A cold drizzle fell without end, soaking the back courtyard of the Oak Inn until it became a slick mess of mud, pocked with puddles of yellow-brown sludge.
To secure an undisturbed place to train, Orum had spent a considerable sum hiring carpenters to erect a simple rain shelter in the courtyard behind the inn, where he could dedicate himself each day to refining his spells and sharpening his combat techniques.
Sofia and Lila had long grown accustomed to the ferocious intensity with which Orum threw himself into training, and only bothered to come find him at mealtimes.
Yet after the shelter was built, the nature of Orum's daily practice left Sofia feeling rather puzzled.
"Go, Batling! Use Bite!"
Orum stood beneath the rain shelter, swept his arm outward, and a slender shadow burst from his shoulder with a sharp, piercing cry. It spread its fang-filled maw wide and lunged savagely at the straw dummy before it.
Familiar, Bat!
Among the three introductory spells the skeleton had offered, namely Mage Hand, Summon Familiar, and Magic Missile, Orum had ultimately chosen Summon Familiar.
The moment he returned from the skeleton, he had poured all his energy into training this spell.
Tier 1 Spell: Summon Familiar.
Summon Familiar consumed very little mana, only a third of what Lightning Arrow required. After a full rest, Orum could cast it three times.
The spell did, however, carry strict limitations: only one familiar could exist at a time, with no possibility of maintaining multiple simultaneously.
Bound by his mana ceiling, Orum could not drill the spell repeatedly in rapid succession the way he could with combat techniques to build proficiency.
He had therefore chosen a more refined and technique-focused training approach.
Through iterative refinement of the commands he gave his familiar, Orum had reached a point where the bat obeyed his direction precisely, attacking any target he designated, and could also carry objects weighing no more than two kilograms to any location within his field of vision.
Or both at once.
For instance, at this very moment, while the bat familiar was executing a Bite attack on the straw dummy, its two hind claws were gripping a small black orb tightly, without the slightest loosening.
This manner of training left Sofia thoroughly confused. She found herself wondering: why train the familiar while carrying a load? What was the point? Was it to make the little creature stronger?
But Sofia was only an innkeeper and had no business telling an adventurer how to train.
Besides, she was more than willing to believe that the young man who had lately been making a name for himself in Blackwater Town always had his reasons.
At this time, the other members of the Ice Hawks Company were each occupied with their own affairs. Felix needed to quietly adapt to the surging dragon blood awakened within him;
Raygore was working to master the body that had grown once more; and Ronald, the moment he returned, threw himself straight into his calling of healing the sick and relieving the suffering of the townspeople.
The healing magic Ronald wielded, with its remarkable results, was always in short supply.
All of this gave Orum a generous stretch of free time, and he intended to make full use of it, to consolidate his foundations and advance both his spells and his combat techniques.
Practicing the command sequences for his familiar did not take Orum long at all. In under two days, his control over the bat had reached a remarkably polished level.
"The familiar's cooperative tactics are already taking shape. Next is training in the combat technique Sword Dance."
Orum silently crossed "Familiar Training" off the long checklist in his mind.
Today he had risen especially early and set off toward the home of the swordmaster Lila had found for him.
This swordmaster, like Lila, held a post at the Adventurers' Hall.
In the days prior, Orum had been unable to find a suitable moment to approach him, as the swordmaster had been occupied. Today the man finally had free time, so Orum had arranged the visit and come calling.
Knock, knock, knock.
Orum arrived before a house that looked as though it had been carved entirely from dark marble and rapped respectfully on the door.
A rough, booming voice rolled out from within, like the growl of some great beast, rattling the entire black-stone structure with its resonance.
"Come in."
The door was unlocked. Orum pushed it open gently and stepped inside.
The interior of the house, built from heavy black stone, stood in striking contrast to its austere exterior. Soft, thick rugs covered the floor, a tall solid-wood bookcase lined one wall, and mounted on the walls were the heads of various magical beasts, each one utterly lifelike.
Yet for all their ferocity, these trophy heads carried not a trace of bloodlust, as though the overwhelming presence of the room's owner had cowed every last shred of savagery out of them.
At the far end of the entrance hall, a wide fireplace blazed with vigorous warmth, and a wave of heat washed over Orum the moment he stepped in, instantly dispelling the damp chill of the rain outside and leaving him with a feeling of deep, comfortable warmth.
What Orum had not anticipated was that the swordmaster turned out to be "Iron Ball" Charles, the very man who had once tested his combat technique proficiency during a brief prior encounter.
Charles sat before his own fireplace now, dressed in comfortable everyday clothes, looking for all the world like an ordinary elderly man, stripped of the severe, effortless authority he had radiated in the Adventurers' Hall.
"Master Charles," Orum said, stepping forward with a respectful bow.
"Orum, I remember you," said Charles, a note of warmth in his voice. "A genius who had already mastered a combat technique at eighteen, the decisive force in killing a young minotaur, the rising star of the Ice Hawks Company."
Charles wore a kindly expression, and across his weathered, deeply lined face there was no concealing the delight and admiration he felt.
"Most of the credit belongs to my teammates. I could not have defeated that powerful minotaur by myself," Orum replied modestly.
"At your age, understanding the importance of teamwork makes it all the more remarkable," Charles said, gesturing to an empty armchair beside the fireplace. "Please, sit."
"Thank you." Orum settled into the offered seat and found that the cushion beneath him was lined with the thick hide of some creature, soft and comfortable to the touch, radiating just the right degree of warmth without being the least bit stifling.
Sinking into the plush fur, Orum glanced around at the lifelike beast-head trophies adorning the walls, and a strange, stirring feeling rose within him, as though he stood at the heart of a great forest, king of all creatures.
Every head on those walls represented a feat of arms by this old veteran, a medal he wore with pride.
"Master Charles, Lila mentioned that you are particularly fond of the malt ale from the Red Stone Tavern, so I took the liberty of bringing a few bottles of their special brew. A small token, please accept it."
Orum reached into his pocket and produced three black bottles of special brew, along with a coin purse containing a hundred gold coins, and presented them with both hands to Charles.
Charles took the bottles, and his face lit up at once. The sharpness in his eyes softened into a contented squint. "You brought a gift as well, you little rascal?"
"I haven't come across a young person this agreeable in a long time."
Charles's reaction was nothing like what Orum had expected. The old man's gentle warmth at that moment was almost grandfatherly, a complete departure from the image of the iron-willed veteran he projected inside the Adventurers' Hall.
Orum privately reflected that Charles might simply be one of those people who kept their professional and personal lives entirely separate. Plenty of working men were like that: grim as pallbearers on the job and all smiles the moment they were off the clock.
"I won't waste time with pleasantries. You've come to learn Sword Dance, haven't you?" Charles set aside the warmth in his expression, and his eyes turned serious. "I will teach you everything I know. How much of it you manage to grasp will depend entirely on your own aptitude."
Charles rose from his chair and walked directly to the weapon rack at the edge of the entrance hall, lifting down a wooden training staff.
"Although Sword Dance has the word sword in its name, it is in truth a combat technique far better suited to long weapons. With them it can be executed with far greater power and commands a much wider range of attack."
"Let me demonstrate it for you."
Charles moved to the center of the wide entrance hall. Before him stood a training dummy cast entirely from black iron.
The granite-like muscles on Charles's arms swelled as he raised the training staff level with both hands, then stamped the ground hard.
"Haaaah!"
In an instant, an invisible tempest seemed to erupt from him as its center, enveloping his entire body. Wind howled, and force radiated outward in all directions.
Orum's eyes went wide with surprise. The training staff in Charles's hands abruptly vanished from sight.
A heartbeat later, a hundred grim staff-shadows burst into existence all at once, sweeping through every inch of surrounding space in a single instant.
Orum understood that most of the shadows were feints, yet he could clearly feel through the shuddering, tearing air that the blows had truly struck in all eight directions, front, back, left, right, and the angles between.
Then every shadow reversed course simultaneously, driving forward together in one devastating sweep, and slammed into the black iron dummy.
A crisp crack rang out as the wooden staff snapped in two.
What made it truly astonishing was that the head of the black iron dummy now bore eight distinct white impressions, each driven nearly half an inch deep.
Charles stood before the dummy, heat rising off his body, his voice perfectly calm.
"Sword Dance is a technique ideally suited to the battlefield. As long as you can chain it continuously on the field, no number of low-ranking creatures can breach the ring of blades around you. They will be torn apart by the countless sword-shadows in an instant."
Charles returned the broken staff to the weapon rack, then his frame suddenly curved inward. He pressed one hand to his lower back and let out a long sigh. "Old age. The slightest exertion and this back starts acting up."
"I had meant to show you how Sword Dance can also be combined with a forward charge, turning it into something like a true storm of blades that sweeps across an entire battlefield."
"But my back isn't cooperating today. I'm sorry for that." A rueful expression crossed the old man's weathered face.
"Not at all. To receive your personal instruction, Master Charles, is already an honor far beyond what I deserve," Orum said quickly, moving to reassure him.
Throughout the entire demonstration, Charles had kept his formidable killing intent fully suppressed, not a trace of it permitted to surface. This was precisely to allow Orum to observe every detail of Sword Dance with perfect clarity and without interference.
With Orum lending a supporting hand, Charles made his way back to the comfortable armchair by the fire.
Charles then walked Orum through the finer details of Sword Dance at length, as well as the path of vocational advancement that lay ahead for the Warpath Swordsman class.
"Thrust and Sword Dance are both prerequisite techniques for the Warpath Swordsman vocation. That is your target, I imagine, the Warpath Swordsman? It is an exceptionally powerful class with a very high ceiling, capable of advancing all the way to the Nine-Blade Grandmaster."
A thoughtful look settled across Charles's face. "The Warpath Swordsman initiation, however, is no simple matter."
"Beyond mastering the three combat techniques of Thrust, Sword Dance, and Jade Slash, you must also possess three specific specializations."
"Those three are: Stone Dragon Guard, Iron Heart Strength, and White Crow Tactics."
"Each was created by a master martial artist of ancient times, and learning any one of them demands years of long and arduous effort."
"The training manuals for all three can be purchased at the exchange here in Blackwater Town."
"If the Warpath Swordsman is your goal, unless you are a once-in-a-generation prodigy, the soonest you could realistically complete the initiation is three years."
"Master Charles, what if I also wish to pursue a secondary vocation as a mage? Would that be feasible?" Orum put forth his bold idea once more.
"Young man, are you joking?" Charles shook his head with an incredulous laugh, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. "No one has ever done it, a trained warrior holding a concurrent vocation as a mage. That is the stuff of daydreams."
"Orum, to even raise the question, you would first need to have the natural gift for casting spells, wouldn't you?"
In Charles's estimation, a young man like Orum simply understood too little about mages and the magical weave. That was why he could so naively imagine that with a little effort, learning magic would be as straightforward as picking up a combat technique.
"I do have it. I genuinely know how to cast one spell." Orum replied with quiet certainty, then raised his palm. A dazzling cluster of violet magical energy blazed to life at the center of his hand.
"That is... magic?!" Charles froze, eyes snapping wide open, those keen old eyes now brimming with sheer disbelief.
He watched as the violet energy in Orum's hand gathered swiftly, brilliant as a blazing lantern, and from it materialized, apparently from nothing, a small palm-sized, fuzzy bat familiar.
"Eek!"
The bat appeared in Orum's hand and immediately spread its sharp little claws, pointed them directly at Charles, and let out a shrill, unmistakably warning cry.
Tier 1 Spell: Summon Familiar!
Staring at the lively, fidgeting bat familiar perched in Orum's hand, Charles went utterly still. Across his deeply creased old face, an extraordinary sequence of expressions played out in rapid succession.
Wait, you actually can do it!
After learning the full details of Orum's situation, Charles responded to his request with a suggestion that no one could have predicted.
"My recommendation is that you abandon the Warpath Swordsman path entirely from this day forward, and devote yourself wholeheartedly to the study of magic. Become a pure mage."
"Among vocational practitioners, the survival rates of mages and warriors are simply not comparable." Charles's tone grew heavier, carrying a certainty that brooked no argument.
"And the future of a mage is bright. When you are old, you might become a court archmage of great rank and influence, or perhaps a legendary mage with your own towering magic tower. Either of those lives is far better than that of an aged warrior covered in old wounds."
"In short, if circumstances allow, abandoning the warrior's path to become a mage is the wisest and most correct choice one could make."
Hearing this, Orum studied the deep and complex look in Charles's eyes, and for a reason he could not quite name, he detected within the old veteran's words a faint and unmistakable note of wistfulness.
Could it be that Master Charles had once stood at the same starting line as a friend who later found great success in magic, and over the decades that followed, been left far behind?
Now that would be a rather sorrowful story.