Chapter 29: The Best Student

TRISTAN

Tristan had never been more wrong in his life. He'd thought his newfound abilities and Secondary would help him, and while they did, Jamal was something else entirely.

Somehow, Jamal seemed even less bothered by the second round--if that were possible--though it was far more painful for Tristan. The swordmaster was also more vocal and critical this time around. He pointed out every opening Tristan left before making him pay for it. He gave pointers, but without an immediate change, Tristan felt a new thwack exactly where he'd failed. And of course all of this Jamal did with a drink in hand.

Just as Tristan thought he might be actually improving, since he’d gone so long without being scolded, the fight changed again.

“Not awful,” Jamal said, “but your attacks lack creativity and are too predictable.” His grin turned wolfish. “Let me demonstrate.”

In the time it took Tristan to parse what his teacher had said, the wooden blade had already struck him twice. It seemed Jamal was no longer content to merely deflect Tristan’s attacks and counter. The wooden sword came at him from all angles and without pause, leaving no time for Tristan to mount his own attacks.

It was a flurry of near successes, embarrassment, and stinging pain. Tristan ended up on his back in the dirt more times than he could count, and had his sword knocked from his hands even more. But each time, he was immediately pressured to stand back up again. “You can quit at any time,” his master offered once more, waiting just long enough to see that he did rise again before the sword flicked back to life.

Tristan had no idea how long the session lasted, but the sun was still high overhead when he was finally left alone.

Laying on his back, he was utterly exhausted. He could feel the sand sticking to his sweaty, bleeding body. His arms refused to push him up, and his legs wouldn't have supported him anyway.

Staring up into the cloudless sky, Tristan struggled to ask, “Am I at least improving?”

He could hear the light steps of his master on the sand nearby. “Sure, kid. You're the best student I've ever had. And you know, you could definitely teach me a thing or two about dropping a sword. You’re the top of the class with a great future ahead of you.”

Tristan lifted his head slightly, looking toward Jamal. The man was sitting in a freaking chair, sipping a drink, with Lauren already sitting across his lap.

His head thumped back to the sand. Tristan ached all over, but he also knew he couldn’t let that stop him. “I'll try harder.” He forced himself to stand up.

Jamal tilted his head at his new student. A curious expression crossed his face. “You're serious. Gods, Tristan, you can't even..." He extended a hand, flicked his wrist, and suddenly a shadowy version of Jamal appeared at Tristan’s right side and pushed him.

But because Tristan had already learned to spread his base wide, he kept his feet. “I’m not done. I can keep going. I need to improve.”

Jamal’s Shadow turned to mist and drifted away with a passing breeze. The master swordsman nodded. “Alright, I see you, mate. I love that attitude, though you're bloody insane. I can work with that.” He took Lauren’s drink out of her hand and drank it while she playfully pouted. “But not today. You need healing. You've got some internal bleeding going on, and that’s a worse thing than I think you realize. You also need to reflect on, well, all the shit we did today. Focus on those defenses of yours, or you’ll spend more time laying there than in your bed.”

He held up a hand, stopping Tristan from responding.

“And that is where we'll begin tomorrow. Defense. Because in a real fight, if you can survive long enough, you should be able to find openings. Then those strong swings of yours might be useful and deal some real damage.”

Jamal brushed the girl off his lap with his empty hand and stood up. He stretched, almost like a cat who'd been still too long.

“Lauren, be a dear and take him to the sauna. Oh, and send him Cleo. I’m gonna go find something to eat.”

At his dismissal, Tristan slouched under the equal pressures of disappointment and exhaustion. A few moments later, he felt the delicate touch of the woman’s arms around his chest, supporting him. It was more than that, too. While even the slightest contact hurt and caused him to wince, when Lauren ran her hands over him, he hurt just a little bit less. He quickly realized that it was some sort of healing touch, and that it had already removed most of the sting from his ribs.

“That's a lot better,” Tristan murmured.

“It's my pleasure,” she responded. “And I'm only a half-healer at that. If you think this is nice, just wait until Cleo gets her hands on you. You’ll be good as new, possibly even better!”

Heck of a first day, he thought to himself. I’m still unforged. Nowhere to go from here but up.

- - - - -

“Now, follow my lead again,” the swordmaster said, retaking his stance beside Tristan. Rather than the smaller wooden sword from the day before, today a large golden greatsword was in his hands. Jamal stood perfectly still until Tristan mirrored the master's stance. They were back in first position.

The swordmaster made a deliberately slow, sideways move with his lower hand, pulling the handle and crossguard to the right side of his body while the tip and blade leaned left. He still managed to keep his arms spaced apart, thanks in large part to a widened grip, which meant raising his front elbow even with his shoulder. Tristan followed as best he could.

“This is a better deflection. It will set you up to make many counters, especially when using the crossguard. Hold it.” The swordmaster stepped back and examined the form. His nod of approval only emboldened Tristan, and he gripped his sword with renewed determination. “No, not so tense. Good, that's better.” He stepped back in. “You want to catch your opponent's blade either here or here,” he indicated the spots on Tristan’s blade. “On the flat if possible. Going edge-to-edge is relying too heavily on your blade being the better one.” He tapped Tristan's sword with his knuckle. “Maybe that'll go in your favor. But against stronger, luckier, or wealthier foes? Don't bet on it.”

It had been like this all day. Jamal demonstrated a technique, and Tristan mirrored it. Jamal evaluated, and Tristan adapted. It was such a welcome change from the day before that his worries disappeared. Tristan knew he wasn't good at these forms and guards and thrusts and cuts yet, but as he got lost in the instruction, he knew he was getting better.

“Yeah, like that. Keep the elbow tight, and... right on. Not bad, kid. Here's the next block, which is better against overhead attacks.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Tristan followed along, move by move. They all felt very new, and his body wasn’t used to such extended sessions with his sword yet. It felt like it was getting heavier with each new maneuver, but he wasn’t about to ask for a break. He would soak up as much of Jamal’s mastery as he possibly could.

“Focus, Tristan. Or, actually, you know what, just...” He slid in front of Tristan, facing him, and raised his sword.

Shit, Tristan immediately thought. The only advantage of the swordmaster’s new position was that Tristan could now see the gleam in Jamal’s eyes and the faint twist of a smile on his lips. Tristan knew what was coming next.

Jamal was preparing to attack.

“Guard up, kid!”

What followed was an absolute mess of panic and outmatched reflexes. He was trying to keep up with the moves of Jamal’s sword, but he was just a bit too slow. By the time he thought of where the attack was coming from, he couldn’t raise the appropriate guard in time. So instead of seeing the incoming blade where it was, he tried to see where it was going, leaning more on his training and trusting that the right guard would come to him in time. Mostly, it did--still not fast enough, but speed would come in time. In fact, the more he trusted in the moves Jamal had shown him, the better he did.

“Yeah, your reflexes are getting better, and you’re starting to feel the forms,” Jamal noted, his sword flashing out at Tristan's shoulder again. “But don't forget to get your elbow up or--"

The warning came just a moment before the sword passed right over Tristan’s blade, which he hadn’t moved quite wide enough. It sliced cleanly through Tristan’s right tricep.

It was so clean, in fact, Tristan assumed it had missed the bone.

Tristan heard the sound of his sword hitting the ground, which was odd since he didn’t feel like he’d let it go.

“Or that happens,” Jamal finished, turning around and flicking the blood off his blade onto the sand. “Cleo, on him.” He gestured toward Tristan, before walking away.

His blood was spurting out, and Tristan started panicking. Even as he tried to wrap his left hand around the wound, he felt himself getting lightheaded. What remained of his arm was dangling by skin and a thin string of muscle.

My arm. MY ARM! I'm going to lose my arm!

His last recognition before blacking out was that Jamal hadn't even turned around to check on him.

- - - - -

Tristan woke up in his bed shirtless and without a hint of pain. For a moment he worried he'd lost his arm. He threw his covers off and stared. Nothing was wrong. The arm was there, full, fine, clean, and even unscarred. He could barely wrap his head around it.

Then again, he thought back to how he'd felt after Cleo had healed him the night before--or had that been two days ago now? How long was I out? How long does healing an arm take? He looked out the window and saw what seemed to be the first rays of sunlight. I hate not knowing what day it is. He'd had that feeling too many times since Awakening.

He flexed his arm, which didn't feel different at all. Was this what high-tier healers could do? Was this what lay before Opie on his Path? It was no wonder they were so sought after, never struggling to find a party if they wanted one. Opie had actually been overwhelmed with offers the moment his Class became known, and it had taken nearly an hour to reject them all. Three different Guild parties had come through Woodsedge just offering to boost him to mid-tier 2 by carrying him through early dungeons.

No wonder Jamal didn't seem worried.

Now that Tristan had felt the touch of a good one, it made sense. Woodsedge wasn't that fancy, or fortunate. They had an herbalist and alchemist. Azura if she counted, and maybe Opie someday. Nothing that came close to what Cleo could do.

Tristan’s hand ran down the length of his arm. He’d have to thank her when he saw her next--it felt as good as it ever had.

I'm living in a different world now.

Would he ever allow himself to grow so callous toward what would have been life-altering wounds in Woodsedge? There were dangers in forgetting the aches and pains that his injuries should have given. No, he would fight off any such habits. He couldn't risk getting sloppy. He had too much to do.

After a small amount of time, there was a knock on his door, and Cherry’s voice called, “Are you awake in there at last?”

Tristan tried to sound pleasant but found he needed to cough to not sound like a gravelly old man. “Yeah, just testing out my arm.”

“Great! Then I'm coming in. Have to make sure you’ll be ready for today's lesson.”

“One moment,” Tristan said, pulling himself out of his bed and toward the wardrobe where all his clothes had been arranged. He never made it there before the door swung open anyway.

Cherry walked straight in, not shy about looking him up and down. “Wow, I can't even tell which arm it was.”

Tristan didn't like having her eyes studying him like that. He was in only his underwear, after all, and suddenly he had the realization that someone had helped him get that way--probably her. He quickly opened the wardrobe door, practically hiding behind it.

Cherry just marched around it and held out a pair of pants. “These are from yesterday. Obviously they've been cleaned, but since you didn't bring many pairs..."

“Uh, thanks,” Tristan squeaked, hating how clearly his embarrassment showed through. He cleared his throat. “So that--my arm--was yesterday?”

One of Cherry’s hands gripped Tristan's right arm as she nodded thoughtfully. “Good as new, I assume?”

“It seems so,” he answered. Part of him wanted to reach into the wardrobe for a shirt, but another part didn’t want to be the first one to move.

“You could just wear the pants,” Cherry offered upon seeing his indecision. “You look good shirtless. Especially with the scar.”

Once again, Tristan fought against the urge to cover himself. Cherry, like seemingly every servant in the manor, always looked good. She was in yet another red-themed ensemble today, though this one was looser fitting.

She took a step back and nodded. “I’m kind of digging those bigger arms of yours, too. It’s a good thing Cleo is the best. And the Master’s restraint is also impressive. It’s much harder to try and reattach something that’s been completely severed. Almost impossible I’ve heard. Something about losing the connection with your body. Anyways, will you take breakfast now? Seeing as you missed dinner, and of course with the healing, I bet you're starving.”

Tristan's nerves were immediately on-edge. He hadn’t even considered that it might not be possible to reattach a body part that was cut off. It was good to know going forward. His stomach rumbled as if to pull him out of his thoughts and back to Cherry’s question. “Yes, breakfast sounds great.”

Cherry walked over to Tristan’s bedside table and a tray of steaming food appeared in her hand. “I thought so. I grabbed this from the kitchen before coming here, just in case. Eat up. Your next lesson’s in just over an hour. I'll be right outside the door if you need anything.”

Tristan pulled the nearest shirt from the wardrobe before hurrying back to the tray. Whatever food she’d brought smelled divine.

- - - - -

Day three of his training began with what he'd come to think of as a Jamal pep talk:

“You fucked up yesterday, mate. Luckily you did it here. In the real world, you’d be armless at best, undead and enslaved at worst. Not a good look, yeah? See that you pay better attention today, right?”

Tristan knew enough of the world not to argue with someone who’d seen so much more of it. Though being an enslaved undead sounded freaking terrifying. He held up his greatsword and took first position. He’d be ready for whatever the day would bring.

Day three, as it turned out, was not going to focus as heavily on defensive positions as it would on parrying and then countering attacks. The latter moves were much harder with a sword as big as Tristan's. However, after Tristan managed to cleanly deflect Jamal’s blade and find openings two attacks in a row, he was surrounded by a golden light as his favorite sound effect rang out.

“Congratulations,” Jamal said.

“Thanks,” Tristan replied--immediately regretting it. He'd lowered his guard, thinking the fight was done, and leaned the blade back, resting the crossguard against his shoulder. It was how Jamal had insisted he carry the blade when it wasn’t needed. Of course, he’d also insisted that Tristan never drop his guard when faced with an armed foe. A lesson he clearly hadn’t fully learned yet.

Jamal's thrust came with blinding speed, and it skewered him like a kabob.

Tristan looked down as he felt himself grow weak again. He saw that half of the massive blade was sunk into his belly, and somehow it had missed his lungs and heart.

“Even if it’s training, you’re still in battle. Next time, don't get distracted,” he heard Jamal say. Then he felt the sword pull free of his body, and the gush of blood followed.

The last thing Tristan could make sense of before the world went black was someone saying the name “Cleo,” and sounding bored about it.