System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 133
A night in the wilderness.
Two figures faced each other on an open patch of ground not far from the campfire.
Roy held his sword low at his waist, knees slightly bent, maintaining Plow Guard. The tip of the training sword pointed at his opponent’s throat. His feet slid sideways at a slow, measured pace, his cheeks flickering in and out of light under the fire’s glow.
The heavily built Letho held his sword across the side of his face in Ox Guard, the tip firmly locked on Roy’s face. A cold glint flashed through his amber eyes.
The standoff lasted five seconds.
A sudden chill wind swept through the night. Vyrt, standing by the fire, snorted sharply.
As if it were a signal, the fight detonated in an instant.
Letho lunged forward in a long step, the sword tip stabbing straight for Roy’s neck.
The boy followed his usual routine, shifting diagonally to avoid the center line, closing in on the opponent’s exposed flank. He smashed down hard with the strong of his blade against the incoming point.
If he could knock the blade aside, he would be able to follow up with a thrust to the throat.
But at the moment the blades met.
Letho’s sword shed the force with a dragonfly’s touch. The point slipped downward in an unpredictable arc and sliced across Roy’s abdomen. Had it been a steel sword, his guts would have spilled out.
Roy did not stop moving. He sprang backward, the flat of his wooden blade turning from vertical to horizontal as he swung forward, cutting toward Letho’s thick, short neck.
Letho raised his sword to parry.
The two blades entwined, spinning once in midair before returning to position, then locking together as if glued.
Through the narrow gap between the swords, amber and dark-gold pupils threw off sparks.
Letho suddenly released his left hand from the grip and clamped it onto the crossing point of the two blades, thumb on one side, the other four fingers on the opposite edge, then yanked back.
The two swords closed like a pair of shears, forced toward Roy’s body. At the same time, Letho’s right hand pushed the hilt forward, as if turning a wheel toward himself.
The forward-driving pommel cracked into Roy’s elbow. He involuntarily loosened his grip, letting Letho wrench the weapon away, and was immediately “throat-cut” by the follow-up strike.
“Twentieth death. Congratulations, Kid.” Letho gathered up both training swords, walked to the campfire, and sat down. He pulled out a wineskin and took a long swig, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction.
It was a flask of dwarven spirits given to him by Dennis Cranmer at their parting.
“But don’t lose heart. Compared to a few days ago, you’ve improved a lot. You’re starting to adapt to your mutated body.”
“No matter how you slice it, you won again...” Roy sighed, then asked curiously, “What was that move just now? How did you disarm me like that?”
“That’s called Disarming. It only works on novices like you. Hard to use in real combat, even with clumsy steel gauntlets, unless your enemy reacts slower than a sloth.”
“Uh...” The boy felt deeply insulted and decided he had no desire to speak to this shiny-bald bastard anymore.
He turned away and gently stroked the warm, soft mane along Vyrt’s neck. The horse obligingly knelt down, nudging his body with its head in an ingratiating gesture.
“What’s with this horse anyway? It’s only been a few days and it already obeys you without question. I’m starting to suspect it’s a mare Doppelganger in disguise.”
The witcher glanced over at Vyrt.
“Want to cut it open and take a look?”
“Neigh!”
“Don’t scare Vyrt. I told you, I’ve mastered a special training method, and you still don’t believe me. And it doesn’t just work on horses...” The boy shot the witcher a meaningful look.
“Don’t talk nonsense.” Letho felt an inexplicable chill crawl up his spine. He shook his head. “Come sit closer. I’m teaching you something new tonight.”
“Now you’ve got my interest.”
...
The two Viper School witchers sat around the campfire. Roy rested his chin on his hand, leaning forward eagerly, his eyes full of curiosity. Letho’s low voice rose and drifted over the roaring flames, carrying into the deep night.
“Before we get hands-on, I need to give you a brief introduction to Witcher Signs.”
“Think of them like mules, somewhere between a horse and a donkey, carrying traits of both. Witchers stand between sorcerers and ordinary men. Our casting ability sits in the middle as well, so Signs are a much simpler trick than spells.”
“Signs aren’t as powerful as proper spells, but they have advantages. You don’t need long chants, complex incantations, spell components, or a staff. You just focus, draw on the thin trace of magic in your body, and combine it with a simple one-handed gesture. If you’re skilled enough, Signs are almost instant.”
“So you don’t have to chant?”
“No.”
“I always thought you had to mutter a bit of Elder Speech to cast Signs,” the boy said curiously. “Otherwise why does your mouth move every time you raise your hand?”
At that, Letho’s eyelid twitched. He had not expected the kid to be so observant, to notice his little secret.
“That’s a minor detail. Not worth worrying about.”
“But I’m still curious. What were you saying?”
“Kid, you ask too many questions.” The witcher’s face stiffened further, a trace of embarrassment creeping in. “Fine, it won’t hurt to tell you. It’s just a habit I kept from when I first learned Signs. Silently reciting the Sign’s name makes it harder to mess up or mix them.”
“Later on I couldn’t quite break the habit. If I skip that mental recitation, the Sign’s power seems to suffer a tiny bit.”
Roy imagined the scene, casting a Sign while shouting its name out loud. No matter how he pictured it, it looked ridiculous. It would be like warning your enemy in advance.
He made a mental note to avoid that habit at all costs.
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