wielder as it came in. It didn’t go down, but it staggered and slowed. That was two good strikes. A real human would be starting to grow cautious. Would that hold for dolls?

He’d been using the staff largely as a blunted spear to this point. Time to change up. He struck at the sword again, thrusting, but sliding the grip of one hand forward at the last instant to shove to the side. The staff swung a full three-sixty, and he twirled with it, crowding the sword wielder so it couldn’t get a decent strike at him. The staff wielding mannequin parried, but an instant too late, and his shaft smacked into its neck, hard. It collapsed into the dirt.

Late though it had been, the automaton’s staff had caught him even as he’d struck. His whole right arm was tingling. His forearm felt broken. He danced to the side, dodging the sword strike coming in at him while trying to keep the body of the staff mannequin between him and the advancing sword wielder.

They circled the body a couple of times, Jack holding his staff couched beneath his left arm as he tried to shake some feeling back into his right. He still had the reach, but with a foreshortened arc, he wasn’t going to do the damage per hit. He was betting that the guildmaster would call it after a single clean strike from that waster.

This was actually more difficult than sparring with a living person. With a real opponent, you could read the body language, watch for tensing muscles. More importantly, you could often read your opponent’s face. The mannequin had no face.

* * *

“How powerful do you suppose he is?” Mohrdrand asked. “I was unable to perceive more than his life and mana bars. Those, however, were much longer than I’d have expected an unranked to possess.”

Give thought, old friend, she sent. To the notion that, where he was to be sent, rare weapon drops occur at less than half the rank they do here.

“So,” he gave it more thought. “Mund was given the S rank, was it not?”

Eventually, she replied. After it had... chewed through several heroes. When... when Kenji came through, it was ranked Double-A.

“So,” he mused. “Jackson was meant to be addressing a world considerably more dangerous than an S rank.”

So it would seem, she sent. Nor would it strain credibility to imagine his power to be equal to that task. Look to that basket beside your foot.

Mohrdrand leaned over and lifted the wicker lid of the woven basket. His eyes went round. “What is that?” he asked, voice catching.

Some sort of weapon, I believe, Rosaluna replied without looking. He was wearing it. As though it were a sword or dagger. Presumably in his own home, if I have the story correct. Attached to his belt inside his trousers. Here, she indicated a place on her waist to her right rear. The other piece looks to combine with the first. Quivers, if you will. They hold small, brass cylinders closed off with copper plugs which I think are arrow or quarrel equivalents, and filled with some sort of alchemical mixture that causes my stomach to turn do I peer too closely. I haven’t got the whole of the function of it worked out just yet, but I believe it to be quite dangerous in the manner of old Arvand’s steam cannon, and do not wish to suffer any accidents.

This, Mohrdrand, she pressed, is the sort of thing he kept with him always. Though he was supposedly living in a peaceful land. He also had a folding knife in his pocket that looked quite dangerous in its own right. And some sort of complicated folding tool, also with a sharp blade incorporated. Again, worn on his belt. Jehsha knows what other sorts of atrocities he might have brought with him had he been given advanced warning of his departure.

“And you didn’t include this with his belongings why, exactly?” he asked.

Now she did look at him. Truthfully, Mohrdrand? she sighed. I’m not entirely comfortable having such things as this loose in the world. Even do they benefit young Jackson Grenell. That thing smells of fire and brimstone and cold steel death, and I do not care for it.

Did you get a good look at the sword? She asked, changing the subject.

He nodded. “The sword I held in my hands. It’s no more than a sword.”

And?

He shrugged. “I’m no swordsman Rosaluna,” he admitted. “Oh, I’ve carried them, and used them over the years, particularly when I was young and the wars were raging. But I’ve no notion of what sort of fighting weapon this particular one might be. Had an odd, half basketed hilt and a long, straight, narrow blade of a type I’m not familiar with. Single edged, primarily, with the last quarter of the foible also edged.

“The fit and finish appear to be excellent, and it has three upgrade slots, empty at the moment. It’s easily the equal of several I’ve been asked by various of the capital nobility to enchant over the years. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

It is a great shame that you did not bring it along with you.

“That would have been quite rude,” he frowned. “Also, he took it with him when he left.”

“Rosaluna?” he seemed hesitant. “Perhaps you might consider—?”

I am not leaving my cottage to look at a sword, Mohrdrand, she sent in a no-nonsense tone. If I were willing to venture forth in my current condition, I would not have summoned Button to escort the man to town.

Which brings me to the subject of Button. You say that she will insist on following him? Regardless of the folly of such action?

* * *

Even one handed, Jack had survived several tentative attacks. The mannequin had, indeed, adopted at least the simulation of caution. The program or spell or whatever looked to be quite sophisticated. It was even favoring the leg he’d hit earlier.

He was starting to get some feeling in his arm again, although most of it was pain. Experimentally, he lunged and thrust with the couched staff, backing quickly and seeing could he get a meaningful grip with his bad arm. Meaningful might be stretching it, but he could more or less hold it with both hands again.

He was struggling to come up with a good avenue of attack. Despite his superior reach, he was under no illusions that he had the advantage here. And he was getting tired.

“Well,” the guildmaster observed to Tiarraluna over by the equipment area. “He started out pretty strong, but I’m not really seeing rank twelve performance out there.”

“I do not understand,” Tiarraluna answered apprehensively. “What is wrong with him? I have seen him wield a staff with my own eyes, and he was better than this.”

“That’s the way it is with some fellows, I guess,” he told her. “They need real foes to bring out their true potential. They just can’t seem to take these tests seriously enough to expend their full effort.” he watched Jack struggle for a few more minutes. “Doesn’t effect the outcome, though. He still needs to defeat the training dolls to earn the rank.”

Jack choked up on the shaft about halfway down its length. He still had some reach on the sword this way, and some added speed. It had occurred to him, finally, that he wasn’t facing a real fighting weapon. That was a blunt. A blow from that wouldn’t damage his staff the way a cut from a service sharpened blade would. Which gave him an idea and possibly an edge.

He moved in, and feinted inside. The sword slid around the supposed strike and back on line as the mannequin began a riposte. Jack took a half step back and a bit offline, nudging the sword from the opposite side and thrusting in, ramming his bad arm forward and sliding the shaft through his lead grip.

The tip struck the mannequin’s biceps just above the elbow, coming in hard. Swinging further around as the mannequin’s sword arm went limp, Jack drew partially back with his trailing hand and forced the forward end of his staff horizontally into the junction of collarbone and neck. As the mannequin started to topple, he drew back and slid his lead hand back to the quarter position, bringing the much longer free end around in a full arc.

“That’s enough!” the guildmaster called from the sideline in a voice loud enough it nearly drowned out Tiarraluna’s translation. “The match is yours!”

Jack hauled the shaft back, forcing the staff to slow and slide past rather than through the dome of the mannequin’s head. He stood there for a moment, hands on knees, the staff suspended between them.

The guildmaster was walking out to meet him, Tiarraluna trailing close behind. “I have to fix these things, you know,” he groused in a somewhat aggrieved tone, staring down at the depressions that Jack’s attacks had left in the construct’s surface.

Tiarraluna handed Jack a towel, taking the staff from him so that he might peel open the gambeson and wipe the sweat from himself. “What is wrong with you, Jack san?” she asked somewhat irritably. “Why are you moving so slowly?”

Slowly? “What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.

She pointed to the constructs laying in the sand. “Fighting these,” she said. “You seemed to be only playing. You moved much more quickly when you faced those teufel things on the road.”

Had he? “Could it have been FoeSmite?” he asked.

She gave it some thought. “I do not think so,” she shook her head. “Remember, Jack san,” she pointed out. “You were already moving and fighting before it was enchanted.”

Hmm. He looked over to where FoeSmite was leaning against the arena railing, and then to the staff Tiarraluna was holding. He played the trial back through his head. Had he been holding back? If so, why?

“Hold this,” Tiarraluna ordered as he was thinking, gesturing with the guild staff. Once he’d taken hold, she placed both hands against his injured arm, muttering to herself. The familiar blue glow manifested, this time from the palms of her hands, only traces of the light leaking out from around the edges. He felt warmth, and then heat wash through the arm as her muttering increased in tempo. In a matter of minutes, the glow was gone, as was the pain.

He smiled as he worked the arm through its full range of motion. “I could get used to this,” he laughed.

“Do not,” she frowned. “Healing magic does not fully repair damage, it only speeds your body’s natural processes along. Yes, yes,” she grumbled at his raised eyebrow. “I know what you are thinking. But Grandmother’s brand of healing is not normal. You should not expect it of anyone but her. Particularly not from a rank ten such as me.”

Right. He bounced the staff in his hand once or twice, considering. He looked again to his enchanted staff, trying to call, trying to get some response. Is the speed from you? He didn’t hear anything coming back. Aside from that first request, it hadn’t spoken to him. If it had then. But he seemed to sense a negative response. Nothing overt, just an impression.

So. “Hey,” he called to the guildmaster, who was supervising a small gang of functioning mannequins in the removal of their fallen brethren from the field.

The man paused and looked back.

“What happens if I break this?” Jack asked.

The guildmaster laughed out loud at Tiarraluna’s translation. “I stand you for drinks for the night, laddie!" He called. “You ain’t nearly high ranked enough to break my weapons. Even my staves.”

Jack nodded and smiled. Full on, then.

The second stage had him facing two swords and two staves. Jack stood quietly, eyes closed, staff grounded and held vertically before him, both hands gripping the middle of the shaft, waiting for the call. When it came, he opened his eyes but didn’t otherwise move. He watched the mannequins lurch into motion, noting the additional opponent. He watched them gather their weapons. His breathing was deep and even throughout all of this. He was concentrating, calculating. Psyching himself up. Making himself ready. No holding back. Like they were trying to kill him.

The four automatons moved forward, going into two loose ranks, swords to the fore, as though they’d seen the earlier fight and knew what to expect. When he didn’t move they hesitated, just out of measure, seemingly unsure. That’s when he exploded into motion.

Rather than shift to the side and draw them out, he drove straight in, throwing the upper end of the staff forward with his left hand, allowing his right to slide along the shaft as it flew. The tip met the throat of the nearest sword wielder as it came forward in a lunge to meet him.

Pulling back just enough to clear the jaw of the falling mannequin, he brought the staff up to deflect the incoming strike of an opposing staff, slamming hard to bring it well offline.

Now he was moving out of line himself, sliding left and in, crowding the staff wielder nearest him. He brought the butt of his staff down on its foot, going halfway to his knees to impart force to the blow. He heard things snap inside the foot, so there were at least bone analogs in there.

As the thing fell, he hooked the upper end of his staff around behind its neck, lunging to his feet and forcing the staff down and around, powering his opponent into the sand. Two quick steps back and he brought the full length of the staff up and then down against the bowed neck. The mannequin collapsed and went still.

Now, rather than move back to assess things, he raised the tip of the staff and lunged across the body, parrying the incoming strike of the remaining staff as he dodged the sword blade accompanying it. A quick leap to the side and he was inside effective range. He bum rushed the staff wielder, knocking it into its companion. As they grappled, he forced the staff up and horizontal, pressing in with his whole body, trapping his opponent’s weapon. He got one foot around behind the mannequin’s and planted it.

He let go of his own staff with one hand, hauled back and smashed it right in the face with a closed fist. He had no idea if this was allowable during a skill test, or even if it would work against one of these things, but he wasn’t quite in the moment anymore. A second, shorter punch to the throat, and he pushed the thing clear of him, towards the maneuvering sword wielder.

Unconsciously, he reached behind himself for the knife that should be there but wasn’t. The realization that he was gripping air was what brought him back. He stepped back and grabbed the staff with his free hand, going into the spearman’s stance as the sword wielder cleared its falling companion. He hit the shoulder first, then the throat, and was drawing back for the finishing blow when the guildmaster called it.

The man was looking at him oddly as he moved clear of the tangle. In real combat, the staffman would almost certainly still be alive. The swordsman? Fifty-fifty without the finisher. In either case, he supposed, the fight would be over.

“So, you’re a grappler, now?” the guildmaster’s voice was gruff, his face clouded. “And you’ve used a knife in anger before, it’s clear. Just how many weapons are you qualified to use, I wonder?”

Jack was impressed. That was a good catch just from his reaching back to an empty spot on his belt. “Whatever it takes, Sir,” he smiled. “I’ll throw rocks if there’s nothing else.”

“It is true,” Tiarraluna added to the translation. “He began his last battle by throwing a stone.”

The guildmaster was just shaking his head. “Toss me that staff,” he demanded irritably.

Shrugging, Jack complied. The man looked the thing up and down carefully, running a thumb along one particular spot along its length, about a quarter of the way from one end. His face was stern as he looked up from it. “One drink,” he pronounced. “That’s all you get.”

“Uhm...?” Jack started.

“Cracked isn’t truly broken,” the guildmaster insisted. Turning, he threw the staff towards the weapons storage area with some force, bouncing it off the wall. “It’s not even that big a crack,” he was mumbling. “Pick another!” louder, and without turning his head.

Jonkins the guildmaster was still frowning volcanically when he brought up beside Tiarraluna. Jack was still retrieving a new weapon. “That last bit how he moved before?” he grumbled.

She hesitated. “No, Master Jonkins,” she decided. “Somewhere between the two bouts. His strategy was more like the former, his speed and force more like the latter.”

“Mmm hmm,” he crossed his arms and watched as the supposed hero moved out into the center of the arena. The man’s final two victims hadn’t gone down for good, thanks to his intervention. They were up and clearing the others away.

“Well,” he decided, watching them and calculating in his head the amount of work he had cut out for him already. “While his first performance was definitely not up to rank twelve standards, that last slaughter, I’d rank well above.”

“I see,” she said noncommittally, watching Jack herself.

“I’m prepared to grant him thirteen without further proof,” Jonkins offered. “With a ten percent experience bonus. Call him back.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said,” he grumbled, “but I also know that I don’t want to spend the next ten days putting broken training dolls back together.”