Chapter 17 - The Betterment of Man

“One more time,” I instructed, arms crossed in front of my chest as I watched Sol struggle to lift his oversized sword, Malky, with shaking arms.

“Arg..” Sol grunted with the effort as he drew the blade level with his body, then twisted from the waist to spin the blade with a great SWOOSH as it cleaved through the air at chest level in a deadly horizontal arc.

Reaver, who had been sitting back on his haunches next to me, barked a couple times encouragingly, but I put a stop to that with a smart rap of my knuckle on top of his thick skull.

“Quiet, you. Sol, that was all wrong. I told you it all begins with footwork. You’re putting too much of your back into it. Not only does that leave you unbalanced and unable react if you miss, but it places too much stress on your upper body. It won’t do you any good in an extended fight,” I admonished gravely.

Sol nodded while leaning his forehead on Malky’s blade, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “G.. got it, mister. Sorry..” he began.

“Well, if you’re sorry then do better next time. Now, do it properly and no excuses this time!” I roared back.

Sol flinched slightly and had to bite down on his trembling lips to hold back a sob, but instead of collapsing he nodded determinedly as he visibly struggled to regain command over his exhausted body.

I grunted in approval. This kid had guts, and where others would have quit or started complaining, he had taken to my training with quiet resolve. If he kept this up, I could really make an incredible fighter out of this kid. Of course, that’s not what I’d thought at first.

After dinner, I had finally asked Sol to draw Malky and show me what he could do with it. After looking at his incredible stats, I had harbored very high hopes indeed. Those expectations had only soared higher still as I heard Sol explain that he had religiously devoted at least four hours every day to practicing swordsmanship with Malky. So, I sat back to enjoy the show and readied myself for quite the treat.

Instead, I had come to the edge of despair as I watched him clumsily bumble about with that nearly five foot length of steel as though he were trying to swat down a pinata with a fat leg of ham.

“Stop! Stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I called out in alarm, genuinely concerned that he might actually hurt himself.

Sol flinched but obeyed instantly as he skidded to a halt and turned to face me, skin already turning a deep red with his exertions. Yeah, throwing that kind of mass around for a few hours day in and day out would certainly explain his ridiculous stats. However, it was terribly clumsy and would prove utterly useless in actual combat.

I explained as much to him, going into detail as to the reasons. I figured if I was to have any hope of making a warrior out of this little street hellion, I would have to demolish every useless misconception he’d developed and start from the very bottom.

“Your stance is all wrong; your feet are going one way while your body’s moving the other; your arms are just flailing blindly about and getting in your way; your back is slouching over whenever you swing out your blade; the grip is all kinds of wrong..”

On and on, until Sol had been on the verge of tears. Damn, I felt a little guilty, but I ruthlessly pushed down any useless remnants of sentimentality. They could only do harm here. Still..

“Listen Sol, you are a disaster. A complete, utter disaster with that thing in your hands.”

“Malky,” mumbled Sol with a trembling voice.

“Yeah, Malky. What good did it do you or Reaver while you were being captured and being led towards the slavers’ block?”

Sol’s hands tightened on Malky’s pommel until his knuckles were white, but he didn’t say a word. He couldn’t, and I knew it.

“A sword is a tool,” I began, and held a hand out to silence the immediate protest. “No, hear me out. Malky there is only going to be as good as the hands that wield it. Right now, you couldn’t even stand up to a tiny rabbit, let alone a group of Tarik’s men.”

“Look at Reaver here. He was ready to die for you. He almost did, as a matter of fact,” I pointed out as I rapped another knuckle against Reaver’s head when the mutt tried to interrupt as well. Can dogs really throw sullen looks at you? No matter, damn mutt. “In exchange, you only served to become a hostage and a liability to your best friend. Is that really all you can amount to?”

I was being rough and unfair to the kid, and I knew it. However, I also knew that I needed to kindle a fire inside of him, and that fire could only be started from the inside. Sol had been kicked away and spat down upon for too long from the lowest scum in the streets. It only stood to reason that his drive and self-esteem had taken a likewise downward dive. I knew the kid was much better than that, however. He truly had potential, but first I needed to clean off all the rust. I needed Sol to find that passion once more, that hunger that reaches from way down your chest, past your heart and from your belly. You have to want it, REALLY want it. It goes beyond logic and reason, past feelings and emotions. It has to be instinctive, a feral urge to claw your way out of the pile of refuse you’ve been condemned to for your entire life.

Now, there may be those who opine that the best motivator is love, and positive encouragement does work wonders towards the long-term. However, I will openly admit that I’m not the best at that strange emotion called love. I’ve brushed up against it a couple times in my life, and both times I’ve been burned worse than any battle injuries I’ve sustained in my career. That’s quite a collection of battle scars we’re speaking of.

So, while I’m decidedly not the best, or even barely competent at that sort of approach, I was one of the best with this approach - via blunt force trauma. I’ve done it countless times before. Take in kids straight out of their parents’ warm and loving bossom, into a mind-numbing, bone-jarring nightmare ride deep into the very gateways of hell.

Welcome to boot camp.

It was working, too. Sol quickly came to terms with the fact that as he was now, he was nothing more than a liability in a fight. If Sol had decided to use a normal weapon, such as a dagger or a short sword, which would be far more appropriate for his current height and build, his surprising strength and speed could have compensated for his inexperience. However, Malky was just as ruthless and uncompromising a battle companion as I was.

The huge blade was almost five feet long and nearly a foot wide. Just swinging that kind of ridiculous mass around is a feat all in of itself. However, just because you can move the blade about it doesn’t mean your targets will obligingly wait for you to complete your windup and execute your telegraphed move. Sure, if it hit I’m sure it would wreak all kinds of havoc. However, it never would. I hadn’t been kidding when I mentioned the rabbit. I could lock Sol in with a rabbit in Zephyr’s humble hut and I could wait all day and all night without him being able to nail the poor thing even once.

In other words, Malky was just too much of a handicap for someone of Sol’s limited reach, strength, endurance, and most of all, experience. So, why didn’t I just snatch it away and give Sol another weapon?

Partly because I’d seen the manic devotion Sol had to this Malky. If I just took it away, it would simply be yet another defeat in a long string of such. Instead, I planned to use those feelings to give him a sense of accomplishment.

A long sought victory, all the sweeter for the desperate want for it.

Besides, I’m a man, and we do like our toys. I had to admit I couldn’t wait to see the kind of destruction Sol would visit upon his hapless victims when he managed to fully master that instrument of death and mayhem, otherwise known as ‘Malky’.

Thus, I had sat off to one side while drilling Sol mercilessly on basic swings and cuts when I’d noticed something strange. Sol was indeed doing his best to carry out my instructions, but the improvement was negligible. That was not to say he did not show any progress. His attacks showed more forethought and deliberation, and all my merciless pounding on stopping those god-awful thrusts that were so telegraphed the enemy would have to be blind not to sidestep were finally bearing fruit.

However, after an hour or so, I could see that Sol himself was also getting frustrated. I decided to call a stop to it before my training could have adverse effects. This damn world was just conspiring against me at every single turn. I began to have some inkling of what the problem was.

I was no swordsman. I was, in fact, as far as you could get from your typical warrior. I was a scholar. My weapons were my books and the quill. I had thus far proven that I could obtain an incredible amount of experience and skills using my scholarly research. However, a martial arts instructor, I was not. Even when I did my best to explain those basic techniques to Sol, it simply did not seem to register correctly, and it showed in the results.

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Frustrated, I decided to forget about any complex maneuvers or stances, and instead focused down on two of the most practical and simple concepts I could impart: Maintaining proper balance at all times, and properly employing momentum. This meant footwork for the former, and discipline for the latter.

With a sword that had as huge a mass as Malky, even if you properly exploited an opening in your opponent’s guard, you would be leaving yourself wide open to a riposte, or even worse, a counter-thrust exploiting the natural fact that it takes far longer for a 5-foot blade than a 3-foot toothpick to traverse the same space. Thus, you had to be ready to react on the defensive at every turn, and if possible, to change direction of your swing in mid-motion. All of that required exquisite balance, and that came mainly from impeccable footwork.

As for momentum, it was self-explanatory. A chunk of steel weighing as much as Malky did would completely obliterate anything it hit, so long as it did hit. However, in order to deliver a blow with the proper amount of speed and power behind it, the wielder had to learn to manipulate the sword’s momentum so that it worked for him instead of against him. This was a concept that was deceptively simple yet incredibly difficult to master, as it often ran counter to a person’s natural instincts. This is why it is said that master swordsmen wield their weapons as though they were extensions of their own body. All that meant was that they knew how to manipulate their blades and their momentum to optimal effect.

Two hours later, Sol was finally beginning to grasp both concepts so I decided to call it for tonight. We had an early dawn appointment, and if my suspicions were correct, by the end of our little expedition we might be able to drastically improve our little party’s combat potential, so no need to be too ambitious for now.

Meanwhile, I called Reaver back. The poor mutt was also moving on shaky legs. I had been drilling it as well, since I knew very well that it was as smart - or smarter - than most humans I’ve had the distinct displeasure to meet.

“Good boy, Reaver. Remember those basic commands and we will be golden,” I congratulated Reaver. I had been far more impressed with Reaver’s performance, but it stood to reason as most of Reaver’s skills were borne out of instinct, and this was one hungry bastard. Still, no reason to punish just Sol. I needed them together through this ordeal. So I had Reaver running up and down the field in different maneuvers and reacting to different commands.

“So.. Mister, does that mean that we don’t have to..” came Sol’s hesitant voice.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I answered with a wolfish grin that showed all my teeth glinting under the moonlight. “No more cooking for tonight, more’s the pity. I had a succulent dish in mind that I’d been so eager to try out, too.”

Both Sol and Reaver collapsed against each other in a heap, bearing twin expressions of relief.

“Scary..” came Sol’s whisper, to which Reaver simply cringed and burrowed his nuzzle against his master’s chest.

I clapped both hands in front of my chest and called out enthusiastically, “Don’t worry guys, there’s still plenty of opportunities to taste some more of my Imperial Cooking down the road. I need to improve my skills if I want to unlock the secret skills of the Umeji, so it’s a win-win!”

I pointedly decided to ignore their choking cries as abject horror flooded into their faces.

“Get some sleep. We have an early day tomorrow. We will be exploring the ruins of the Arakian Monastery!”

Sol’s ears perked up at the name. “I’ve heard of that name before, Mister. Arakian monks were crazies who fought like sand-possessed devils.”

I nodded to Sol. “Yep, and we’ll be paying them a nice friendly visit.”

Sol frowned as he chewed on his lip. “I thought the Arakians were all killed a long, long time ago.”

“That is also correct,” I gleefully agreed. “Which is the whole point of visiting them now.”

“But.. how are we going to talk to them?”

“You leave that to me,” I answered, eagerly flexing my knuckles. “I’m somewhat of an expert at that.”

Sol stared at me dumbfounded.

“You’re a necromancer? So scary!” he cried out, backing away slowly while hugging Reaver tightly to his chest.

“No, you silly, I’m a historian!” I explained, tapping my own chest.

“You mean you write books about stuff that happened a long time ago or the kind that sucks people’s souls to twist them for their own terribly evil purposes?” came Sol’s hesitant question.

“I.. well,” I stumbled, taken aback by the question. I did sound like more of an evil necromancer than anything when you put it like that. “I suppose I do kind of dabble in the latter, but I’m officially one of the former..” I added lamely.

“Hahah, just kidding Mister. Shia, did you watch his expression?” Sol called out, choking with laughter.

“Shia sure did. Mommy is so silly,” came the bubbling voice from inside my pocket.

Even the damn dog was laughing at me, tears rolling from both his blue eye, and from under the patch that concealed his other eye, the one supposedly blazing a deep crimson.

“Wait a second, was all of this a setup?” I bit off while narrowing my own eyes.

“Yep, Shia told Sol that mommy would bring up the Monastery eventually,” came my daughter’s tinkling voice.

“And Shia taught me what to say. Boy, you should have seen your own face Mister. You looked like you’d swallowed a bug!” croaked Sol, rolling on the ground while holding his belly.

“Why you.. and you, Shia. No more reading for tonight! Go to bed!”

“Aww.. but you promised! And it’s not like Shia has a bed, all Shia gets is a tiny pocket that stinks of sweat and..”

“Not another word from you, young lady, for I’ll ground you for..” I caught myself as I realized how ludicrous the situation had become. I looked at Sol and Reaver, who were still rolling on the ground together, barely able to catch a breath before bursting with a fresh chorus of laughter. Then I turned to look at the book I held in my pocket, still shaking slightly as it too joined in. Then I burst out laughing as well, unable to contain myself any longer.

It was a good, hearty laugh that sounded so alien to my ears that it took me a moment to realize I hadn’t made the sound in a very, very long time. I simply hadn’t had anything worth laughing, or even smiling about. My life had come crashing down around me in burning debris and it had been all I could do to simply stay alive.

I was momentarily rocked back on my heels as I realized just how much I had changed in just the past week alone. I had gone from swearing bitter vengeance against the whole world and the powers that ruled it with an iron fist, no matter the cost, to sharing a sincere laugh with people I genuinely cared about.

That’s right. These were people. I wasn’t sure about Reaver or Shia, but Sol was definitely a person. Though there were certainly many NPCs in Aeterna who were simply being powered by an AI fed off a human’s neural feedback, many more were true humans, non-coms who had been plugged into the system with their memories wiped clean and let loose to seek their fates in Aeterna.

It mean those thugs I’d so casually slain and whose souls I’d devoured might very well be people, after all. What was the difference between them and Sol, Shia, or Reaver? True, they’d each made their own choice, but how much of that was determined by the AI that oversaw this entire realm? Had Sol chosen to become an orphan child lost and abandoned in the middle of a wasteland? Would Reaver still be Reaver if given a choice from the beginning? Had Shia truly wanted to be reborn as a book whose only function was to be wholly devoted to its wielder?

Were they people, or just a complex set of subroutines and algorithms mimicking human interaction so flawlessly the experience was truly seamless? When does a character stop being a mere facade and become a human being?

Then again, if even someone like me, who could not rightly be called a human being due to the sheer weight of the sins piled upon his past, could find a momentary reprieve, some solace within this new realm, who was I to question it?

The ironic thing is that out of all the people present here - the infant book-child, the clumsy war-child, and the walking, drooling fleabag - I was likely the one in most dire need of becoming a better person.

“The betterment of man demands no reasons, only motives,” I recalled my grandfather saying to me once. I hadn’t really understood what he meant back then, but now my mind bit down on those words and refused to let go.

“Mommy, are you alright?” came Shia’s hesitant voice.

Shaking my head slowly, I dug down deep and found that I did indeed have a smile left in the scorched remains of my desolate heart for the one who was becoming more and more like the precious daughter I never had.

“I think I am now,” I whispered back, and decided that I truly needed no reasons, simply the motive.