Chapter 6: The Underground Training Ground
Asker and Peggy descended to the hotel’s basement level two via the elevator.
The hallway leading to the training ground buzzed with mercenaries, gathered in small groups, chatting and boasting. At a table tucked away in a corner sat two Church informants, pretending to enjoy their drinks while their eyes discreetly scanned the room.
“That Achilles kid just stepped out of the elevator,” one informant murmured, feigning a casual sip from his tankard.
“He’s still alive? That’s a surprise.” The other shook his head, baffled by Asker’s refusal of Church protection. “And that high school girl with him… she’s almost too beautiful. Suspicious.”
“What’s suspicious about it? Her height doesn’t match.” The first informant chuckled. “Vampire illusions can’t alter physical stature.”
“Perhaps she’s a newly turned blood thrall, sent to lure him out,” the second informant speculated, his voice laced with suspicion. “Let’s follow them. We might catch a bigger fish.”
“You think the Church hasn’t considered that?” His companion scoffed. “That useless brat is still a nobleman, and his reputation precedes him. If we stumble upon him with a woman, do you think we’ll get away unscathed? Let’s be realistic. If he gets seduced and killed by a vampire, that’s his own problem. But if we get caught tailing him, and he complains to the Noble Council, the Church will lose face. And guess who they’ll throw under the bus?”
“You’re right. Our objective is to find the vampire, nothing more.” The second informant sighed, abandoning the idea. “Let him be. If he chooses to wander around instead of staying safe in the Church, his death is on his own head.”
The two informants returned to their drinks. Asker, seemingly oblivious to their scrutiny, led Peggy to the counter. “Which melee training area is available?” he asked, placing a banknote on the counter.
“Number three,” the attendant replied.
Training area number three was a spacious hall, roughly the size of four basketball courts placed side by side. One side was lined with steel dummies for sword practice, while the other featured a series of roped-off arenas of varying sizes, designed for sparring.
“Put on your mask,” Asker instructed Peggy. “Let’s start with a spar. I need to assess your current capabilities.”
Peggy nodded, securing the black, mournful mask over her face and drawing the short sword strapped to her thigh.
Asker chose the largest arena, typically used for five-on-five team battles. A few nearby mercenaries glanced over, curiosity piqued. Asker stepped into the arena, drawing his longsword and executing a flourish.
“Attack me,” he said, beckoning Peggy forward. “Use your full strength. Don’t hold back.”
Peggy nodded, her body lowering slightly as she gathered her strength. With a powerful push off her back foot, she launched herself forward, her form blurring as she vanished from sight.
“So fast!” A nearby mercenary, caught off guard, exclaimed, his own training momentarily forgotten.
Peggy reappeared in a flash, inches from Asker, only to be sent flying backward a moment later. The exchange was so swift, it was impossible to discern how Asker had countered her attack. Peggy tumbled across the ground, scrambling to her feet, her movements stiff and awkward from the impact.
“Can you even control that speed?” Asker asked, his longsword held at the ready, his gaze fixed on Peggy. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Start with a speed you can manage.”
Peggy nodded, charging once more. This time, she opted for a curved trajectory, circling around Asker, her short sword aimed at his back.
A sharp clang echoed through the hall as steel met steel. Asker, as if possessing eyes in the back of his head, effortlessly parried the blow, his longsword moving with fluid precision. Peggy attempted a counterattack, her blade flashing, but Asker deflected it with ease. With a twist of his wrist, he disarmed her, sending her short sword spinning across the floor. A swift kick to her abdomen sent her sprawling once more.
“The key to agile combat is to strike and retreat,” Asker said, his voice cold and sharp. “If your attack is blocked, don’t just stand there waiting for a counterattack. Learn to fall properly. Landing on your back is the height of foolishness. Use your front! Brace yourself with your arms, absorb the impact, and roll away. Otherwise, you’ll be vulnerable to follow-up attacks.”
“Understood,” Peggy muttered, retrieving her short sword and assuming a fighting stance. She charged again, her movements more controlled this time.
The clang of steel filled the air, punctuated by Asker’s relentless critiques.
“Vary your attacks! Every blocked strike drains your stamina. Use your head!”
“Where’s the footwork? If your opponent predicts your movements, you’re dead! Don’t just keep circling behind me!”
“Pay attention to my field of vision! Attack from my blind spots, not just keep running in circles! I’m the center of the circle, you’re on the outside. You can’t outrun me!”
More and more mercenaries gathered, their eyes glued to the spectacle. Peggy’s speed was astonishing, her agility allowing her to shift positions with blinding speed. Yet, Asker remained rooted in place, his longsword a blur of motion as he effortlessly parried and countered every attack. He would send Peggy flying with a flick of his wrist, yet she would always bounce back, her stamina seemingly inexhaustible.
They’re both monsters! the onlookers thought, awestruck. The small, masked warrior was a whirlwind of motion, her speed a nightmare for any opponent. Yet, she was consistently outmatched, her attacks easily deflected. The swordsman facing her was on a whole other level.
Peggy crashed to the ground once more, rolling to her feet with practiced ease. The Flesh I trait had significantly enhanced her durability. She gasped for breath, her body aching, but she was far from defeated.
“That’s enough for now,” Asker said, sheathing his sword. “Think about what I’ve taught you. Analyze your mistakes.”
Peggy nodded, retreating to a stone bench by the wall, lost in contemplation.
Asker turned to leave the arena, but a voice from the crowd stopped him.
“Excuse me! If you’re looking for a sparring partner, would you be willing to face me?”
A fully armored warrior stepped forward. Judging by the voice, it was a woman. She wore a suit of German-style plate armor, a Gothic helmet with a visor concealing her face, a plate skirt, and steel boots. Her left hand gripped a kite-shaped heater shield, while her right hand held a longspear. The sheer weight of her equipment suggested she had undergone some form of supernatural enhancement.
“A foot knight?” Asker inquired.
“Why not a spear-and-shield warrior?” the woman countered.
“Your grip on the spear is incorrect,” Asker pointed out.
The woman paused, realization dawning on her. Knights, accustomed to mounted charges, typically gripped the spear near the end. A true spear-and-shield warrior, fighting on foot, would hold the spear closer to the center, balancing offense and defense.
“Impressive,” the woman conceded, adjusting her grip. “I lack powered armor, so you can treat me as a regular spear-and-shield warrior. How about it?”
“Let’s make this quick,” Asker agreed.
The crowd erupted in cheers, eager for another display of skill. The woman adopted a wide stance, her shield held before her, her spear leveled. She was like a coiled spring, ready to unleash a devastating thrust. Asker stood motionless, his hand resting on his sword, his expression unreadable.
“Aren’t you going to draw your sword?” the woman asked.
“No need,” Asker replied calmly. “This will be over in one move.”
The crowd roared their approval, loving the bravado. The woman’s expression remained hidden behind her visor. She shifted her weight slightly, preparing to strike.
In a flash, her spear shot forward, the tip aimed at Asker’s chest. She kept her footing light, ready to pull back if Asker failed to dodge, preventing a fatal blow. To her surprise, Asker simply sidestepped, his movement effortless and precise.
He dodged it!
As he evaded the spear thrust, Asker closed the distance, his right hand seizing the spear shaft, his left fist slamming towards her hand. The woman didn’t flinch. Her hand was protected by a vambrace; Asker’s punch wouldn’t faze her. Releasing her grip on the spear would play right into his hands.
But as his fist connected, it transformed from a strike into a grab. He yanked her arm backward, his right foot snapping up to connect with her knee. The force of the blow sent her leg buckling, her upper body pulled forward. She lost her balance, crashing to the ground with a resounding thud.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to telegraph your attacks?” Asker asked coldly. “With such a dramatic stance, even a fool could see your intentions coming. Your technique is textbook, but that also makes it predictable. Learn to conceal your intentions.”
The woman struggled to her feet, the weight of her armor now a hindrance. The swift defeat had stung, but Asker’s final words sparked a glimmer of hope. “Thank you for the lesson, sir,” she said, her voice muffled by her helmet.
The crowd buzzed with excitement. Sparring was usually reserved for companions, as strangers might not be able to control their strength. This master swordsman had not only accepted a challenge from a stranger but had also effortlessly defeated her and offered valuable advice. What did this mean?
It meant they had stumbled upon a rare and valuable opportunity: a master willing to teach! In this era, before the full force of the Magic Tide had been unleashed, skilled martial artists were either employed by royalty or secluded within noble estates. Mercenary work was beneath them. Why settle for meager mercenary wages when they could live a life of luxury under a noble’s patronage?
Hands shot up from the crowd, eager volunteers clamoring for a chance to spar. “Master, let me try! I’ll spar with you!”
Asker, amused by their enthusiasm, randomly selected a Macedonian spear-and-shield warrior. The man, armed with a spear and a shield, bowed respectfully before adopting a combat stance.
“Your footwork is sloppy. Don’t you practice?” Less than five seconds later, the Macedonian warrior found himself sprawled outside the arena.
“Your movements are too exaggerated. You’re leaving yourself wide open!” The next challenger, a Spartan warrior, met a similar fate.
“Why are you jumping around like a jester?” A Burgundian ranger rolled across the floor, thoroughly disoriented.
One by one, the mercenaries stepped forward, only to be swiftly defeated. The arena floor was littered with groaning figures, a sight that gave the remaining onlookers pause. Receiving expert instruction was one thing, but being publicly humiliated was another. Pride versus practicality, a difficult choice indeed. After a brief lull, the female warrior stepped forward once more.
“I would like to request another lesson,” she said, bowing slightly.
“Come,” Asker said, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.
