Chapter 2
Beatings and Meetings
My arms felt like they were made of old, dry wood, and I could have sworn I heard them creaking and groaning when I dared to extend them. The scent of dirt and grass filled my nose, a smell I had no choice but to be familiar with as my face was smushed against the ground. I huffed a deep breath in preparation, flecks of soil inviting themselves unwantedly into my airway, but I had no room to even think about sputtering them out. With my exhale, I began the hellish task of straightening my arms, feeling my chest, shoulders, arms, stomach, and even legs cry out in protest at the movement.
Despite his count, I held my position, my abs now screaming at me for rebuking their order to simply lie down. But I knew that if I did so, I’d have to start over once more, exhausted and feeble or not. So I stayed there, red-faced with spittle drooling from clenched teeth in swaying strands. My fists were digging into the ground, slowly sinking until they were almost halfway to my wrists from the unnaturally heavy weight pressing down on me.
I felt the burden on my back shift, before with languid movements Voin rose from his cross-legged position to step down to non-fleshy ground. I sighed out in relief at the loss, no longer feeling his armored ass digging into my spine.
“Good,” Voin stated with muted approval. Immediately, I collapsed, mustering the extra effort to turn my fall into a roll so that I landed on my back rather than tasting dirt once more.
“You... should go... on a diet,” I squeezed out between gulping breaths.
Voin glanced down at me, his stony face betraying nothing of what he felt. If I had to guess, I’d say he was fractionally more pissed off than he always was. “Get up. We spar,” he ordered, the numerous spikes and blades along his armor retracting for the mock fight.
My guess was right.
Despite making a show of groaning in protest, I moved to stand regardless. I wasn’t one for following commands, but I also knew that Voin would just kick the shit out of me whether I got up or not. Something I knew because he did exactly that the first time I tried that tactic.
As soon as my hands were above my hips and my feet were planted on the ground, Voin struck, opening with a front kick to send me right back down. But I’ve had to deal with this same move for over a week, and I wasn’t keen on feeling a metal boot hitting my stomach again.
I twisted to the side as I hooked an arm around his leg–keeping one hand up for defense--and tugged as I stepped forward, returning a front kick of my own, his longer legs giving me the space to perform the action. Voin mirrored my movements, grabbing my leg mid-strike as he ripped his own out of my grip. But instead of trying to deliver a front kick using the opening, as I did, he gave a harsh tug as he twisted forward, using the rapidly closed distance to bury an elbow in my cheek, my half-formed defenses not even slowing him down.
I felt the cold metal dig into the soft flesh, seeing in the corner of my vision a pixelated barrier appear just below my right eye, stopping the elbow from uprooting half of my teeth.
Health: 122/145
My face twisted into a lopsided smile as my right cheek was held trapped between Voin’s elbow and my teeth, the rush of combat dulled only by the lack of pain I should be feeling. The bullshit effects of whatever was given to me allowed my still-open eyes to catch the predatory approval in Voin’s own. For a small moment, as if time had briefly slowed, we matched grins.
Time resumed its course, and my fist made contact with Voin’s throat. Instead of the normal reaction of sputtering out in choked gasps and clutching at his neck, he merely chuckled at the audacious move.
Oh shit, I thought to myself just before Voin blurred and my head snapped to the side, my ear touching my shoulder. I felt the ground beneath me disappear as the world turned upside down, my hair brushing against the grass as I did a side-flip, a move I neither knew was possible nor wanted to do again. As I landed on my feet in a crouch, I changed my mind.
That was actually pretty sick.
Health: 44/145
The red bar at the top left of my vision drained drastically from the blow, and if I wasn’t careful, the spar would end in just a few more moves. I wouldn’t die or anything when it dipped to zero, but I would lose the protection it provided. Once, I had tried to continue, confident that my increased Fortitude would make me superhumanly durable. Instead, Voin broke my arms with a single punch, and I remain certain he did it on purpose. Fortunately for me, where this world lacked in medical technology, they made up for in hums and chants that healed me in a few hours--though it did require me to sit in front of some fawning priest the whole time.
“Immediate throat punch? My wife would have liked you,” Voin stated, tone completely serious despite his words sounding like a joke. I raised an eyebrow at the unexpected banter, as well as the rare respite during a spar.
“Your wife?” I questioned. “You wore a bucket over that ugly mug, didn’t you?” It wasn’t my best one-liner, but my options were pretty limited, considering I was quite confident he was the type to straight-up murder me if I insulted his wife too far.
“Hmph,” he huffed out what could have been a laugh. “I was quite dashing before I met her.”
I stared back in disbelief, but as my eyes roved over his aged, yet still rugged features despite being set like a stone, I-–vexingly--could actually picture it. Of course, I had to ignore the litany of scars and the bloated warts he called ears, but still.
“Nope,” I countered elegantly, shuffling my feet into position.
Wordlessly, I knew the brief conversation was over. As if on some unseen signal, the levity in the air between us vanished in an instant. Stepping forward, I seized the initiative, eyes narrowed and on watch for his response. Voin’s hands were low, fingers spread as if to claw me despite his gauntlets currently lacking such additions. But I knew from experience how much power he could pack in a mere slap. His legs were held wide, and the words of my old instructor reared themselves in my mind.
“I can tell exactly what you’re going to do just by looking at your feet,” he would often remind me, always demonstrating his statement by calling out my move just before I did it…I wish I got the chance to kick his ass.
Voin’s weight was perched primarily on his front foot, the heel of his back foot off the ground. I moved closer cautiously, waiting for the kick that was sure to come.
My eyes twitched at a sigh of movement, Voin’s right hand moved up, hand clenched to punch for a change. I hid a smirk at the obvious feint, bringing my arms up in ostensible defense, keeping his legs in the peripheral of my vision. As expected, his punch halted almost as quickly as it began while his leg came up in a snapping kick. Anticipating the strike, I moved to intercept it with my arms before the limb had even extended. But instead of flicking his shin to my side, he tugged his leg down into a step. By the time I understood why, his fist was already connecting with my jaw.
Health: 36/140
I stepped back from the blow, both to lessen its impact and to gain some space. Even without glancing at my health bar, I sensed it was a light strike, little more than a jab—a consequence of his deception.
“A feint within a feint? Really?” I questioned exasperatedly.
Voin moved his shoulders slightly up in a shrug, maintaining his stance. “Doesn’t work as well on amateurs.”
“Pretty sure I am one,” I replied.
“And yet,” he countered as he moved forward, ending the brief conversation with a low kick.
I held back the instinct to check the kick, knowing from experience how futile his metal armor made such a move. Instead, I darted forward, his thigh thumping into my side with no substantial force behind it. This close, my options were limited to grappling or trying to retreat with a swift push. I chose the former–a skill far less explored than simple striking.
Before he could slam an elbow into my face–something untenable for me due to his greater height–I hooked one leg around his and tugged as I tackled him, my arms wrapped around his midsection.
As we tumbled to the ground, I knew Voin allowed it for the sake of our spar. During the fall, I twisted onto my back, the wind knocked out of me upon landing with his elbow pressing against my sternum, and I knew I made the wrong choice.
Any fight I might have had left was quickly extinguished, my efforts amounting to futile flailing and twisting beneath Voin's heavy bulk. Despite my enhanced strength, I felt feeble, almost childish against him even as I knew he was holding back.
“Yield.” His voice was dispassionate and composed, breath not even labored as if the last several minutes of sparring never happened. On either side of my throat, his pointer and pinky fingers loomed, their claws extended to brush against the ground. Between them, menacing spikes emerged from his knuckles, a silent threat palpable against my Adam’s apple when I swallowed.
I held my arms up in the universal sign of surrender, feeling the pointy bits retract from my throat. Voin stood up and backed away, giving me room to get up myself.
“I feel like I should learn to wrestle,” I said as I rubbed at my throat as if to soothe it, though it had taken no physical damage.
"It is valuable skill," Voin began, and I could practically hear the ‘but’ already. "But I would not focus on it." At my quirked eyebrow, he elaborated. "When I am gone, you will need weapons. Fists and feet do nothing against our enemies, unless you have armor like mine – and you will not," he added matter-of-factly. "Focus your efforts on mastering weapon. If you need wrestle," he pursed his lips for a moment, "you are dead anyway."
“Thanks. I feel real peppy now,” I drily replied. Still, I considered his words with the weight they deserved. I’m pretty sure my whole ‘job’ as a Hero was to fight bugs or something anyway, so–wrestling wouldn’t really work too well, I imagine. “Is that why you make me fight you in armor? Other than satisfying your sadistic urges, of course.”
“Correct, and you shouldn’t,” Voin stated, ignoring my obvious bait. “Next week, the safety of this keep will escape you.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, flabbergasted. “I’ve been here for like five minutes. What do you mean I leave next week?”
Have I been here for five minutes? No. I’ve been here almost ten days. But if this was their medieval version of boot camp, I didn’t see much difference.
“What I mean is that you will be sent to the front line, as expected of your role,” Voin clarified, steel in his voice. It was rare for him to take that tone; his normal orders were uttered emotionlessly, almost dismissively, with the expectation that I would follow them…which, to be fair, I tended to do, even if I griped about it. That didn’t mean I was to be cowed by a scary voice. I obeyed orders I didn’t mind much doing. Getting sent to the front lines for some asshats I don’t even know was not under that umbrella.
“The hell I will,” I said with a derisive snort. “Besides, aren’t we ‘Heroes’ your only hope? Sending them all to the meat grinder seems pretty damn dumb.”
Voin huffed a laugh at my logic, making me cross my arms despite myself. “The talented will not be going, brat. There is mage girl making seekers foam at mouth already. You make no one foam.” I stopped myself from giving him the bird–-he’d break it. No, you get sent to frontline. The talented? They’ll be sent to academies, kept under watch as they grow strong and loyal. The King cares not for the mediocre.”
“Let’s not pretend that I’m mediocre.” Egotistical, for sure, but I knew myself. I was pretty damn awesome, and I was no one’s fodder.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“No, you are not,” Voin agreed…Huh. Did not expect him to say that. “But what you are is my student. Therefore,” he tsked his tongue, “doesn’t matter.”
“The King doesn’t like you?” I shrugged. “I mean, I get it, obviously, but I thought you were a big shot?” I asked, ignoring Voin’s glare.
“I am important, if that is what silly phrase means. This is why he does not like me.”
I nodded in understanding; I could put two and two together. Voin was a foreigner, his accent making it obvious when everyone else spoke like they were British–the posh type, or whatever they called their upper class. Moreover, Voin was also strong, unbelievably so. Once, he had given in to my demands to spar him at his best, and between blinks, he had moved from ten yards away to holding me in the air by my head with one hand from behind. I strongly doubted that was a normal level of power here, and with power comes influence. Foreigner plus influential? Kings tended not to like that.
“That sucks, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to war for some ass-hat with a grudge,” I grumbled out obstinately.
Despite my words, anxiety crept up as I contemplated how I would actually follow through. Running and hiding seemed like the obvious choice. I wasn’t the type to stand out in a crowd, and I could easily steal some local’s clothes to blend in. Communication wouldn’t be an issue either; somehow, I understood everyone I’d met so far despite being in another world, and they understood me.
Hiding wouldn’t be too difficult, and if it was, I could always live in the woods. The main problem was that this world seemed medieval in terms of technology, yet they also had magic. There would be no cameras to track me, but who’s to say there isn’t some spell that could? My lips twisted into a frown as I realized how little I knew about magic here, prompting me to make a mental note to learn more about it.
“…I will put word in,” Voin stated after several moments, looking as if the words tasted sour. “In exchange, you owe me favor.”
“I thought the King doesn’t like you?” I questioned skeptically. If he was distrusted, his trying to help would only hurt.
“He does not,” Voin confirmed. His lips were twisted in a small, understated smirk. “But he is not so smart as he think he is.”
———————————————————————————————
oin habitually scanned the room, arms crossed as he leaned against the corner wall of the grand hall, distanced from the other attendees. The room was large and grandiose, decorated in gaudy opulence as if their paltry wealth was worth a second glance. He scoffed in disdain at the thought–he’d seen third-born sons with greater riches.
Perhaps that was why he remained unpopular, despite his accomplishments? It mattered not. What did he care for the opinions of upjumped peasants? He didn’t want them near him, and they didn’t want him either. Those who did approach soon regretted it. All except one, but he was occupied by the usual groupies, thankfully.
Voin surveyed the invited guests, observing them huddled in their small cliques, their conversations as vapid as their relationships. His sharp ears caught fragments of gossip about the latest trends, fashion critiques, and even murmurs concerning the aloof foreigner in the corner. He met the gaze of those who spoke of him, taking some satisfaction in how quickly they averted their eyes. It was also the only thing he got satisfaction out of in these charades they called meetings.
As he looked at the pampered nobles masquerading as warriors, dressed in armor made for show and sipping wine, flashes of war appeared in his mind. He saw men eating roaches to stave off hunger, soldiers drinking tainted water out of their boots to quench their thirst, and silent camps deserted where they were once bustling. The stark images juxtaposed against the opulence in front of him, and he felt the rage that constantly simmered beneath the surface begin to boil. The sound of groaning metal barely even registered as he clenched his fists, the stretched leather beneath creaking as his claws scraped against his gauntleted palms.
“Lighten up, Voin, these meetings are made to be fun,” a far too friendly voice interrupted from his side, its smooth baritone carrying a teasing quality.
“...Val,” Voin greeted in resignation, not needing to look at his face to identify him, the gray locks, that color since birth, did it for him, even if he had already memorized his annoying voice. The man was among the few who weren’t deterred by a glare, and the only one unbothered by his standard method of grunting until they left. He was an older man, at least ten years his senior, but his physique didn’t seem to care about that fact. Despite his age, the man was as robust as ever, his developed muscular filling out armor that he looked like he was born in.
“Voin, how many times do I need to ask before you call me Valence?” The man said jokingly, ignoring Voin’s cold reception. Voin didn’t bother replying to the question, both of them knowing the answer. “You don’t normally come to these meetings, what’s changed?” Val asked, both as an icebreaker and in genuine curiosity.
“Nothing has changed,” Voin replied irritably.
“Perhaps,” Val hedged, “But you’re here for a reason.”
Voin side-eyed the other man, staring at him for several seconds in silence. “...For my charge,” he tersely answered. “When will tool arrive?”
“The King will arrive in three…two…” Val began to count down, his form cracking like glass before he shattered, disappearing from view.
Voin huffed at the other man’s antics, then stared at the large, ostentatious entrance of the hall. The next second, the thirty-foot high doors burst open with nary a sound, a man immediately entering, his stride unbroken.
Finally.
The man was draped in white and purple robes, a crown of silver upon his head that shined with reflected light at every movement. A similarly silver scepter clacked intentionally against the floor in time with his steps, the room crackling with power at the concentrated might.
Voin rolled his eyes at the dramatics; every time he saw the King it was the same thing, making others wait so that all could see him enter, always spiritually pumping himself up like he was some bird wishing to mate.
"Trusted loyalists, thank you for joining me at this late hour." Standing on a raised dais, the King's voice resonated with dignity, effortlessly carrying through the grand hall without the need for a booming yell. "Regrettably, I must announce that our fears have been realized; twelve of our heroes have formed a clandestine alliance, created where they thought we had no eyes." The King gestured towards the assembled crowd. "But our precautions were not in vain."
No acknowledgment of credit was given, but that was to be expected. Voin’s eyes moved to the servants flitting between the guests, their plain uniforms and demured demeanors failing to deceive him for even a second.
"Emilia, Johnston, Abraham, Clarkson, Annabelle, Olly, Taylor, Lawson, Edwin, Kasper, Finley, Claudia," the King called out each name in a measured tone. As he did, individuals in the crowd stiffened or subtly adjusted their posture, some attempting subtly for the first time in their lives as they handed off their glasses of wine in an attempt to appear dignified. "Have any of your charges demonstrated exceptional prowess?" The King asked, his scrutinizing gaze sweeping over each person named.
“My charge is adept at magicks, my lord,” Kasper stated formally, giving a shallow bow as he did.
“Mine is a deft hand with blades, my king,” Emilia said smugly.
“Kaori has proven skilled with a longbow, Lord Richard,” Clarkson announced with pride. Voin suppressed a smirk at the King’s narrowed eyes, noting the obvious affection the man held for his charge.
Silence followed as no one else stepped forward with notable talents to share. Most avoided eye contact to stare at the ground, their expressions betraying their shame and disappointment as they shook their heads.
“Good, good,” the King said approvingly. “Speak to me later, and we can discuss their futures, if you wish,” he offered to those who spoke up. “As for the others,” he began, his tone noticeably colder, “The unremarkable will be granted the position of vanguard, the tip of the spear against our enemy. Of course, they will be given the appropriate precautions,” he declared, a slight smirk played on the King’s lips that was not lost on Voin, who lightly snorted at the obvious euphemism, drawing the King’s attention.
“Boyar Voin,” the King addressed him, Voin’s jaw clenching in anger at the use of his dead title. “And what of your charge? Anything notable?”
“Perhaps. What of it?” Voin rumbled out, his voice carrying an air of defiance as he remained unmoving from his relaxed position. Murmurs rippled across the room, the crowd stirring at the blatant disrespect. The King, however, remained calm, giving no reaction to the words.
“I like to keep aware of notable figures, as you know. I’d simply hate to see the boy’s potential wasted due to your…brusqueness.” The crowd laughed at the understatement while the King maintained his veil of politeness.
“...He has gift for combat, but is unfocused,” Voin revealed, pursing his lips in feigned reluctance.
“I see,” the King answered with a thoughtful hum. “And what do you think would… let’s say, motivate him?”
“Valor’s Valley,” Voin immediately replied. The King raised his eyebrows at the answer–a calculated reaction, if Voin had ever seen one.
"I see. You want him as a protege?" The King probed. Voin simply stared back, refusing to confirm one way or the other. They locked eyes for several moments, their wills pitted against each other: the sharp, cold gaze of the King against Voin's flat, dead stare.
"...I believe that could be a wonderful idea," the King continued after a pause, and Voin had to suppress a smirk, "but I wouldn’t want my star Commander to be distracted while he’s at his post. However, I will consider your advice. If the boy needs combat to sharpen him, would the Badlands not suffice?"The crowd shared a near collective gasp at the word, some frowning at the decree. “We will, of course, accompany with him a guide,” the King quickly added. The crowd hushed down, mollified.
“Hn.” Voin gave a grunt in response to the decision, and nothing more. Internally, he was laughing in victory. The Badlands was all bark, in his opinion.
“Now Voin, as his teacher, wouldn’t you be the best fit? It’d be nice to get away from all the bad memories in the valley, wouldn’t you say?” The King asked kindly, but his eyes were mocking. Voin leaned forward with a growl, pushing off the wall as his armor rippled into a symphony of death, and the King realized he may have gone too far. “Unless there are any volunteers?” He asked with a tap of his scepter, spinning to face the crowd and away from Voin.
At his words, the gathered “warriors” suddenly became very interested in anything but the King. The big shots among them, however, were not daunted by the question. They boldly surveyed their surroundings with curiosity, some scratching their chins thoughtfully as they considered the offer.
Voin felt the gaze of another land on him, and his eyes flicked in their direction to see Valence Ironmane winking at him with a cheeky grin that was far too childlike for his age. Voin eyes widened slightly as he realized what was about to happen–the equivalent of another’s jaw dropping. Before he could even mouth the word ‘Why,’ Ironmane’s hand up.
“I volunteer, sir!” He shouted for the whole hall to hear, the back of his fist pressed against his forehead in salute. Those near back away as if he had been turned to flame, the rest of the mediocrities looking at him in shock. Others looked at him in muted respect, while some even looked disappointed that he beat them to it.
“A-Are you sure, Valence?” The King asked, his sheer surprise making even him stutter slightly for a moment.
“Of course, sir! Who would be better than I to protect and nurture the young hero?” Valence replied, using the King’s words against him.
“...Wonderful!” The King replied back in feigned glee, teeth squeezed against each other in a forced smile. “Who better than the Armsmaster himself?” He turned his wooden smile to the crowd, “That is all I have to say for tonight,” he announced abruptly. “For now, enjoy yourselves, and report if you notice any suspicious activity among the heroes,” he finished, and with a decisive slam of his scepter, a crack like thunder echoed through the hall, accompanied by a puff of smoke that momentarily veiled the dais. When it cleared, the King had vanished—an ostentatious, banal display of power that still managed to look like a retreat.
After a paused moment, the crowd resumed their halted socializing, their conversations now centered around the recent events, wild theories already swirling to explain the sudden departure of the king.
Voin ignored them and began to leave, his mission accomplished. Before he could escape, however, Valence appeared in his way.
“Ser Voin,” he greeted.
“Formality. Now?” Voin returned with annoyance. “Why did you do that?”
“Why did I do what, Ser Voin?” Valence asked in fake ignorance.
“Enough with the games. Answer me, or I break you, clone,” Voin growled out.
Despite his overt rudeness, Val simply raised his hands in surrender, laughing good-naturedly. “Fine, fine. Never one for pleasantries, eh Voin?” He chuckled at his own joke, not seeming to mind nor acknowledge Voin’s lack of amusement. When his chuckles died down, however, his face turned serious, the time for joking over. “Don’t worry–I didn’t volunteer to spite you. This is an opportunity for me to get out of this damn castle, and I will protect and teach the boy in our travels,” Valence stated seriously.
“Your volunteering endangers him,” Voin retorted. Valence begrudgingly nodded, accepting the point.
“You care for him?” Valence asked, causing Voin to immediately huff at the notion.
“No. It is principle,” Voin replied stiffly.
“Of course,” Valence replied, tongue in cheek. “But you’ve known me for years, Voin. You know I am not one to shirk my responsibility.”
Voin frowned, finding he couldn’t disagree. Despite being unable to take a hint and buzz off, Valence was also someone he — vexingly — respected. Not to mention the man was one of the few people he knew who could–and had–beat him in a fair fight.
“Fine. You will meet him tomorrow.” Voin paused, a thought coming to mind. “He is little shit. You might not want him anymore,” he added, making Valence laugh uproariously.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said when his chuckles died down. “Besides, if he’s as talented enough for you to think so, I might take him as an apprentice; Richard won’t interfere with the boy if I do.”
“The King will interfere no matter what. It is in his nature,” Voin stated with certainty.
“Perhaps. But he will have to be discreet about it, and we both know limiting that is for him.”
Voin huffed a rare laugh at that. “You more than me.” His short-lived amusement died. “But I did not lie earlier. The boy is listless. He wakes up, trains, then sleeps. He shows no initiative. He obeys me only because he enjoy fighting. His talent is meaningless now, and my standards are not so high as you insinuate.”
Val arched an eyebrow at that. “You said my last apprentice was a pig with fingers.”
Voin shrugged. “He was. Dumber than one, too.”
Val placed his armored hands on his waist disapprovingly. “That… might be true,” he hedged, “but he was strong.”
“He was fat. Now go away. We will meet in morning,” Voin stated, ending the conversation as he resumed his march out of the hall. When he passed Valence, the clone cracked like glass and disappeared.
Elsewhere in the hall stood a tall, robust old man surrounded by fawning nobles. The man suppressed a smile as he watched Voin trudge outside, sipping from his glass to hide his amusement. After all, as Voin would put it: Valence had lackeys to entertain.