"Uncle Peyton, that's robbery!"

"Hey, kid! Is that any way to talk to your own uncle?"

Roland sighed as uncle and nephew went at it in front of him.

He had thought his view of mercenaries—men who wouldn't rise early without profit in it—was already cynical enough. He hadn't expected Peyton to charge his own nephew.

Good thing I came prepared...

Quietly relieved, he drew the red-faced Sean aside and whispered a few words.

A moment later, Sean trudged into the inner room and came back with the iron sword he'd hidden earlier.

Roland took it, stepped forward, and offered his most agreeable smile.

"Uncle Peyton, the truth is, Sean has been worrying about your need for a weapon this whole time. He bought this iron sword from Mr. Hawk at a special price..."

He presented the sword with both hands, all respect.

"Oh?"

Peyton's eyes locked onto it. At Hawk's name he all but snatched it up.

But after a moment's inspection, the excitement drained away. He curled his lip.

"An iron sword of this quality... forged by Hawk himself, was it?"

"Of course not."

Roland shook his head.

"One of his apprentices made it. Otherwise, how could Sean afford it?"

"Fine. Since the kid showed some thought..."

Peyton's gaze slid past Roland to Sean, who still looked mutinous behind him. One eyebrow rose.

"You two."

He gave the sword a shake.

"Backyard. With me."

He turned and strode off, boots thudding on the wooden floor.

"That guy!"

Sean was fuming now.

"Roland, sold outside, a sword like that is worth several silver at least! And he just—"

"Let it go, Sean..."

Unlike Sean, who was mourning the silver, Roland had already run the numbers.

Pass the examination in two months, become a Blacksmith Apprentice, and with the occupation panel behind him, mastery was only a matter of time.

By then he could turn out swords of this quality by the batch.

Besides, right now a barely qualified iron sword meant nothing to him.

What mattered was awakening a new skill and unlocking a new occupation—more attributes, and a better chance of keeping himself alive.

He'd heard it plainly: sword lessons at the training ground ran ten silver a month.

He hadn't verified it, but he doubted Peyton would lie about that particular number.

Set against that, trading one mediocre sword for swordsmanship instruction was a bargain.

He soothed Sean with a few words and towed him to the open ground out back.

Peyton had already dug up two wooden swords from somewhere. He tossed them over.

"Since neither of you has touched a weapon before, we start with the most basic swordsmanship."

He walked to the center of the yard, and the iron sword traced a hard, clean arc in the sunlight.

The moves of Basic Swordsmanship were not complicated—chop, slash, thrust, plus techniques for blocking and turning force aside.

The difficulty lay in generating power, and in marrying it to footwork.

What surprised Roland was that for all Peyton's pettiness about money, the man taught with unexpected patience.

"Drop your wrist a touch."

Peyton nudged Roland's trembling elbow up with his wooden sword.

"Yes, like that. Hold it steady."

Roland held his breath as his blade carved a slightly lopsided arc.

Sweat tracked down his temple, but his grip was already far closer to correct than when he'd started.

"Don't force the power."

Peyton circled behind him and rapped his knee with the flat of the blade.

"Sink your weight! You think you're chopping firewood?"

Sean snorted from the sidelines and earned himself a cutting glare.

"What are you laughing at?" Peyton didn't even turn his head. "Your thrusts are limp as noodles. Fifty more!"

Roland reset his breathing and his stance.

This time he took the movement slow, feeling the force climb from his heels, through waist and back, and out along his arms.

"Good!"

Peyton's sudden shout nearly made him fling the sword.

"That's the feeling! Remember how you generated that."

"Uncle Peyton..."

Roland mopped his sweat, hesitating.

"Why do I always feel unsteady when I recover the sword?"

Peyton snorted and shot forward like a loosed arrow.

Roland threw up a block—only for Peyton to drop his sword tip and scribe a circle beside his feet.

"Look at your stance. Feet jammed together like a single fence post!"

He demonstrated a proper recovery, boots grinding a clean half circle into the sand.

"Be a tree with roots, not a leaf on the wind."

Roland nodded, chewing on that.

"And another thing..."

Under Peyton's tireless correction, Roland worked his way into the bones of Basic Swordsmanship.

Before anyone noticed, the sun had sunk west and dusk crept over the courtyard.

Sean had long since escaped to make dinner. Peyton had claimed a patch of shade under a tree and dozed off.

Alone in the empty yard, Roland kept swinging, wringing the last strength out of his body.

"Chop! Slash! Thrust!"

He muttered the move names under his breath, soaked shirt plastered to his back.

The whistle of the wooden sword rang sharp in the quiet.

The instant he finished the final form and recovered the blade, dazzling golden text bloomed across his vision.

[You have learned Basic Swordsmanship. Current level: Lv.1]

[Upon inspection, you qualify for the base occupation: Recruit]

[Requirements: Strength 2, Agility 1, any Lv.1 combat-related skill]

[Proceed with job change?]

"Just as I expected..."

A tired smile pulled at his mouth.

Then the body he'd been driving on willpower alone finally gave out. His legs buckled, and he sat down hard in the dusty yard.

"Awakening a combat skill... really does unlock a matching occupation..."

Sweat dripped off his chin.

Everything ached, and his eyes had never been brighter.

At the sound, Peyton cracked one eye from where he sprawled.

"Giving up at last? Kid's got grit, I'll say that..."

He held no great hopes for Roland's sword training.

Not for lack of effort—the boy's physique was simply against him.

Next to Peyton's ox of a nephew, Roland was a reed that might snap in the next stiff wind.

Years in the mercenary trade had shown Peyton how that story ended.

However refined the swordsmanship, against a raw gap in strength it counted for nothing.

With a frame like that, rather than grinding away at the sword, the boy would be better off...

"One day swinging a wooden sword and he's like this. An iron hammer will be worse."

Peyton turned it over in his head.

"He's got no real shot at the Blacksmith Apprentice examination. Tomorrow I'll go ask that old drunk Lauren whether his shop still needs a helper..."

Outwardly calm, Peyton understood perfectly well.

The idea of gifting him that iron sword could never have come from his fool nephew, who knew nothing but muscle.

He was greedy, and he was stingy—but he had his rules.

He wouldn't pry into where the sword came from.

But having accepted a gift, he would repay it.

He had never liked owing favors.

Out in the courtyard, Roland knew nothing of any of this.

Hands braced on his knees, he heaved for air. When his breathing leveled out, he spoke the words silently.

"Change occupation to Recruit!"