“Eric, Eric! Get the hell up, please!”

Eric shivered at the distant sound of panic in his young friend’s voice. That, more than anything else, forced him to lurch up and open his eyes… before crashing over with dizziness, feeling as if an added weight was now burdening his soul.

Before remembering that he had just finished securing a mail hauberk made up of spiritual energy as much as a silvered steel alloy he had, for half a second, thought must be mithril, so filled with potency it weighed a literal half ton.

A still dizzy Eric froze then, his mind racing as he was captivated by the hidden meanings within every stone crevice, fur skin hide, and poorly made bench and stool. More than anything else, his mind was flooded with the profound spiritual truths contained within the glittering Fire Peaches now sparkling so brilliantly in his Extradimensional Storage Space. Then he forced his gaze outward once more, only to find himself captivated by the truths he now sensed even within their jury-rigged stove of stone and the essence of flame, the very air now seeming to ripple with runes of fire and wind.

It was only after long seconds of tense silence, awed revelations, and growing alarm at his own vulnerability that Eric was finally able to lurch back to his feet, finally understanding the source of Sam’s alarm.

Because where there had been a crippled, broken man desperate for mercy and the rescue of himself and his loved ones, there now stood a level 30 cultivator, tall and proud, wearing a shimmering mail shirt that even Eric’s essence infused bardiche couldn’t hope to burst, utterly outclassing his primitive, homemade, and in some cases simply jury-rigged weapons. Casually secured at his hip was a sword near perfectly mirroring the one Eric had claimed from Scar. Understanding its weight and dimensions near perfectly with it secured in his ES Space, Eric already thought it the perfect cross between the Swiss Saber, and the Japanese tachi, with a hilt clearly designed to be wielded in one hand or two.

Eric’s heart lurched in his chest, though he took no small amount of relief that the deadly weapon was still sheathed in the exquisite bejeweled and gold filigreed scabbard expertly suspended at the belt with silvered cords, which Eric knew had been specifically designed to make use of the iado fast-draw skill Eric himself had worked so diligently to push to Journeyman Rank. If anything, the exquisite instrument of death Pavel wore so casually was even more suited for the fast-draw than his own saber.

Eric blinked, still trembling with migraine-inducing revelations into the nature of reality itself, forced to accept that he was now near defenseless against a level 30 cultivator whose wind-blade extension made his sword every bit as effective as any polearm, the true kings of the battlefield.

Eric suppressed an anxious shudder, his heart hammering as he gazed into eyes that seemed to judge his very worth, his life suddenly in Pavel’s hands.

And an alarmed Eric barely had a chance to lurch back as the cultivator lunged forward… only to take Eric’s hand in a gentle grip, a look of genuine concern in the man’s features.

“I fear you have stumbled, kung fu brother.” Pavel flashed a gentle smile. And how shocking it was to see in his eyes the strong protective instincts of a worried father, which he supposed Pavel, looking in his late 20s at most, could most definitely be to him, if cultivation had slowed his aging like in all the cultivation stories he had every read.

The dark elf’s heartfelt smile turned to a solemn bow. “In the short time I have known you, you have done more for me than I could possibly have imagined or hoped for, rescuing a man moments away from being butchered by spirit beasts, a man who just an hour before had been so stupid as to unsheathe his blade at your presence, having no comprehension of just how profound a friend he could have lost with his foolishness.” The elf swallowed, his voice trembling with emotion. “I can never repay you for the boons you have granted me, or the mercy you have shown me. But I will do my best to be worthy of your grace, and your friendship. This, I swear.”

Eric flashed a relieved smile. “Wonderful. Then as soon as this awful headache abates, let’s get training. First thing’s first. Can you tell me why the armor I claimed is so heavy? I mean, I don’t think this mail hauberk should weigh half a ton, and I’m more impressed than anything that you guys could move so quick with 35 Strength and these things on your backs.”

Sam’s eyes bulged. “Shit, that shirt of chain mail weighs half a ton? And you can comfortably carry that at 35 strength?” Sam shook his head, looking more than a bit awed. “Jeez, before it was just a number. But if his strength is 35… how the hell can you be having problems moving with that thing?”

Eric grinned. “It’s not about discomfort. Hell, I carried the Pavel from the clearing back to the cave, after all. It’s about adjusting my balance and stance with a half ton of armor now weighing me down. Even with the straps securing the long shirt tight to my frame, it stills goes halfway down my thighs and all the way to my wrists. Somehow I doubt this type of armor is used by cultivation schools that specialize in kicking, and I think it will take some work to get used to wearing it while sparring.” Eric frowned up at the elf. “It’s not made with depleted Uranium, or anything crazy like that, is it?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Pavel said with a smile. “But the weight you’re feeling is thanks to the spiritual energy bound tightly within each circular link. Each and every ring is infused with the essence of Metal and Wind, impervious even to our tachi, and the sharpest blades of Wind Qi, lest of course you are struck by a true master at Bronze Tier or better.”

“Like Scar’s father”, Eric said, gazing intently at the man before him.

“Very much like Scar’s father,” Pavel allowed with a bow. A bow Eric noted him subtly shifting his stance to perform effortlessly, the man’s straps clearly laced to allow him such a maneuver without the chain shirt sliding up to reveal vulnerable organs or otherwise topple him over. “But against any White tier cultivator such as you or I, the mail shirt you have justly claimed from your opponent should not break under any foe’s blow, no matter how powerful they are, before transcendence.”

Eric frowned. “So this Bronze tier… exactly how powerful is it, compared to us?”

This earned a rueful chuckle. “For those who actually manage to ascend… the strength they earn with each subsequent advancement is over half a dozen times as much as you or I would earn with any rank.”

Eric blanched at those words, an ice cold shiver of awe racing down his spine. “Shit, are you serious? So Scar’s father must be a true monster. What level do you have to be as an adventurer… or, I’m sorry, Rank as a cultivator, do you have to be to ascend?”

“Rank 100 is when the truly gifted may make their ascension, just as I believe it is with System Classers. Very few can ascend that far, of course, and few even try, instead looking forward to long lives of gentle steady growth as White tier cultivators, often becoming honored instructors and craftsmen for the sect as a whole, once they achieve Rank 50, which is itself a remarkable accomplishment.”

Eric didn’t miss the pained smile the man flashed him, having politely said that basically all dreams of greatness were over if you hadn’t been able to take the next step, whatever that was, by the time you hit that rank, and that even level 50 was beyond what most could hope for. And a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same for System Classers like himself. Suddenly forced to wonder if, the reassurance of System feats aside, he even had what it took to just hit the level 50 milestone. Assuming he achieved that feat, he knew he’d be dedicating himself fully to rising up the ranks in whatever class he felt the greatest affinity for, eager to one day break through to Bronze. Both as a Classer and who knew? Maybe as a cultivator as well.

Eric bowed his head. “Thank you for the information. I don’t suppose you know any thing about leveling up as an adventurer?”

The man solemnly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my friend. Save for the strange parallels some have observed between both Cultivators and System Classers in terms of progression milestones. Other than that, I know nothing about them save that my life was rescued by one, a hybrid I thought just as doomed as I was before he recovered just in time to save this one’s unworthy life.”

“Stop that,” Eric said with a hard stare. “You’re an honorable soldier who followed orders as he should, until your captain betrayed every breach of ethics he could in the span of a minute, and you now have a second chance. A chance to go back and claim your family and migrate to Earth, if you like.” He flashed a sad smile. “A chance to be with your loved ones. Because trust me, fathers matter. God knows where my sister and I might be, if we had actually had a father while growing up.”

Eric felt his cheeks flush at the intent stares his friends were now giving him, his mouth running away from him yet again, revealing stuff he had never intended to share.

Sam’s gaze was sympathetic. “I know that feeling.”

Pavel just smiled. “I think he would be proud of how far you’ve come.”

Eric shrugged. “Who the fuck knows or cares? I’d much rather master this absurdly awesome blade that’s now keepsies for me forever, than worry about his sorry ass.”

Eric flashed a too bright smile, summoning forth the tachi he had claimed that to him both looked and felt like the perfect fusion of Japanese and European blade badassery.

He then flowed into a basic high hanging guard stance as taught by his former mentor and his mother’s favorite boy-toy, who, to be fair, really was quite skilled in a number of weapon-based martial arts, and might have treated Eric like an over enthusiastic coach would, but had never shamed, belittled, or disrespected him. Eric, in turn, had done his best to make the man proud like a favorite uncle, putting his heart and soul into being just as strong and badass with a blade as the heroes in his favorite books, games, and shows. Best of all, the man’s approving smiles were the farthest thing from his mother’s harsh glare when he perpetually managed to flub yet another line.

Slowly, gracefully, almost like a dance, Eric went through the basic forms of the sword art his mentor had taught him, a fusion of both English saber and German longsword, by the man’s own admission, thus Vincent declared it perfect for the two-handed Swiss saber they had used in more than a few of the early movie scenes, as well as his 1821 blade. Eric was both surprised and relieved to sense how well this exotic-alloyed blade flowed into the slashes, draw cuts, and cleaving slices that made up so much of the countless hours of sweat, tears, and effort he had poured in to mastering a very similarly balanced, albeit infinitely lighter, blade.

It was a sword art he had so often been tempted to take short cuts with, using only a few basic parries and quick snapping slashes when he’d occassionally spar against other saber and longsword practitioners who had more than once commented that Eric’s style was pretty and flashy, but in no ways efficient. Even if Eric was forced to agree after awhile, quickly adopting their quick darting style of parrying before a quick snapping strike, his mentor had always glared and called them fools.

Only now, under the unexpectedly approving gaze of Pavel, feeling the meaty weight of a sword that actually had weight in his hands, did he sense just how useful Vincent’s exhaustive, short-cut free lessons had been. Best of all, the blade in his hands didn’t feel like a thin grass reed with his 74 Strength, with absolutely no power behind his cleaving blows at all. Unfortunately that had increasingly become the case with his British saber, designed for soldiers with a very human 12 Strength. Which was why Eric had been using it to perfect his iado skill and draw-cuts only, blows that relied on sheering force tied to how quickly he could slice with his blade alone.

And though his favorite saber’s limitations had indeed helped him focus his Finesse and Quickness, pushing his iado skill to Adept tier with an incredibly sweet Doom Flurry weapon boon, his beloved 1821 was now all but worthless in any fight with opponents anywhere near his actual power level. All he had to do was think back to his near fatal encounter with Scar, the surprised look on his enemy’s face when Eric’s flurry of sweeping cuts had struck half a dozen times in the blink of an eye soon turning to contempt when Eric’s steel blade was unable to penetrate the exotic Qi-infused chain mail hauberk, even with Doom Flurry in play.

A perk that would have normally allowed his humble saber to slice through even the thickest adventurer’s armor back in Freetown, Eric was almost certain.

But it was painfully clear just from the prizes of battle he had now claimed as his own, that higher level enemies were by no means constrained by the limitations of basic mundane metals that human adventurers on Earth still took for granted as the best they could hope for. Even if every RPG he had ever played made it clear there were many advanced tiers reserved for elite adventurers and opponents alone.

Eric couldn’t quite suppress his bitter smile, forced to acknowledge once more that apocalypse survivors like himself and the rest of humanity were by no means the chosen ones in this galactic tale. They’d have to fight for every piece of knowledge, resource, or scrap of mystical ore they could find.

He then shook all such brooding thoughts aside as he reveled in the weight and balance of the masterwork blade now in his hands. A blade that actually had force and presence behind each cut, winding parry, and thrust. Even if it had been designed for a 35 Strength cultivator, that just meant it flowed all the more effortlessly and quickly in his hands, his enhanced Quickness needing that absurd Strength just to handle the momentum generated from moving the blade as quick as he was able.

Pavel gave him a concerned look, but Eric quickly shook away his brooding, instead focusing on what mattered. Whatever his previous circumstances, the fact remained that he now held in his hands a prize like no other, that worked so well with the magnificent mail shirt and helm that could block even Adept tier weapon feats. And damn if he wouldn’t do everything he could to be worthy of the prizes he had claimed

With that resolve firmly in place, Eric flowed into his weapon katas once more, embracing the zen of purpose-driven movement, clearing his mind of all distractions as one moment flowed into the next, save for the burning desire to master the blade in his hands until it became an extension of himself, two halves of a transcendent whole.

He couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear when he finally came to a stop what could have been hours, or just minutes later, surprised to find himself now panting like a bellows, because his breathing had been effortless, flowing perfectly with his movements, while he had been lost in trance.

Pavel dipped his head approvingly. “Whoever your instructor was, he taught you basic Sylvan swordplay well.”

Eric blinked, momentarily nonplussed. “Excuse me? This was Swiss saber I was practicing. A fusion of English saber and German longsword.” Eric then furrowed his brow. “Maybe? I mean, that’s what my mentor called our system of swordplay.”

He then gave an exhausted chuckle, surprised to find himself feeling so drained. “But I’ll be the first to admit, it’s sheer serendipity finding that swordplay I was taught for the movies seems to have been custom made for a blade that looks just as much like an old-school Japanese dachi as it does a Swiss saber, only twenty times as heavy.”

“It was.”

Eric froze, gazing up at Pavel. “Excuse me?”

The drow smiled. “You were demonstrating basic proficiency of the Sylvan Imperial style of fencing. Whoever your master was… he was exceptionally skilled.”

Eric just stared at the bemused looking cultivator, at an unexpected loss for words.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Damn, you really are an elf, aren’t you, Eric?” he said with a laugh. “Learning royal styles of swordplay on the sly, and the whole time disguising it as flashy swashbuckling on the movie set! You’re mother has moxie, Eric, hiding you and your sister in plain sight. That’s for damn sure.”

Eric opened his mouth, but no words came out. Because, he realized, there was nothing he could really say to that. He had always known Vincent’s style of saber wasn’t quite as efficient as most HEMA styles, making extensive use of draw cuts and cleaving slashes, his mentor focusing so much on the slicing cut, even if most historic duels in the 18th and 19th centuries could have been ended with a quick snapping blow to the throat.

Observations which had just made his mentor snort, pointing out the exceedingly valid observation that there was nothing wrong with learning how to master his blade for any situation, even if, in actual Western sparring competitions, he only needed to master a fraction of the movements available to him. There was no reason not to learn proper fencing in it’s entirety, no matter the skills, or lack thereof, of his American opponents.

And Eric had had no ready counter to that very valid argument.

But what really blew Eric away, was that their slightly curved sparring bokken were weighted and balanced exactly like the wind blade now in his hand.

Eric swallowed. Realizing that there was actually no difference at all.

Even if he was skilled as hell with an 1821… he hadn’t actually learned English saber at all. He had learned something entirely different.

The Sylvan bladework of a royal clan.

His mother’s clan.

And if his 12 meridian channels was anything to go by...

his as well.

His heritage was now as undeniable as the exquisite cleaving power of the blade in his hands.

He shook his head as his mind blazed with revelations both System generated, and his own.

You have made a breakthrough! Saber skill has evolved into Imperial Blademastery!

Adept Imperial Blademastery is now Rank 21!