After the meeting with the old guard captain Gregory and Lex found their way back to their temple, neither had gotten any sleep the night before and were eager to relax a bit. Unfortunately the priests had other ideas, quickly roping them both into some menial labor as they prepared bunks for dozens of Slayer Knights. Most of the knights were blessed by the god of protection and were thus allowed stay at the temple. Technically the city below had plenty of quarters to handle thousands of troops, normally these were reserved for troops from the local kingdoms. Seeing as how none had arrived, however, those quarters were in disrepair. Maintaining that many barracks when they only saw use every couple decades wasn’t reasonable. Instead the buildings were made to last and the arriving armies were expected to manage the rest.

Without those troops, however, there wasn’t enough manpower to get the buildings functional for use. Thus forcing the few hundred Slayer Knights to seek other accommodation, which in turn led them to the church. Instead of attempting to put up nearly four hundred knights, the priests decided to help get one of the large barracks ready. This meant bunks had to be repaired, bedding brought in, walls inspected for stability and dozens of other minor tasks to ensure the knights were fed and watered. In theory four hundred knights should have been enough to get the building into a livable condition, but Slayer Knights were generally used to operating in small groups of no more than a dozen and didn’t have any kind of formalized command structure. With no one in charge to organize things nothing got done, so the knights turned to the church of protection, of which most of them were members.

The end result was Gregory, Lex and a dozen other priests coordinating and helping hundreds of knights prepare both a single barracks in the city below and what quarters they could at the temple. At lunch Gregory and Lex found themselves sitting at a table with a half dozen senior knights enjoying a meal.

“Can’t the new king just order his counts to send their armies here?” Gregory asked at one point.

“He could, it’s questionable if the counts would listen,” the Slayer Knight he’d been speaking with replied, “and if they did refuse him, that would bring his whole right to rule into question. So it’s safer for him to not give the order.”

“The real issue is his Champion,” another knight spoke up, “that Lord Flameblade, if he simply took a stand this whole issue would be gone in an instant.”

“He’s been Champion of this kingdom for as long as I can remember,” the first Knight responded, “word is he’s looking to hand over the title.”

“He’s still shirking his duties if you ask me.”

“What’s a Champion anyways?” Gregory asked, “in my world we didn’t have them.”

“Really? Who enforced a king’s right to rule then?”

“His armies?” Gregory shrugged, “we haven’t had a true king in that world for a while.”

“Weird.”

“But to answer your question,” Lex spoke up, “a Champion is supposed to be an intermediary between the Kingdom and the Slayer Knights. Basically a Slayer Knight that’s recognized by a specific kingdom and serves as a kind of permanent defender of that land.”

“A king is duty bound to protect his people,” the closest Slayer Knight added, “part of that is working with the Slayer Knights to fight off monsters, but Slayer Knights aren’t bound to a specific kingdom, and we don’t have a formal leadership structure. That makes it hard for them to organize with us, so they appoint a Champion. A Champion has to be strong, so they are almost always Ascenders, in order to gain the respect of the Slayers. And since we don’t allow people to have noble titles and be a member the position of Champion was created."

"Originally anyways,” another man spoke up, “nowadays they are nobles in all but name and serve as proof of a King’s commitment to protecting his people.”

“And the local champion isn’t doing his job?” Gregory asked.

“He’s doing the bare minimum,” the knight sighed, “he works with the Slayer Knights to kill off monsters, but, traditionally, his job goes beyond just that. In times like this, where a Kingdom is split, a Champion is expected to step up and get people moving. A respected Champion’s word can move armies, literally. If Flameblade were to step up and tell the Counts to shut up and work together they would. They’d have to.”

“Why?”

“Because he’d kill them otherwise,” Lex snorted, “Ascenders are strong, but Flameblade, and other Champions like him are on another level.”

“I heard he can decimate an army with a single swipe of his blade,” a Knight said, leaning forward, “that he can paralyze a man with a glare.”

“I think you’ve had a bit much to drink,” another of the knights said, plucking the man’s mug from in front of him.

“I still don’t quite understand the point of a Champion,” Gregory admitted.

“They kill monsters and are strong, what’s not to get?”

“Why they command such respect.”

“They’re respected because they kill monsters… and are strong.”

“There’s a bit more to it,” Lex complained before admitting, “but… that’s the short version.”

“And we need his help to fight these Mutts?” Gregory asked.

“It would be useful,” the Knight nodded, “otherwise we just have us Knights and whatever forces Templeholm can muster.”

“The real issue is when the Mutts make it to Templeholm,” the ‘drunk’ Knight insisted, “the scouts have already reported thousands beginning to pour down from the mountains, if they make it to the walls in those numbers we’ll be overwhelmed just due to their damned marks.”

“Then why not whittle them down before they reach the walls?” Gregory asked.

“Even if every knight squad goes out and starts wiping out the smaller packs, we won’t make much of a dent in their overall numbers,” the man more sober knight countered.

“Then don’t fight as individual squads,” Gregory said, “aren’t massed cavalry charges devastating to infantry? Especially uncoordinated infantry?”

“First off,” the Knight said, leaning forward, “only about half of the Slayer Knights are trained and equipped to fight from horseback, generally we only do so against larger, faster monsters. Otherwise we’re on foot. And second, we don’t have leaders on that scale, we might be able to manage a massed charge in battle but in an organized harassment campaign? We rely on the local Kingdom’s knights for that.”

“That’s… not ideal, but neither are those insurmountable problems,” Greogry pointed out, “and every day we can buy for Templeholm is one more the city can prepare for a defense. Dig trenches, stockpile arrows, that kind of thing.”

“It’s a nice thought but-,” the first Knight started only for the second to hold up a hand and interrupt him.

“What are you thinking, Lord Ascender?” the second Knight, no longer pretending to be drunk, asked.

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

“Do you actually think we can organize, train and manage a mass harassment campaign in, what, under a week? That’s how long the scouts said we have till the main host of the Mutts spot Templeholm.”

“When needs must,” the other man shrugged, “Ascenders have done less crazy things before, might as well hear him out.”

\*\*\*\*\*

Gregory had spent the rest of the day talking with various senior Slayer Knights about his plan and, to his surprise, they’d agreed. They weren’t unused to following Ascenders, Gregory had standing thanks to being a Herald of Protection and, perhaps most importantly, the Knights didn’t like the idea of sitting around and waiting for the Mutts to come to them.

Suddenly finding himself at the center of having to take part in a cavalry campaign, Lex was giving him a crash course in fighting from horseback, despite how tired they both were.

“So you’ll want to couch your halberd like a lance during the charge,” she explained, holding her spear up in demonstration, “normally you’d want to keep it up as much as possible, since holding it out is difficult, but you’re strong enough to manage.”

“It’s almost like a rifle,” Gregory giggled to himself, shouldering the long weapon, “if only I could fire my blast thing like this.”

\-\-\-\-

CONFIRM MODIFICATION OF ABILITY: Kinetic Blast

ALTERATIONS:

-Blast originates from tip of weapon, targeted in direction weapon is pointing

-Blast no longer targets last struck entity

-Blast damage scales with stored energy and damage of weapon

ESTIMATED MODIFICATION TIME: 18 hours

\-\-\-\-

“Woah,” Gregory froze at the window that appeared before him.

“What?” Lex asked, and Gregory proceeded to explain the window that had popped up.

“Well,” Lex said when he finished, “what are you waiting for? It’s categorically better than the previous one.”

“But I’ll have to aim with this giant weapon,” Gregory said, holding up his Halberd, “the current blast is better in close combat.”

“If they’re already in close combat, and you’ve managed to hit them with your Halberd, in order for them to be the target, you don’t need the blast,” she replied, “now accept the thing, let’s finish training and get some sleep.”

\*\*\*\*\*

It had been at least a week since Nathen arrived at the Vault, though it was hard to keep track of time in the underground room. Rather than counting by the movement of the sun he was instead forced to keep track of time by how often he slept. He had been pushing himself to sleep as little as possible, wanting to hone his swordsmanship as much as possible. But, at the same time his injuries often forced him into periods of rest while he waited for the mild healing effects of the fountain water to work. It helps that the Custodian seemed to intentionally avoid striking hard enough to cause lasting damage.

And he’d taken his fair share of hits in the last few days of experimenting with sword styles. There were a variety of weapons available in the vaults armory, so Nathen had spent a day playing around with them. He quickly learned that while certain weapons look cool in movies, they were highly impractical. A two bladed sword was awesome looking, but he’d only used it for about a minute before nearly decapitating himself. After that an oversized blade lasted slightly longer, if only because it was so hard to move around and he received a significant beating from the Custodian for that.

In the end he returned to the long hand-and-a-half sword he’d started with and began messing with his stance instead of what weapon to use. After another two days of testing he’d begun to hone in on three possible stances. The first was based on how he’d fought immediately upon entering this world, that is very static with a focus on defensive parries and ripostes. It was straightforward, blunt and effective, but also not flexible. It was great when dealing with a single enemy but against groups it would struggle.

The second stance was more recent, based on his fights with the Kobolds. As much a dance as a fighting style it emphasized movement and evasiveness over blocking or parrying. He could move easily while using it to lash out, was flexible enough to keep track of multiple enemies and, if he could perfect it, would make him nearly impossible to pin down. On the other hand, it struggled in situations his first stance excelled in, such as against single opponents or in tight quarters where he didn’t have room to move or slash his long blade.

The final stance was something new, that he hadn’t quite gotten a grip on, and was closer to what the Custodian seemed to use. It wasn’t as static as his first stance, but less mobile than his second. It seemed to focus on controlling his opponent, setting them up for single massive blows. It was prone to overextending and hard to use, requiring his full strength as he was forced to nearly push his enemy around. But somehow he knew it would be useful in the future.

Once he’d settled on those three stances, even if one of them was barely more than a concept in his mind, Nathen set his mind to the task of pushing past the Custodian. Almost immediately his accepting of the new stances pushed his sword style skill to level five as he got used to switching between them. One moment he was dancing around the Custodian, probing for an opening with slashes, the next he settled into a firm, seemingly immovable position in which he parried every blow, following each up with an accurate counter.

Each style of fighting came more and more naturally to him with each bout, and he lasted longer and longer before being forced back to rest and recuperate. But more than anything, he was having fun. At first he’d shied away from the feeling, it reminding him of how he’d thought this world was a game. But he quickly realized that having fun with sword fighting didn’t mean it was just a game. Just that it was fun to engage in swordplay.

Because of that he was almost disappointed when the Custodian suddenly backed off during one of their bouts.

“Hold, Master Nathen,” the construct said, pointing to a small scratch on his breastplate where shiny new metal could be seen in stark contrast to the faded dull metal that made up the rest of the armor, “you have landed a blow, you pass this trial.”

“Oh,” Nathen paused, quickly catching his breath and looking at his sword, “I didn’t feel anything.”

“I thought I had dodged it too, but you extended your arms further than I anticipated,” the construct praised him, “thus you are allowed to proceed to the next trial.”

“And what’s that?”

“You must climb the stairs to the altar,” the Custodian said, motioning to the stairs behind it.

“That’s it?” Nathen asked, walking up to the staircase. Like the rest of the vault it was made of hewn stone, without adornment. There were a couple dozen steps leading to the altar and while the stairs were rather steep it didn’t seem like that much of a trial. With a shrug he took the first step carefully, testing his footing and watching for traps. The next step was much the same, but the third he paused. There was a pressure, like something weighing down on his mind. His instincts seemed to whisper to him that it was dangerous to proceed. Scowling Nathen looked around for the source of the feeling, but couldn’t find anything.

Then he froze as he heard the hiss of steel on steel behind him. Looking back he saw the Custodian drawing a great sword from its sheath. The blade was far longer than the one it had used previously, easily matching Nathen in height and, in contrast to the training sword this one was sharpened to a fine point. The air seemed to hiss around it as the Custodian flourished the weapon.

“This trial, once begun can not be stopped,” the construct explained, “retreat down the stairs and I will cut you down in an instant.”

Nathen swallowed nervously, every sense he had was telling him that there was danger ahead of him. But was it worse than fighting the Custodian? He’d barely managed to land a scratch against the construct when it had been using a dulled training weapon. He wouldn’t last more than a few seconds against it now. So he continued up the stairs.

With every step the sense of danger grew, from a faint feeling at the back of his mind until his instincts were screaming at him, begging him to turn and run. He was barely halfway up the stairs and his heart was racing, sweat gathered on his brow and his limbs trembled in fear.

But to step back was certain death, he knew that. The Custodian was many things, but it wasn’t a liar. If it said it would cut him down he believed it.

Still, his rational fear of the Custodian was threatened by the irrational fear of whatever was ahead. Doubt, worry and panic flooded his mind and body. More than halfway up the stair he was half convinced the stairs were completely safe, yet even that was squashed by the feelings of dread and terror that his next step might be his last.

He could turn around, his mind whispered to him, if he ran he could slip past the Custodian, even it wouldn’t be fast enough to catch him. And it wouldn’t follow him out of the vault, if he got that far he’d be safe.

He refused the thought, he’d seen the construct fight, he didn’t believe he could get past it. So he took another step.

Why even bother? His soul prodded at him. It’s just a sword that awaited him, why was he even doing this? Because some voice in his ear told him to?

The god of freedom promised he could save people with this blade, he countered, it would be a step in atoning for his previous actions. So he took another step.

Do you honestly think some sword will help you overcome the guilt you feel? His heart needled at him. You are weak, a loner, some cashier at a small store where you never earned so much as a second look. What makes you think you can be a hero?

Nathen was no hero, he declared to himself, but he could become something. He could help, he had to help. Not for others, not for some god, but for himself. He had to prove to himself that he was more than some pathetic man who thought this was a game world. So he took another step.

And nearly fell over as the pressure vanished, barely catching himself. Panting he looked up to see a cloud of metal shards floating just over his head, a simple sword hilt hung in the air under them.

“Well done,” the Custodian said, suddenly standing besides Nathen, “you have passed the third trial.”