System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 158
The next day, Roy began his week-long Cintra “hell training.”
Every morning at five, before the sky had even begun to lighten, he woke from Meditation to undergo Orin’s swordsmanship training.
Compared to Letho, this man’s training plan was simpler and more brutal, live combat, and lots of it.
He disdained training swords.
“Training swords are toys for children. A real Witcher can strike to kill even against his brothers. So let’s do this for real.” Orin blew lightly on his short sword and looked at Roy with a face full of provocation.
His grip was strange. One short sword held in a reverse grip, the other in a standard grip, his wrists flicking lightly as the twin blades spun back and forth between his fingers, so fast they looked like windmills.
Of course, he was joking, before any bout between a steel sword and a short sword, the two of them would put up a layer of Quen to avoid accidental injury if someone failed to pull their blow.
But Orin never restrained his strength. He fought at full force and showed absolutely no mercy.
“Roy, guess what? I am not going to go easy on you like that bald bastard. In a fight to the death, no one holds back, even if you have a fairly nice face.”
And so the young Witcher embarked on his own journey of creative abuse.
In the courtyard of the broken house, two figures clashed without pause, pinging and pounding, colliding violently and then tearing apart, accompanied by shrill, ear-piercing clashes of steel and showers of blinding sparks.
Every morning, Roy lost at least a hundred bouts. The shortest lasted barely two seconds, he would be disarmed the moment he moved, Orin’s blade already resting at his throat.
The longest lasted ten seconds, but that depended entirely on luck. His opponent was simply too fast, so fast that Roy’s visual nerves could not keep up. He could only rely on pure instinct to predict where the blade would come from. If he guessed right, he might manage to block and counter once.
But without exception, his counterattacks struck nothing but air.
Sparring with Orin was a one-sided beating from start to finish. The boy had no ability to fight back, nor the slightest chance of victory.
After the first day, his confidence was shattered. He was dejected and dispirited to the extreme. By the second day, he had lost so thoroughly that he became numb, his emotions flattening into nothing.
By the third day, he began to understand Orin’s intent. The endless cycle of fighting and failure trained not only swordsmanship, but combat awareness, crisis response, instinctive reactions, and stubborn resilience.
Compared to pure swordsmanship, the latter were far more crucial to a Witcher.
Roy clenched his teeth and endured. But just as he began to adapt to the rhythm of being beaten, Orin changed things up midway through training.
“You cannot just take hits. I have arranged something else for you. See that pile of equipment in the yard?”
“You mean the wooden posts, the rotating dummy, and the sandbags hanging from the tung tree?” Roy felt a sense of foreboding rise in his chest.
“That’s right. Kael and I spent a whole month ahead of time, and a lot of effort, preparing this welcoming gift just for you.”
“Surprised?” Orin grinned, showing a mouthful of white teeth. Under his hood, his lean cheeks carried a look of naked schadenfreude. “Every Viper School apprentice has to go through this. You use them to train balance and reaction speed. At first it will feel awkward and you will pick up a few minor injuries, but a man looks better with scars. In short, Roy, do not waste our good intentions.”
From then on, the Viper School’s rookie gained several new tasks. He hopped and bounded atop twelve tall wooden posts in the yard. At first he often slipped and fell to the ground, nearly breaking his bones, but gradually his movements grew smoother, his footwork light and catlike, landing without a sound, precise and steady.
As for the rotating dummy and the sandbags, Orin personally took charge. Roy stood in the middle of the equipment, dodging and dodging as sandbags and wooden posts came at him from all directions.
At its core, it was still a beating.
After the beating came the nonstop casting of Signs, until his Mana was drained to the very last drop.
By the end of a morning, he was covered in injuries. Under his leather armor, everything was bruised black and blue. His face had swollen into a pig’s head, and with his Mana exhausted, his mind swam with dizziness.
Orin sat beside him in the courtyard, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, staring at the gloomy sky as they rested.
“Do not look like you have been wronged. Smile.”
The boy forced a smile, then immediately bared his teeth in pain.
“That’s it. Roy, whatever you do, do not turn into those two, walking around with stiff faces all day.” Orin winked at him. “Look, a Witcher’s life is dull beyond belief, training, Contracts, deadly Contracts. We ought to have a bit more humor, find some amusement for ourselves, otherwise one day we might just die out of nowhere.”
“If, before death, you have no happy or joyful memories, then life is a complete tragedy.”
“Mm.” On that point, Roy agreed.
Orin beamed, pleased to find agreement. “You see, although I am very handsome...”
“Uh, you are not ugly,” Roy said, his swollen pig’s head turned toward Orin as he looked at that rustic face carved from the same mold as Kael’s. If he put on plain clothes, he would look like an honest farmer.
“Although I am handsome, I am also very humorous,” Orin continued, apparently missing the sarcasm as he boasted on. “When I was young, my outstanding sense of humor won over the hearts of many noble ladies. Do you know how obsessed they were with me?”
“They cried and begged to bear my children. But we cannot reproduce, so after a period of joyful companionship, I had to painfully return their freedom.”
All in all, under Orin’s uniquely styled training and his endless chatter, Roy suffered and enjoyed himself at the same time.
He could feel himself improving slowly each day. This was not growth in attributes, but in combat instinct, something that only manifested in real fights.
...
After swordsmanship class, every afternoon belonged to Letho’s alchemy lessons.
Before this, the only potions Roy had mastered were two, Celandine Potion and Paralyzing Venom.
But after passing the Trial of the Grasses, he had unlocked magic and could attempt to brew Elixirs through mutation.
“Starting today, I will teach you the brewing of three of the simplest and most commonly used Elixirs. Swallow, which restores vitality. Thunderbolt, which enhances muscle strength. And Petri’s Philter, which increases the power of Signs.” Bald Letho’s amber eyes swept over the boy’s face as he tested him. “Kid, the formulas for the three Elixirs, let us hear them.”
“All three Elixirs use Dwarven Spirit as the base,” Roy answered without hesitation. “But Swallow requires five ounces of Celandine and four ounces of Drowner brain...”
“Thunderbolt, two ounces of Philosopher’s Beggartick Blossoms and one ounce of Endrega Embryo. Do we have those materials?”
“They were being sold at the market this morning. Some fool who did not know their value, no idea what luck he had to pick them up in the wild, sold them cheap as if they were honeycombs. Oh right, the money for buying alchemical materials, you have to reimburse me. You cannot use my private stash.” Bald Letho said sternly, his expression a little tense.
“All right...”
“Hah, continue. The formula for Petri’s Philter.”
“Five ounces of Arenaria and one ounce of Wraith Dust.”
“The specific preparation method...”
“Now watch my movements carefully. I will only show you once. Memorize the entire process, then replicate it.” As bald Letho spoke, he stepped up to the stove-like Alchemical Table and began to demonstrate, reciting the key points of each step as he went.
“First, the Swallow Elixir. Sun-dried Celandine, measure out five ounces, place it into a mortar, grind with the pestle. Remember, not too fine. Grip the pestle with about half the strength you would use to hold a sword and grind four hundred times. When done, plate it and set it aside to rest.”
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