[You have successfully completed a Basic Swordsmanship training session. Experience +2]

[Basic Swordsmanship has reached max level]

Roland wiped the sweat from his brow, and one corner of his mouth curled at the floating text.

Unlike forging skills, which took three levels to top out, Basic Swordsmanship apparently capped at Level 2—too simple to go higher, perhaps.

Backed by [Combat Readiness], one day of hard training had pushed the skill to its limit.

"Maxed out. Though at the end of the day, it's still just Basic Swordsmanship..."

He gave the wooden sword a light swing, feeling out what the skill had changed.

"Right now I'm maybe a notch above a drilled militiaman. Still—at least I can defend myself..."

He was still enjoying the breakthrough when heavy footsteps came up behind him.

He turned to find Sean carrying two gray coarse-linen robes and two sheathed iron swords.

"Buddy! Got everything ready, just like you said!"

Roland pulled on one of the robes and belted an iron sword at his waist.

The robe's wide hem hid the weapon's outline completely. Exactly what he wanted.

This village sat near the Black Fir Forest, and all sorts passed through it. Greedy mercenaries were nothing rare.

A valuable iron sword was reason enough for a desperate man to gamble.

Wrapping it in coarse cloth hadn't felt safe. The plain robe kept the blade in reach without drawing eyes.

"Say goodbye to your family?"

"Told my father. Uncle Peyton never came back, though... Normal for him. He stays out all night half the time."

They chatted their way down the village road and soon left the entrance behind.

Winter sun sifted through bare branches, scattering broken shadows across the muddy path.

Not far behind them, a figure detached itself from the village.

"That's him, looks like..."

Sam narrowed his eyes, matching the portrait in his hand to the youth's profile, and his fingers strayed to the money pouch at his belt.

"Once this job's done, with what I've saved over the years, it should be enough for those herbs. Then..."

His breathing shortened, and he followed—slow, silent.

...

...

On the shaded road back to the baron's estate, Sean talked eagerly through his plans for enlistment while Roland answered in bits and sorted through his own.

"Basic Swordsmanship is capped, so it's time to think about other skills."

"But the training ground costs a fortune. Even if I pass the examination and make Blacksmith Apprentice, saving that much quickly won't be easy..."

He rubbed the sword hilt, regretful.

"Peyton charges five silver, and I don't have it. As for forging another weapon as a gift... Mr. Hawk won't wear that twice..."

"Strength training can't slip either. I need to qualify for Blacksmith soon..."

Mid-thought, his ears caught something.

Behind them, a dry branch snapped.

Beneath the rhythm of his and Sean's footsteps ran a third set—light, and deliberate.

Roland made a show of adjusting his collar, and in the moment of turning swept the road behind them from the corner of his eye.

A tall figure trailed them at an easy pace, some twenty steps back.

"Sean..."

Roland's hand closed on his companion's shoulder, and his lowered voice cut through the chatter.

"Someone's following us."

Sean started to look back; Roland caught his wrist.

"Don't turn around."

Sean kept his eyes rigidly forward, though doubt crept into his voice.

"Aren't you wound a little tight, buddy? Plenty of people use this road..."

Roland picked up the pace by degrees, lips barely moving.

"Listen. Just in case, here's what we do..."

A hurried whisper, then the two of them surged forward. At the next bend they slipped into the thick woods beside the road.

Sam froze for a beat, then hurried after them.

The moment he pushed through the tangled branches, a voice spoke at his side.

"Sir, were you following us?"

Roland studied the tall, thin man, brow creasing.

That face. He'd seen it somewhere before.

"You actually noticed me?"

Sam grinned, not a flicker of alarm in it.

"Sharp little brat."

He brushed leaves from his clothes, tone as easy as talk about the weather.

"Since you saw through it, I'll be direct. Someone paid me for one of your arms..."

He drew two rusty daggers and spun them between his fingers.

"Do it yourself, or shall I?"

In that instant, Roland knew exactly who had sent him.

Since transmigrating, he'd made precisely one enemy: Marco.

"Just take it. It's one crippled arm. You'll live..."

Reading Roland's stillness as terror, Sam sneered inwardly.

"Some wit on him, but he's still a brat scared stiff. Easy money after all..."

He came on, step by step.

Then Roland shouted.

"Sean!"

The word was still in the air when a cold wind rose behind Sam's head.

Instinct honed by years on the knife's edge hurled him sideways into a roll.

Bang!

An iron sword tore into the spot he'd been standing, spraying grass and soil.

"Damn it!"

Sam spat, pupils pinpricks.

"The brats are armed!"

Sean gave him no room to recover. He came in first, both hands on the hilt, chopping down like a man swinging a battleaxe.

Sam crossed his daggers to catch it.

Numbness exploded through the webbing of his hands.

"Decent strength. Shame..."

The mercenary bared his teeth and readied a sidestep.

"Chopping that sloppy wouldn't buy you three breaths on a battlefield!"

Then cold light flashed at the edge of his vision.

Hiss!

Roland's blade came in from the flank and opened a deep line across Sam's right arm.

"Little bastard!"

Pain turned him savage. He whirled, booted Roland back, and one dagger snaked toward Sean's wrist.

Sean yanked his sword back to cover—but Sam rolled his wrist and hooked the blade aside.

A knee drove in behind it. Sean folded to one knee with a grunt, his iron sword skidding loose into a drift of rotting leaves.

"Your turn, clever boy."

Sam shook his bleeding arm, the pain jabbing at his temples.

In that same fraction of a second, Roland's point was already three inches from his brow.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Sparks burst through the trees.

Strange. His strength... about equal to mine?

The thought crossed Roland's mind without slowing his hands. Every stroke hunted vitals—throat, chest, wrist.

"How is this kid's sword work so polished?"

The longer they traded blows, the deeper Sam's shock ran.

Blood sheeted from his arm at every exchange. Under the iron sword's pressure his daggers whined, and he gave ground step after step.

"Damn it..."

Blood loss began to gray the edges of his vision. When his back hit an oak, the fury finally boiled over.

"End it. Now!"

He let an opening show—deliberately.

The instant Roland thrust for it, Sam flung himself forward.

His dagger became a streak of cold light, driving straight for the youth's heart.

Clang!

At the crisp impact, Sam's eyes went wide.

The dagger tip had met solid metal.

And at his own throat, warmth welled out.

"You..."

He clutched the spurting wound and sank to his knees, straining to look at the boy above him.

The stench of rotted soil crowded in.

He remembered the first wild wolf he had hunted, twenty years ago, in the forests of his homeland.

That beast's eyes had looked exactly like Roland's did now.

Black. Bright. Unwavering.