Beast Slayer Online: Initialization
Copyright© 2026 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 19: Lanterns Along Deadwater Creek
Early the next morning, old Aaron stirred awake atop his straw bed.
His bleary old eyes swept lazily across the dim room, just as they did every morning.
Then his gaze passed over the empty straw pallet near the door.
The old man snapped awake.
He shot upright, ignoring the grumbling complaints of his elderly wife, dragged a coat over his shoulders, and rushed for the wooden door.
“Where is he? That witcher gone already?!”
Panic flashed across old Aaron’s face. It was entirely possible.
Putting himself in the young man’s place, if someone saddled him with a money-losing job done purely for charity, he would run too if he had the chance.
“No. No, he can’t leave! I need to...”
The fishing grounds still needed expanding. Their future catch depended on this. How could the witcher disappear now?
Still muttering to himself, old Aaron yanked open the door.
Then he froze in the doorway, mouth hanging open.
Dark clouds still smothered the skies over Velen. Fine rain drifted steadily downward.
Lannor stood alone in the rain, holding the School of the Bear steel sword he had won by killing his master.
The bright half-length blade pointed straight ahead beside his face.
The young witcher’s gaze was utterly focused.
Old Aaron had never seen a famous swordsman in his life. At most he had seen a tax collector and a few soldiers under the local lord.
Yet at that moment, he swallowed unconsciously. One thought rose inside him without warning.
“ ... Too steady.”
The sword was held too steadily.
Even a man who had spent his whole life gripping fish spears and hauling fishing nets could feel it instantly.
The young man’s sword hand was unnaturally stable.
People instinctively understand the limits of their own bodies.
Back in Lannor’s old world, even when people saw skills they had never imagined possible, the moment a true master demonstrated them, viewers could not stop themselves from staring in awe.
They might not know how much effort it took to reach such a level.
But instinctively, they understood one thing clearly.
I could never do that. The gap is too large.
And admiration followed naturally.
That was exactly how old Aaron felt now.
In Lannor’s grip, the straight shining blade resembled the surface of a windless lake.
Had the weather been clear, perhaps it would not have felt so shocking. But under the rain, the abnormal stillness became impossible to ignore.
Raindrops struck the blade as if hitting stone buried in the earth.
Then, while old Aaron still stared blankly, a slow breath rolled from Lannor’s chest.
The sword moved.
So did his body.
The swordsmanship was strange. His center of gravity shifted constantly between left foot and right, yet at any given instant all weight rested on only one leg. Rotation and lateral leaps completed the transitions.
Even a complete outsider could tell this style prized agility far more than the swordsmanship of traditional knights.
Naturally so. Most monsters faced by witchers struck harder than a fully armored cavalry charge.
No man could endure such force head-on. Only mobility kept you alive.
Ordinarily, constant weight shifting weakened power generation and interrupted attack flow. But the rotational movements of the style compensated for it.
Centrifugal force was a swordmaster’s dearest companion.
Once the blade truly began to swing, its arc became terrifyingly complete. At sufficient angular speed, the sword tip, moving along the greatest line velocity, could even shear a plate-armored man clean in half.
And the School of the Bear pushed this principle even further with their monstrous physiques.
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