Blast it! I was so engrossed that I forgot to remain vigilant!
Perched on a hefty, nearly half-meter hook of a portal crane, idly dangling his legs fifteen meters above the water, was an unfamiliar raig. By unfamiliar, I mean wholly unknown. He didn't even have an entry in the BKDW catalog.
The first thing that caught my eye was his bronze mask, which covered his face and bore a crest atop, stylized like a fish fin. It reminded me of a Myrmillo gladiator's helmet if my memory served me right. Similarly, like the ancient Roman warriors, this stranger wore bracers on both hands, but unlike them, he didn't carry a shield. Instead, his chest was guarded by an exquisite late-medieval cuirass, akin to those worn by the conquistadors during the conquest of the New World, and plate-mail greaves protected his legs. Again, an odd mixture of styles, further accentuated by the hilt of a Gross Messer protruding from behind him.
It was clearly a male raig, as evident not just from his attire, but his voice too. His French accent was strikingly characteristic, sharp yet somehow viscous. Scandinavian perhaps?
A sailor from one of the container ships?
Maybe.
"Watch how it's done," declared the 'gladiator' as he leapt off the crane - a moniker I had assigned him due to his peculiar helmet. "You're not supposed to walk on the waves - you need to jump!" He demonstrated a series of lively, goat-like leaps. "From ridge to ridge!" He was thoroughly enjoying himself, oblivious to the fact that while he was jumping about, I was almost stationary, letting wave after wave flow beneath me without looking at my feet. This was far more challenging than the leaping he was flaunting. "Old man, learn while I'm here!"
This was the first time I had encountered him, and he was already beginning to annoy me. Where was the civility and respect for elders that were so inherent among the locals? I had become so accustomed to it while in my projection form that hearing this youngster rudely address me as 'old man' was agitating.
After finishing his lackluster dance on the waves, the guy once again clambered onto the crane hook.
"You'd better get back to land," his voice was brimming with suppressed laughter. "Landlubbers have no place at sea. You might drown!" Was he genuinely amused at his own statement that he burst into spontaneous laughter?
Definitely a sailor.
"Weren't you taught any manners by your parents?" In a couple of smooth glides, I increased the distance, moving a bit further into the sea away from the pier so I wouldn't have to crane my neck to keep the uninvited guest in view. "You haven't introduced yourself nor shown respect to the person you're addressing..."
I was not intimidated by him, but this unexpected encounter was not exactly to my liking.
"Ha! What does it matter? I never got these formalities. As for my name..." After a moment of contemplation, he finally responded, "Call me Crixus!"
The way he articulated his name, or rather his alias, indicated his fondness for comparing himself to the renowned gladiator. In this world, history paralleled that of my Earth up until roughly the thirteenth century, but from thereon, the disparities began to accumulate, snowballing into substantial differences. Hence, I believe I'm not wrong to assume that he adopted the moniker of Spartacus's ally for his Knightly persona.
"Crixus was a Gaul, not a Myrmilon." He was getting on my nerves, and I couldn't resist the urge to taunt him. When I labeled Crixus as a Gaul, I was referring to his gladiatorial style, not his tribal affiliation.
"What?!" Clearly, the youngster comprehended my slight perfectly, and my innocent rectification, alluding to the inconsistency between his helmet and the chosen name, had hit a nerve. "I won't put up with this, old or not! Don't provoke me! Or I might come down there!"
Ah, he's hot-tempered, and my words seemed to have hurt his pride, perhaps more than I intended. He is impulsive, yet intriguing. He may be playing the part of an unenlightened brute, but his understanding of my jibe reveals the quality of education he received, along with his quick-witted capacity for analysis.
Yet, what should be my next move? On one hand, forging connections amongst the Knights could prove beneficial. On the other hand, if I look at it from another perspective, he is not a local; his ship may dock in Wilflaes today, but by tomorrow, it could be sailing in the open ocean. Therefore, such an acquaintance would serve little purpose. Plus, his antics are irking me. Fleeing would also be inappropriate. After several seconds of internal debate, I opted to disregard the youngster. Given his prana reserve, he is at the second level, so due to Izao's shard, I can endure in the Break longer than him. He can sit and observe - eventually, his energy will deplete, forcing him to exit the Break and into the material world, thus leaving me in peace.
"Hey!" The "gladiator" resumed his verbal barrage without awaiting a response. "Who's the top raig in your village?"
His question was peculiar. It even made me falter in my rhythmic walking step training upon hearing it. What does he mean by "the top", in what context, and why does he need to know?
"The one named Max, the Golden Knight?" The youngster persisted, continuing his barrage of queries from his improvised roost. "Am I right?... Old man, quit ignoring me. Don't rile me up - I'm dangerous when provoked!"
The irritation faded, replaced by amusement. It was evident that the young man was predominantly playing the character he had chosen for himself, but I could tell that his performance was only partially a facade.
"Hey! Why are you grinning? Did I say something amusing?"
Now he was irritated, which gave me a small sense of satisfaction. My mood wasn't the only one dampened. Still, I needed to be more cautious. Given that I was without a helmet, it was better to keep my facial expressions in check. On the other hand, he had keen eyes to detect a faint smile from a distance of twenty-five meters.
"Listen... Old man... You were lecturing about manners! Isn't it impolite to ignore questions?"
This was becoming increasingly amusing by the minute. I understand it might be at odds with my age, but I found it delightful to frustrate the lad with silence, and his voice hinted that he was already exasperated.
"Blast it, I hope you trip up there!" Having been ignored yet again, the young man erupted. "Are your ears clogged with hair or something? Huh?!" Was that a ham-fisted attempt to mock my hairstyle? If so, he missed the mark because I liked it. "I can trim them for you!" Such audacity he possessed!
Having finished his statement, the one who identified himself as Crixus tossed the baldric from his back aside and ostentatiously rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
I could have maintained my silence, but it was starting to lose its appeal. So, I responded in a calm manner, without raising my voice or interrupting my cross-step training:
"Just because your ears are covered by a helmet doesn't give you the right to be disrespectful."
"What?!" My retort left him puzzled.
"Let me explain." A smile played on my lips, which I chose not to conceal this time. "If you continue to pester me, I'll forget that you're still a child, and I'll tear your ears off, helmet or not."
"Wh-wh-what?!" Evidently, he hadn't anticipated this and was at a loss for words. "I... I... Listen here, old man! I did warn you!"
His sword glinted in the sunlight, reminiscent of the silver scales of a flying fish.
"Don't worry." This time, I could hear the malicious grin in his words. "When you fall out of the Break, I'll haul your body onto the pier... I don't kill my own!"
With this statement, he stood up, balancing on the hook of the portal crane.
'My own' - interesting, the boy has a philosophy and a stance on life? Commendable! But is he genuinely going to attack?
"I don't kill." The heavy blade in his hand traced a figure eight in the air. Notably, it was a well-executed movement, I must admit, quite eye-catching. "But someone needs to learn that grey hair doesn't grant the right to be disrespectful!"
Well, really... Disrespectful... Oh, the audacity of youth! He doesn't even remember or understand that he initiated this whole situation and set the tone for our entire interaction with his very first words.
Is this an assault, or is it a bluff?
Judging by his body language, it seemed more likely to be the former.
The question was, how should I react? I believe I could manage to escape. Despite his familiarity with the sea, he hadn't even taken the time to learn how to merely stand on the waves, which means he won't be able to run as effectively as I could.
I just didn't want to retreat. I understood that, despite my grey hair, my inner child was egging me on, and I was itching to draw my weapon and engage in a fight. To test if my perception was accurate and if I had indeed improved in my swordsmanship?!
Furthermore, I risked virtually nothing. It was highly unlikely that this young man would overpower me, and even if the almost impossible occurred, he had told the truth when he promised to haul my unconscious body onto the pier.
"Should you decide to attack, bear in mind that I have no intention of dragging you out of the water." Nevertheless, I deferred to reason, trying to defuse the situation without a fight and reasoning with the lad.
Saying, "I won't pull you out," wasn't an option as, due to 'Word,' lying is impossible, and 'Purity' wouldn't allow me to leave a person to drown. Thus, I had to manipulate the phrasing.
"Huh! Old man! You've got guts! I respect that!" He released the chain he was gripping with his left hand. "I attack!"
His blade soared towards the sky, and he leaped down from the crane.
What an odd character, why did he need this "I want to attack you!"?[1]
Following his declaration, I had anticipated him to spring from the hook directly towards me - the height he was at and his projection capabilities allowed for it. However, the young man wasn't that reckless. Instead of an impulsive attack, he leaped down and charged in my direction, bounding off the water's surface. He moved not in a straight line, but in a zigzag pattern, shifting direction with each leap, while ensuring to position his sword with the tip pointed towards my chest.
His weapon was one of my favorites: a simple soldier's sword, not of a knight or a nobleman, but of an ordinary foot soldier, on par with a gladius and a Katzbalger. However, it leaned more towards the former than the latter. There's a type of knife known as a cleaver. If such a knife were scaled up to the size of a sword, that is, about seventy centimeters, it would become a falchion. If you increased the weight of a falchion by one and a half times and lengthened it by a couple of handbreadths, adding a two-handed handle and a sizable cross guard, you'd end up with a Gross Messer.
The "gladiator's" jumps were sharp, albeit slightly clumsy due to the waves. However, his sword-handling suggested to me that he had undergone some form of fencing training.
Based on his powerful wind-up, his assault wasn't as reckless as it might seem. At the last moment, he drew the blade back towards himself, transitioning from a chopping strike to a thrusting one. Considering his rate of approach, coupled with the weight and power of the Gross Messer, if this attack had been successful, it would have ejected me from the Break with a single hit. What's more, this wasn't a high-stakes, all-or-nothing gambit. His blade's position meant that in the event of a miss, a slight body shift to the right and a single hand movement would allow for a firm block. A sound attack. Or rather, almost sound...
He had only seen my dueling sword and had misjudged. Just before his blade was primed to pierce my chest, a wakizashi darted out from under my cloak, held in a reverse grip, while my legs glided down the wave. The swords clashed, and "Purity" forcefully deflected the Gross Messer far to the side. In ancient times, such powerful blocks often shattered an adversary's weapon, but since Crixus' sword showed no trace of rust, it held up. It didn't snap... However, it failed to shield its wielder from the slicing attack of "Word." My blade effortlessly made a cut along the gladiator's thighs. As we sped past each other on a collision course, a reverse stroke from the same sword slashed again, this time targeting his knees.
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Leaping forward and to the right, I created distance, already mid-air, turning to face my adversary while sheathing my weapons. Initially, he was perplexed about what had transpired, and, brushing the wave's crest with his toes, he instantaneously propelled himself upward, his sword ready again. I crossed my arms over my chest and tilted my head in a silent inquiry. He remained standing on the wave and... was he preparing another attack? Was he truly that thick-headed? No, he twitched, and instead of leaping towards me, he retreated, his blade already lowered. It had finally dawned on him... Crixus's energy reserve, which until recently was nearly full, was now dangerously low, teetering in the red zone. He had less than a quarter of his energy left. In reality, he would now be legless...
"Should you fail to learn how to speak respectfully to your elders at our next encounter, I'll slice off your ears."
The young man appeared visibly stunned, the turn of events was vastly different from what he had anticipated. He was completely taken aback and didn't even muster a response to my provocation. Taking advantage of Crixus's delayed recovery, I waved goodbye with a flick of my hand and, spinning around, darted at full speed towards the Hill on the bay's northern edge.
Twenty seconds later, I cast a glance back. The lad hadn't pursued me. He was out of sight entirely. Presumably, he had regained his senses and, making a sober judgment, retreated.
It had been an intriguing encounter. Yes, this gladiator, despite his crudeness, had sparked my interest. There was undoubtedly something about this boy. He would go far, provided his audacity doesn't end him prematurely.
Halfway across the bay, my conscience began to gnaw at me. I was an adult, I could have resolved everything verbally. Could I have? Indeed... But I didn't. I had been guided by fleeting desires. Even my paranoia had receded, allowing me to engage in a fight with an unknown adversary. Yet, this self-critique was eclipsed by a surge of exhilaration. No, it wasn't the victory over the boy that stirred this feeling, but how I executed my attack. Not even the block and the strike itself, but how I intuitively sensed the wave beneath me, sliding along it, thereby altering the attack's elevation and securing a more advantageous position. This move was so instinctive, so right, that it happened reflexively, without a second thought. I hadn't been capable of this before. And here was the realization that now, I could! And this nipped the bud of conscience whispering that I had erred.
Yet, that's not the entirety of it. The confrontation also revealed that I, one could say, had acclimated to the Break. I had grown accustomed to being a projection. During my initial fight against two Korean raigs in the world of shadows, which took place not so long ago — less than a fortnight — I relied heavily on meticulous calculations. However, this time was starkly different. Back then, I had to consciously ponder each movement, which significantly hampered both the pace and the rhythm of the fight. A swordsman cannot deliberate about which type of block to deploy or which strike to land — it adversely impacts their reflexes. In battle, the brain should be preoccupied with analyzing the enemy and the surroundings and strategizing the overall conduct of the fight, while the body should react instinctively, independent of conscious thought — it can respond much faster this way.
Ideally, all moves must be intuitive; lunges, blocks, dodges — the only requisite for these is that they align with the overall strategy crafted by the mind. This duel, with this young and impatient lad, was on the verge of unfolding precisely the "right way." Take for example the block of the Gross Messer with the wakizashi. In reality, I would never have done that. However, given that "Purity" is an indestructible blade, it was entirely justified in this context: there was no risk of the blade breaking from the forceful collision with a heavier weapon. Similarly, the cutting lunge aimed at the gladiator's thighs... In the physical world, a blade as light as "Word," from such a distance and with such a strike, would never have pierced Crixus's plate armor.
Yes, of course, I analyzed my adversary's moves and evaluated his strengths and weaknesses. I strategized a plan to end the fight as swiftly and dramatically as possible with a single strike. But then I acted as I should have: I responded to the situation intuitively, without redundant thoughts slowing me down, and based on my abilities and skills.
In Spain, there are numerous legends about superb duelists who recited poetry, serenaded, or engaged in spirited conversations with their seconds during duels. These tales depict how their minds were preoccupied with matters entirely unrelated to the battle, and yet, they triumphed — even in fights where their lives hung in the balance. I too had a living example: Vicky effortlessly defeated me while engrossed in a book! Sometimes, it would irk and outright infuriate me.
Previously, I had to think during fights and mentally process every movement. Consequently, I often failed to react promptly and was uncharacteristically slow for someone vying for the title of a true master. In choreographed dances, where all movements were memorized and mastered through repetition, cognition wasn't required, and I could easily keep pace with my wife. But as soon as the transition from rote to combat occurred, the disparity in decision-making speed became evident, and I would lose without the slightest glimmer of hope.
Today, I acted differently, precisely as it should be: the mind is in charge of the strategy, and the body handles tactics and execution. Given that the entire fight took place within the Break, and accounting for its peculiarities, one could argue that I've not only become accustomed to being a projection, but I've also ascended to the next level of mastery. There are no allowances made here, be it for theatrical fencing or actual combat!
Another positive indicator was that my paranoia has gradually morphed from a clamoring inner voice into a whisper of advice. It's always this way: when I find myself in an unfamiliar environment, I initially react to any potential threat, and the worst scenarios flood my mind. However, as time elapses, I adapt to the new surroundings, and the world ceases to be a trap designed solely for my demise.
Combining all that transpired, a simple conclusion emerges: I've adapted to this world. I've grown accustomed to its oddities, peculiarities, sensums, shapeshifters, and even the Break with its breakthroughs. I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never return, never embrace Vicky, and never see my children again — not just intellectually, but emotionally. I've accepted it — this is a new life. A completely brand new life...
Engrossed in my thoughts, I inadvertently accelerated to such a speed that within minutes, the city and the bay were left far behind. I had to take a slight detour to reach the northern tip of the Hill. I've never observed the capital from this angle before. There are numerous parks, alleyways, courtyards of clan villas bursting with greenery, and atop, the graceful snow-white spires of the Duke's Castle graze the low-hanging clouds. If you don't focus on the traffic but instead slightly defocus your eyes, you get the impression of a medieval idyll. Nothing suggests that behind a massive hill, rising nearly two hundred meters above the sea, lies one of the world's most populated cities. Indeed, the aristocrats cherish tranquility and know how to ensure it for themselves. It's no coincidence that the real estate on the northern slope is considered the most elite in the entire capital.
Under any other circumstances, I would have relished strolling down the serene, green streets, peeking into private gardens and parks. Fortunately, within the Break, I wouldn't have risked much. But today, I've perhaps had my fill of fresh experiences. It's better to return home promptly, reflect on the day's events, and locate a new training spot. I have a strong feeling that if I show up at the cargo port tomorrow, I'll encounter that audacious youngster again. If I were his age and had lost the fight in the way he did, I'd chalk my failure up to chance and to the unexpected second blade up my opponent's sleeve. There's a significant chance that this Crixus will be waiting for me, fueled by a thirst for revenge. I don't fear a new encounter, but I vividly recall how two raigs were thrown out of the Break and met their ends due to mishaps and folly. This hotheaded gladiator could do something that might culminate in a tragedy, even if I try to avert such an outcome. Of course, he's crude and presumptuous, but beneath his battle cry of "I attack!" and the statement "I don't kill my own," one can sense a certain backbone behind all this posturing. There's something about this guy that makes it difficult to wholly view him in a negative light.
As I traversed the clan quarters at the speed of a top-tier sports car, I occasionally glanced around. It's so beautiful here! Especially the northwestern part, offering a view of the sea and the roadstead. At one point, I even halted, experiencing a sense of déjà vu. Even though Izao and I had never been in this part of the city, the vista that unfolded before my eyes was eerily familiar. I stood still for about three minutes, trying to recollect, then shrugged it off and continued my run. Most likely, this feeling of familiarity arose from having seen a similar view in some postcard or picture.
I arrived at my place without any incidents. Once, I spotted the silhouette of another raig in the Break, hopping around rooftops just like me, but I easily evaded him. Habitually, I dove into the sewer network three blocks away and navigated to the house through it. While winding through these underground labyrinths, I realized that I was pathing through them as competently as the surface streets. That's the power of habit.
I had barely stepped into the apartment and, upon exiting the Break, began removing my gear when the landline phone rang. Izao usually received no calls; he had no friends or girlfriends, so I picked up the phone with a hint of confusion.
"I'm listening..."
"Bonjour, son," Melanie's artificially cheerful voice emanated from the speaker.
"Bonjour, mamá," I responded. What could she possibly want? There has been only one call from her in over three weeks since she flew to France.
"Are you doing okay?" Izao's mother was not a skilled actress. She tried to infuse her question with interest, but it came off sounding like a robotic command executed according to a preset program.
"Everything is great, mamá." Typically, Izao would regale his mother with long tales about his day and the fantastic robots conceptualized by the creators of the latest anime. However, I decided that while I needed to play the part, I certainly couldn't convincingly enact a boy's sincere interest, no matter how hard I tried. So, I restricted myself to the bare minimum, pretending to be preoccupied with something else.
"Do you remember what day tomorrow is?"
[1] (TLN) Wiki: This phrase is used in modern Russian and Ukrainian (usually misquoted as idu na vy) to denote an unequivocal declaration of one's intentions. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sviatoslav_I)