Chapter 26

Swordsmen & Blademasters

“Bend it more!”

“Skewer harder!”

“You’re not putting the foot forward enough!”

“Your back isn’t straight!”

Tenner's voice continued to echo against the nearby stole walls while droplets of sweat poured down Sylas' forehead, wetting the dirt below. He'd been at it for hours already, a shocking surprise and a result of the highly demanding training regime he'd been under for three weeks now. He followed the Captain's instructions, snapping into place and performing the orders as told.

It was quite liberating, he realized, finally understanding something—no matter how little that something was—when it came to wielding a sword. His muscles had slowly begun adjusting to the weight of the blade, and his bones no longer creaked if he bent them even slightly out of position. Though still far from having a ‘swordsman-ready-body’, he was slowly getting there, and, most importantly, perhaps, he was getting there of his own efforts. Nobody handed him the knowledge, and especially not the body he built. He had to work for it all. That made the success all that sweeter.

“Alright, put it down,” Tenner said as Sylas dropped the sword immediately, his arms shaking. “Good job. You’re almost as good as a recruit, now.” Sylas glanced at the Captain and rolled his eyes, dragging himself over to a nearby fallen log and sitting down. “You’re a lot more dedicated than I thought at first, I’ll give you that.”

“Oh?” Sylas quizzed while the man walked over and handed him a gourd of water, sitting right next to him.

“When you first asked me to teach you, I thought you’d give up in a day… then two… then three. But, time and again, you’ve proven me wrong. I wish more youngs were like you.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sylas chuckled vaguely, drinking some water. “So, I’m getting closer to becoming a blademaster, eh?” he asked, looking at Tenner whose expression immediately turned strange.

“Blade…master? You… you really do lack even the most basic knowledge, don’t you?”

“…” What’d I fuck up now?!! Sylas was genuinely confused as he’d heard the Prince himself use ‘blademaster’ quite a few times when teaching him history.

“The correct word was ‘swordsman’, and no, you’re not even close to that,” Tenner explained.

“What’s the difference?” Sylas asked out of curiosity while Tenner sighed.

“The difference? Everything?” Tenner scoffed lightly. “Swordsmen are men like you or me. We get pretty handy with our blades,” he continued. “And are confident in defending ourselves if attacked. We are foot soldiers in the war, military men, weak on our own, pretty handy in an army.”

“…”

"Blademasters… Blademasters are like the Magi. They wield forces beyond either of our understanding. Whereas one stab of our sword might put a hole in the wall, one stab of theirs will erase that same wall. They defy what the mind considers proper and normal. And they are just as few in numbers as Mages. For every Blademaster on the peninsula, there are a million of swordsmen—and even if all grouped together, we still don't measure up to one of them."

“… how’d you go about becoming a Blademaster, then?” Sylas continued probing, despite knowing he was asking very dumb questions. It didn’t matter, however, since he planned on resetting anyway.

“You don’t,” Tenner said. “Like the Magi, you need to be born in the right circumstances with the right body and the right mindset. And even then, only one in a thousand of those has a small, tiny chance of making it. Were you not listening? A single Blademaster is worth more to the Kingdom than a million swordsmen. It’s only natural they don’t grow on the trees.”

“Wow…” Sylas mumbled, nodding absentmindedly. He’d already made up his mind—he’d become a blademaster! The system, or whatever, wouldn’t have dragged him all the way into this hell and even offered him a swordsmanship technique without future plans of helping him become a blademaster. Besides, destroying a wall with a single stab? That sounded like something worth dying for. Only because he would be reborn, though.

“Yeah,” Tenner nodded. “Don't be dispirited, though. Just because we swordsmen are weaker than them doesn't mean we are worthless. We have our place in the world, after all."

“Does our Kingdom have any blademasters?” Sylas asked, taking another sip of the water from the gourd and wiping off the still-pouring sweat, even as dry as it was outside, from his forehead.

“Just one,” Tenner said, a longing look in his eyes. “Chief Army Commander, Lord Tynel, Custodian Duke of the Ethernia Kingdom,” Geez, gobble up more titles, won’t you?! “He’s second only to His Majesty, the King, in terms of strength.”

“Wow,” Sylas nodded absentmindedly, already planning on how to hoodwink the Custodian Duke onto their side. Shit, stop, stop!! I already got burned with those shadowy thingies… and from the sound of it, the duke dude is even stronger! Man, I might need to be neutered with how aggressive my balls are… “You ever seen him fight?”

“Seen him fight? Hah. Didn’t even see him,” Tenner scoffed, looking at Sylas as though he were a child. “Do you think men like Lord Tynel can be gawked at by the masses?”

“… no?”

“Of course not!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Aah, don’t worry, don’t worry—sometimes I forget just how little you know,” he said. “Honestly, how is it even possible? Did you get born as you are and are just now learning everything?” Yup, pretty much…

“Haah, I wish,” Sylas said. “Then, those young days where women touched me for my handsomeness would only be nightmares and not memories…”

“Pf, what handsomeness? Get lost,” Tenner growled. “Since your brain can conjure up such nonsense, you’ve rested enough. On your feet, soldier!”

Sylas stood up and walked over to the sword, picking it up. It was strange, how familiar his hand now seemed with the shape of the handle. He'd used a knife on occasion back on Earth, but the feeling was distinctly different. While holding a knife, he felt as though he was merely holding a tool—even if that tool could be used to harm and maim and kill. With the sword, however, he felt as though he was holding a tool for murder and nothing else. A creep of power would always surge within his fingers in the form of a tingle, as though his fingers were itching to grab, and his hand was itching to hold and his arm to swing.

“Broaden your shoulders!”

“Lower your waist!”

“Hold it more tightly!”

“The swing’s too wide! Again!”

The life in the castle had settled down following Sylas’ second save. He’d already restarted the loop several times, usually after asking something dumb or—once—after accidentally killing himself by losing a grip on the sword and falling headfirst onto its topmost tip. Luckily, that memory was permanently erased from everyone’s heads, and he was very good at ignoring it.

There were no quests to complete in a rush, no puzzles to solve, no castles to save, no damsels to impress. The castle's machinery worked fine on its own without his ignorant input, and since Valen had become a de facto 'Lord', he and Cyrs spent a considerable amount of time together going through the castle's documents.

From Cyrs, Sylas further learned that the attack on the castle was likely a prelude—from the way he was instructed, he could tell there would be more. But, even if that 'more' already happened, Sylas had no means of finding out.

It was one thing that the news in this world didn’t travel quickly—what with the complete lack of even the magic to do it—but that the news rarely even reached Ethwar Castle. And, if it did, it did so months, if not years after the rest of the world found out. The best way to learn anything, in fact, was to wait for the supply runs and ask the farmers if they heard anything.

One of those was coming in a month and it was supposed to resupply the castle for the coming winter. Even if, according to the Baron, the castle actually had enough food to last them through the next year's summer, it never hurt to have extra.

Though the Baron prattled on about the logistics much further on and discussed them in detail with the Prince, Sylas tuned out. It wasn't as though he had any experience with logistics back on Earth so that he could offer expert advice. If he did meddle, he could only screw it up and certainly not optimize it.

He was a man of few talents, after all; in fact, even when it came to the main quest, dethroning someone and putting up someone else, he was going in blind. Depressingly, he couldn't recall even a single historical story of one of those events just for reference. That was also why he wanted to bring men like Baron Cyrs over to his side—so that they could do the job he’s apparently supposed to do for him.

“As a precaution,” Valen suddenly spoke a smidge loudly, likely indicating to Sylas that it concerned him too, pulling him out of stupor. “I’d like to form a vanguard force and sent them beyond the wall.”

“…” Cyrs’, as well as four Captain’s, expression stiffened at the thought. Among them was Tebek, and even if Sylas was utterly blind he’d still be able to notice the constant gaze of doubt and confusion the Captain was sending toward him. It has been so long, actually, since Sylas last saw him that he almost completely forgot about the man. Hmm, interesting… Sylas smiled inwardly for a moment while a plan slowly began taking shape in his head.

“What’s wrong?” Valen, quickly noticing the atmosphere dip, asked.

“It’s…”

“…”

“Speak freely,” Valen said.

“It’s like this, Your Highness,” Cyrs stood up to speak. “We have sent expeditions before. Not just… expeditions. But we also tried putting up advanced scouting towers and outposts, tried digging underground, but… without a fail, all of those avenues ended up failing, often with catastrophic casualties.”

"What? Are you telling me that the forest is cursed?" Valen leaned back, his princely demeanor showing.

“I couldn’t tell either way,” Cyrs replied honestly. “All I know is that it won’t be easy to convince men to go. Even…” the Baron swallowed a mouthful. “Even on your orders.”

“Hoh?” Valen arched his brows while the atmosphere grew even colder. Realizing it was his moment, Sylas yawned purposefully to draw attention to himself in the midst of heavy silence before speaking.

“I will lead the expedition,” Sylas looked directly at Valen, ignoring everyone else, communicating through his eyes—screaming at the Prince, ‘This is a God’s mission for me!’

“You?!” Tenner and Tebek exclaimed at the same time, though in very different tones. Tenner’s was one of concern and Tebek’s was one of mockery. Two other Captains didn’t have glowing expressions either, while Cyrs merely glanced at him, as though having expected it.

“Why not?” Sylas shrugged. “I’ll take the two lads that just yelled at me, use them to convince a couple of more experienced guards, and set off with a month’s worth of supplies.”

“You can’t be—”

“This is ridic—”

“Very well,” just as they were about to curse Sylas out, Valen spoke out with a distinct smile on his face. “If that is what you wish, so shall it be. Captains Tenner and Tebek will accompany you. You may also take with you eight more men, all with at least ten years of experience manning the castle. I will personally arrange several potterboys to accompany you, carrying with them two months of supplies. Your mission is simple—try to map out three squared miles of the forest facing our northern wall. If, at any point, you face any danger beyond your means, retreat immediately. If you are not back within two and a half months, I shall not send out a rescue party and will consider the mission as a failure as well as declare you all dead. Understood?"

“Loud and clear,” Sylas was the only one to respond while the Captains still remained shellshocked. “Anyway, I’m gonna go meditate on my journey a bit. Baron, care to join me?”

“… certainly,” Cyrs said, sighing, realizing that he was about to be squeezed for every last drop of information that he had. Slowly, but surely, he’d peered a bit closer to the strange man’s heart—Sylas, he learned, was his name. The Prince seemed to trust him holistically, hanging onto the man’s every word. The man, however, was no saint; he was very much a shifty, skewy-eyed sort that usually grew up manning the rotten streets and thieving from unsuspecting Ladies of the Court.

The difference was, the man in front of him… was a good person, by all accounts. Beyond the wordy shell, and beyond all the metaphors he liked using, there was a very like-minded person existing, one that the Baron could trust, perhaps even more so than the Prince himself.

All the same, however, being yanked out at the man’s whim just so he can ask a heap of questions—the answers to which he sometimes completely ignores, as though bored—wasn’t exactly what he thought he’d be doing with his life at his current age. But fate… fate is known to toss a knot. And Sylas was the most complex knot Cyrs had ever been tossed.