Two Swords in the Black Fog
Two men gripped their swords amid the black fog. Marhal immediately recognized what memory this was. It had been a long time since he'd dreamed—not a nightmare, but of the past.
This was back when he was in the West. Marhal had begged the Hero countless times to teach him swordsmanship. And the Hero's response was always the same.
"So, like this—swing it like that?"
"If that worked, would I be struggling like this, you damn human? That's why everyone else bitches about it too!"
Back then, they had no room for leisure. If he didn't yell, he couldn't hold on, and all that was left was malice. Every time, the Hero would swing his sword wildly and call it swordsmanship, and Marhal would shout back asking what the hell that was.
That day was no different. In the West, in a demon lair, Marhal had been learning the sword from the Hero since morning, screaming at the Hero's useless teaching methods. The Hero scratched his head with a truly troubled look on his face. Then he pointed toward the depths of the fog.
"How about some real combat, then?"
Dozens of demons emerged from within the fog. These were on a different level from the ones on the front lines. A single one could crumble a city wall—walking calamities.
"You wanna see me die? Trying to kill me? Then don't pick it up later!"
"Hm. That's too many, huh?"
The Hero swung his sword. It was a light swing, without even channeling power. The fog parted, and the demons were cleaved in half. Not all of them split open. One remained. It stared at the Hero with trembling eyes amid the corpses of its kin.
"How about just one?"
A dagger flew from behind, burrowing into the last demon's skull.
"What are you making a kid who can't even walk do? That's your problem. If you're gonna teach killing, start with how to cut a throat."
"The Saint says if you two keep spouting that nonsense, no healing today."
The thief, back from scouting, yawned as he strolled out of the woods. The mage, who had been sleeping upside down in a tree, and the Saint, dozing on the ground, also stirred.
Not long after the two men's conversation ended, Rebela woke up. Marhal dozed off briefly and opened his eyes to dawn. Stretching as he rose, he said to Strekl,
"Strekl, can you teach the princess swordsmanship? Or if not that, at least some basic self-defense."
"Swordsmanship?"
"Not your school's methods. Her body's already superhuman, so just the real basics."
"No, I'll pass on my school's techniques."
Bayola and Rebela, who had been listening, were the surprised ones.
"For someone of your caliber, doesn't your school have a long history?"
"I became a high knight because I am exceptional, not because my school is superior. Its history is less than a century old. Just some talented guy who luckily established it, and it got passed down by luck—a common method."
"Ah, I see..."
Rebella nodded with a subtle expression. It grated hearing that from him. She wanted to nitpick, but everything rang true; she couldn't argue.
Was Strekl exceptional? Yes. Was his school superior? Truth be told, most knightly schools and training methods were haphazard: "Our ancestors became superhumans this way, so we can too." Over generations, they pieced together accumulated insights, refining into renowned schools. By then, the school's master became a renowned figure rivaling nobles or inherited land as hereditary nobility.
Strekl's achievements were impressive, but his origins didn't seem special. What made Strekl special was the man himself.
His background, though...
Marhal. Acquaintance of the Hero. From the circumstances, he seemed to know the entire Hero Party. Fluent in two languages, too. Like the Bachea Empire's obsession with ancient imperial tongue, the Muet Empire invested heavily in language refinement. Unable to restore the ancient imperial language, they aimed to build new history and culture from now on. Thus, palace insiders spoke with distinct pronunciations. Unless you were court-related, even fellow imperials often misheard Bayola and Rebela.
Even Strekl, comfortable with imperial tongue, sometimes furrowed his brow as if struggling. But Marhal never showed a hint.
Talent for languages aside, was that even possible?
Clap!
Marhal's clap snapped Rebela from her thoughts.
"Any training we can do while walking?"
"For a knight's squire, even breathing is training."
"Then we'll train on the move. Gotta hustle to claim land."
"Rise, princess. Training begins. Can't call you princess in public, so names from now on. What's that face? Prefer trainee or squire?"
"Absolutely not!"
Rebella shrieked. Inexperienced but knowledgeable from palace knights' crude banter, she knew a middle-aged knight parading a young woman without training marks would be seen as his mistress.
"S-So that's what you meant?"
"If anyone asks our relation, say you hired me for pay. Noble daughters learning self-defense is common. If they don't buy it, throw down the gauntlet. Knights bear responsibility for squire mishaps, so any honor-bound knight won't back down."
Rebella glared at Strekl, eyes wide. The seasoned knight just shrugged, lamenting his failed jest.
Strekl prodded Marhal. "Let's go. Can't start training standing still."
Marhal headed east. Even en route, Strekl's training continued. It began with the history of his school.
"Bad eyes? Eat eyes. Bad liver? Eat liver. Common folk faith. My training stems from that. Not entirely baseless, but absurd too."
History holds power. Devour thousands of beasts seeking their strength, and you might gain some. But if that made superhumans, everyone would be one.
"Humans grow eating, die eating. Ask the wounded: half say hunger hurts more than pain. Ask the dying: three in ten speak of food—what they craved, memorable meals. Creatures obsess over sustenance. Yet none gain true power from eating. What does that mean?"
"The founder was a genius?"
Eating alone accumulates no history. Elevating it to training for superhumanity? Genius-worthy.
"Not wrong. Turning eating into training is a genius's legacy. Problem: he sucked at teaching, stubborn as hell. Insisted he was right, proved it obsessively. Believing his lucky method universal birthed a madman."
The madman kidnapped children, locked them in mountains, force-fed "beneficial" foods. Eyeballs for night vision, swift-legged beasts' legs for speed, brilliant minds... human brains.
"Urk...!"
Bayola dry-heaved. Rebela looked ill too.
"Did they really eat that?"
"My great-grandmaster. Heard it as a squire."
"So...?"
"The knight I followed. His eyes weren't sane force-feeding me oddities."
"Oddities...!"
"A genius's madness makes impossible possible. Dozens of kids imprisoned years, eating and training. Some became superhumans. They killed their mad captor-teacher and escaped. About fifty years ago—our school's origin. That's my foundational history. Afraid of blood? Don't worry. Soon you'll chew live rats."
"Can't I just learn the sword...?"
Bayola trembled, face pale. Her first rat was in Pioneer Village bed. Waking half-asleep, a squirrel-like critter showed its back. Squeak? It turned; she saw red blood on mouth and paws, tiny guts or meat in hand—fainted without screaming. To her, that dawn rat terrified tenfold more than yesterday's demon. And now, chew live rats?
"As you say? Marhal tasked me to teach you. If you refuse, ask him. Though it's shifted from swordplay to my full teachings."
"If she hates it, no choice. But history accumulates, right? Doesn't your high knight history infuse the method now?"
"Correct. My life's been unfortunate, eventful. Killed much, ate much, endured much. Taking me as master means inheriting it all. You interested?"
"I've picked up scraps everywhere. Can't master properly."
"Fair point."
Inheriting miracles from saints, magic from mages, something from thief and Hero? Too vast for one person. Compared to their legacies, Strekl's was trivial. Better honing what she had than starting knight training blindly.
"My method especially blood-soaked. Eating anything is training; no blood familiarity, no start. Not the world's best, but tops for conquering blood phobia."
Bayola's pupils quivered. Hemophobia—her greatest weakness. Muet emperors could be incompetent, stupid. But not blood-averse. Predecessor Viktorma Muesilrigo I built the empire in conquest; Viktorma Muesilrigo II changed his name honoring that. Despite top civilization, called barbarians for it. Blood-fearing royalty couldn't rule. Viktorma II would disown her without blink.
"Really? Can it truly cure me?"
"If that genius, my master, and my history weren't wasted, yes—progress at least."
"Fine. I'll learn."
"Call me teacher from now."
"...Are you insane?"
"I'm a knight. Think shedding armor for common clothes makes me ordinary?"
Strekl cut an imposing figure, knightly physique honed. Taller by a head, scarred neck and face. Emanated pressure unique to those surviving countless perils. No common garb would fool anyone.
"As your guard said, knights with young women look like mistresses. But 'teacher'? They'll assume rich daughter buying skills. Mistress or heiress?"
"Teaaacher. Pwease take good cawe of me."
Bayola ground her teeth. Pride bent, not shattered instantly. Calling a ducal knight—him—teacher ground her gears, hands shaking.
"Good. Likewise, Bay."
"Bay?"
"Bayola sounds risky. Rivals' agents in West? Slip up calling your name?"
"Teacher, as pupil, I want your level. Mind a hit?"
"I'll gauge your skill full-force. Fine?"
"Learned wordplay, not swordplay...?"
"Decent political standing in duchy. Think I'll lose to novice banter?"
"Urgh...!"
Bayola stomped, fuming. Strekl chuckled beside her. Rebela watched incredulously.
"...You two match surprisingly well."
"Strip titles, people are much alike. Even Holy Empire saints and imperial street thieves can befriend."
"Your example's the world's sole exception."
"Existence of that exception matters. Proves possible."
"Where we headed?"
"There."
Marhal pointed: a flag, its guarding landlord. And a dozen approaching figures. Even from afar, vibes were bad.
"Looks dangerous."
"Hyenas already here. Better talkers than those killing for flags from start. Should've stolen horses."
"No need. Bay, watch. This is what you can do now."
"Don't call me Bay..."
Strekl dashed like wind. Speed rivaled horses.
"...He said horse."
Bayola's murmur lingered where Strekl vanished.