Inago slipped into one of the more conservative guard stances Wroth had taught them. Hunter mirrored him, adjusting his grip on the glaive. He’d decided to keep things simple for now, test his mettle using the relatively straightforward fighting style of the White Cloud, see how he measured up against Inago with equal footing.
“Begin!”
The two combatants exchanged a quick smile and a nod, and immediately got to work. For a change, Inago moved first, opening with a quick testing strike meant to probe Hunter’s defenses. Hunter had been expecting it; he met Inago’s strike with a quick parry of his own, though he didn’t follow through with a counter. There was no need to overcommit. It was just a friendly training match.
They circled each other, each testing the other’s defenses, searching for an opening. Inago remained partial to staying on the defensive rather than pressing the attack, and rarely punished an opening unless it was glaringly obvious. It was a style that made him steady, reliable – but also predictable. It was a style that said “I don’t want any trouble.” Or maybe he was just holding back, going easy on Hunter. Fawkes pointed that out, too.
“You’re too cautious, lad,” she said sharply. “What are you waiting for, a written invitation? Press him. Test him. If you don’t push him, you’re doing him a disservice – and yourself, too.”
She was right. Hunter was almost aching for it. In their training duels, Mortimer made a point of pushing him as close to his limit as he safely could, never letting him get too comfortable. This cautious back-and-forth with Inago felt listless by comparison, hollow.
Inago made a couple of half-hearted attempts at offense, but there was no conviction in them. It felt like he was just going through the motions, barely crossing glaives with Hunter unless absolutely necessary.
Fawkes let out a sharp sigh, then stepped closer.
“Grimnir’s beard, enough of this. Here’s what we’re doing: you’re taking turns attacking. No more circling, no more testing – one of you attacks, the other defends. And you don’t swap until the defender gives. I don’t care if it takes two moves or twenty. If you’re not pressing or holding your ground, you’re wasting my time – and your own. Inago, you go first.”
As it turned out, that was exactly the kind of motivation Inago needed. After his first few lukewarm attacks, which Hunter easily parried or sidestepped, it became clear that he’d be stuck on offense until he made a real attempt to break through his opponent’s defenses. The realization seemed to click something into place. Almost stoically, he began pressing Hunter more and more with each exchange.
Hunter held up his end admirably, reading, deflecting, blocking, and dodging every single attack and maneuver. Inago’s precision and execution were almost impeccable; skill-wise, he was still Hunter’s superior, in fact. He was just too by-the-book, too par for the course.
More than a few times, Hunter was tempted to mix things up – to throw in a few feints, bait Inago into overcommitting, or exploit the small openings that revealed themselves in the heat of the exchange. He held back, though. The point of the exercise was to make sure they had the basics down to a tee – nothing more, nothing less – and he was determined to stick to it.
It didn’t take long for his efforts to bear fruit:
The notification at the edge of Hunter’s field of view almost made him feel giddy. He’d trained for many, many hours with Mort without ever seeing one of those – and this was just the first of many. All that training was finally about to pay off.
That momentary distraction, though, was also what gave Inago the extra edge he’d needed. Hunter’s parry came a split-second too late. He tried to pivot away, but Inago was quicker. Inago jabbed into Hunter’s belly with the blunt tip of his training glaive, just hard enough to force a sharp gasp.
“Pardon me!” Inago gasped as if he’d been struck himself tooInago blurted, sounding almost like he’d been hit too. “Are you well?”
Hunter leaned on his glaive and held up a shaky thumbs-up as he tried to catch his breath.
“He’s fine,” Fawkes cut in. “Good work. Now switch. Hunter, you’re on offense.”
“Can I catch my breath first?”
“No.”
The two Aspirants squared off again, settling into their stances. This time, Hunter took the offensive while Inago prepared to fend him off. This time, the gap in their skill was hard to miss. Inago was faster, more precise, and better drilled, and he moved with an effortless flow that Hunter couldn’t quite match. The glaivesmanship taught on the Path of the White Cloud favored mobility and evasion over direct defense, yet Inago made it seem like second nature.
They traded blows for a while. Hunter cycled through every attack and maneuver Wroth had drilled into them, but Inago blocked, parried, or slipped past each one with ease. Fawkes watched in silence.
If it had been anyone else, Hunter might have felt frustrated. But with Inago, it was different. His good-natured humility made it easier for Hunter to set his ego aside and focus on the task at hand. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t break through Inago’s defenses – Inago was the perfect whetstone for honing his skills.
The System thought so, too:
Hunter came close to besting Inago once or twice, but never quite close enough. After about ten minutes, he lowered his glaive.
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“I don’t think I can,” he said, breathing hard.
Fawkes studied the two of them for a moment, then gave a curt nod.
“True. Elder Wroth’s trained you well, Inago. Hunter, you’ve done well too, all things considered. How’s your hand feeling?”
Hunter flexed his fingers. They were numb from gripping the glaive, but not sore.
“Good as new.”
Fawkes opened her mouth, likely to issue more instructions, but Hunter cut her off.
“Fawkes, if I may?”
“Talk,” she said with a nod.
“So far, I’ve stuck as close as I could to the techniques Elder Wroth taught us.” He glanced at Inago. “Can we go again? Would it be alright if I tried something… different?”
Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“As long as no one gets injured.”
They took their positions. Hunter met Inago’s gaze, as if seeking permission, and the other man gave a brief nod.
This time, Hunter decided to try something he’d picked up from the martial arts manuals he’d been studying—nothing too underhanded or complex. He settled on a straightforward technique from Fior di Battaglia: stepping forward with his left foot, he shifted his grip on the glaive, angling the point downward, parallel to his left leg.
“Begin,” Fawkes called.
More than just slipping into a new guard position, Hunter shifted his mindset. Up to now, he’d stuck with the fluid, evasive style of the White Cloud, focusing on exchanging thrusts and blocks and refining his footwork. But Fiore de’i Liberi, the author of the treatise, approached combat differently – more like chess. To him, it was a deadly economy of moves and countermoves, each calculated to bring a swift, bloody end to the fight. That was what he’d been practicing with Mort – and Mort had given him no quarter.
Hunter planted his right foot forward, then launched an upward, left-to-right rising slash at Inago’s midsection. It was a simple, straightforward attack – nothing too flashy or technical.
As expected, Inago moved to block with his own glaive. But just before the weapons met, Hunter revealed his real plan. With a burst of raw explosiveness absent from the fluid techniques of the White Cloud, he knocked Inago’s glaive aside, leaving him completely exposed.
He caught the flash of realization in his opponent’s eyes, but it was already too late. Hunter took a bold step forward with his left foot, driving all his weight into a lance-like thrust aimed square at Inago’s chest. He pulled back at the last moment – he wasn’t about to shatter Inago’s ribcage – but the match was decided.
What Hunter hadn’t managed in the past fifteen minutes, he’d accomplished in just five seconds.
Despite his worry for Inago, Hunter couldn’t hide the grin of savage satisfaction that spread across his face.
“You alright?” he asked the other man, who was doubled over, clutching his stomach.
“Yes,” Inago coughed and spat. “Ancestors bless you, Hunter. Good job. I… I should have seen that coming.”
“I’ll see if I can scrounge up gambesons – or at least a padded vest or two,” Fawkes muttered with a sigh. “Should’ve done that from the start, Wroth and his White Cloud be damned. You’ll end up killing yourselves with those bloody sticks.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” Hunter agreed.
Fawkes gave them a few minutes to catch their breath before sending them back to sparring.
“Same as before?” asked Hunter. “One attacks, the other defends?”
“No need for that. Do whatever you will.” Fawkes trained her gaze on Hunter, studying him. “Just be careful. No more mangled hands, you hear?”
They resumed sparring, Hunter slowly weaving more feints and counterattacks into his fighting style, Inago doing his best to strike a good balance between defense and offense. Fawkes observed them from the side, occasionally shouting warnings and instructions.
Judged purely on skill and technique with the glaive, Inago was the superior fighter. But Hunter’s grasp of tactics and knack for unconventional thinking leveled the playing field. At the end of the day, Hunter would say they were on roughly equal footing.
Well, for now, maybe, he thought. But not for long.
His Close Combat and Polearm Mastery Skills were both maxed out, but his Glaive Expertise Ability continued to improve fast throughout the sparring session.
With each rank he gained, the complex techniques and maneuvers from the Italian Masters’ manuals began to feel easier, more natural. At this rate, he’d probably hit 25 in Glive Expertise before the week was over. And then, of course, he had a metric ton of Inspiration points to learn new Abilities.
For the first time since setting foot on Elderpyre, a thought struck him: Was he actually overpowered?
It was a curious thing; it had never crossed his mind before, not even when he was standing among what little had remained of the eldritch horror that had been It That Whispers. That had been a group effort – and using the Phage Philter had felt like cheating, too.
But now, seeing how quickly he was improving compared to the other Aspirants… Just a month ago, he couldn’t run half a lap around the Sacred Training Grounds without getting winded. He could barely swing a glaive to save his life. Now he was going toe-to-toe with Inago.
Where could he be in another month?
A year?
Hell, five years?
He’d probably never find out. That gift of potential was part of his nature as a Transient – but it came with a steep price. In this world, he was like a mayfly, not meant to last more than a few fleeting months. The thought didn’t sit well with him.
He’d never been much of a Dr. Seuss kind of guy, Alex. That whole “don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened” had always sounded like sentimental nonsense to him. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it other than see it through.
And if he was going to burn fast, he supposed, he might as well burn bright.
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