Master of the Loop

Chapter 19

  Heartseeker

Following the scare he had when faced with something he couldn't possibly understand, Sylas finally 'found some time' to visit the castle's training grounds. To call the place 'training grounds', however, was a wee bit of praise. It was, in fact, just a room-sized, dirt-paved patch of land with a few incredibly beaten wooden dummies leaning against the wall. It was currently empty—and, as far as he heard, it was almost always empty since guards mostly sparred in the massive, outer courtyard.

This place was mainly used for some newbie drilling and that was about it. Since there were no newbies at the moment, though, it became a perfect spot for Sylas to embarrass himself only to the gods above with his fighting skills.

He took a deep breath and walked over to a rack, one populated with rusted and old weapons that couldn’t cut paper let alone anything else, and picked a sword. It was a fairly hefty one, weighing some ten pounds, slightly larger than a foot, it seemed. It looked to be the least ‘decayed’, which was also why Sylas chose it as rust tended to add some weight to the bones.

As soon as he picked it up, he felt a strange sense of familiarity for a moment. It was a fleeting feeling, however, and one that he couldn’t have possibly grasped. Just then, a window appeared in front of him, one that he was somewhat expecting to appear, actually.

Weapon registered.

Heartseeker mantra: Puncture a heart and the soul shall bleed.

Heartseeker— ‘Heartseeker’ is a style of combat from the ‘Dancing Sword School’, populated during the Golden Age of Blademasters. Practiced mostly by assassins, it still found some uses in wartime, though, as a secondary option for many swordsmen. The key to the technique is speed and precision, wherein its strengths lie. On the other hand, it is weak in prolonged combat due to a limited number of stances and strikes.

The core of ‘Heartseeker' is to use swift strikes as diversions, as a cover-up, for one main strike that aims directly at the heart, from any angle. The key is to kill the target with a single, swift hit. Though it can be used as a primary style, the drawbacks are enough to warrant some worry. In case of the initial failure, the practitioners should retreat.

Much like most other styles from the Golden Age, ‘Heartseeker’ has been both lost as well as replaced as a style. Nonetheless, to this day it still holds a record for the swiftest, single strike ever recorded by a human eye. Practice with caution.

Initial goal: practice until you are able to accurately hit a single spot 10 times within 5 seconds.

Reward: ‘Heartseeking Ripple Stance’

Further goals and rewards will be revealed afterward

The more he read, the more confused he got. Its history had little meaning to him since it was the first time he was hearing about any of the things. However, he still got the gist of it all, especially the technique itself which, oddly enough, suited him quite well. At least he thought so, though it was hard to conclude it as he never had much experience fighting.

In and out—that was what the style was all about, much like his lifestyle was. He never stuck around at any one place or any one con for too long. The longer the con, the greater the chance was to be discovered. In the short-term cons, even if discovered, the damage tended to be minimal. However, for the long-term ones, a certain level of commitment was necessary. You had to reveal more details about yourself, perchance even lead the target of the con to your house or some other places you frequented as means of buying some good will. That meant much greater risk, however.

Looking at the sword, Sylas realized something—he wasn't going to be given anything. The technique was merely a guide, it seemed, and he’d have to train with his own hands at it. He wanted to groan, but held it back; he spent most of his life on a cruise mode, rarely ever making an effort. While that may have worked on Earth, here, it would likely get him killed, just like it did in the library, and even before that, against the Ghouls.

Though he had the ‘cheat’ of immortality, dying so often… it felt like pieces of him were being torn off. It wasn’t comfortable or peaceful.

Besides, being a bystander in his own life, a man with no agency… that would be extremely lame, he mused, lifting the sword as his muscles cried. He walked over toward the dummy and stabbed. It was a… limp sort of a stab. The kind that would get edited in post-production. He didn't even manage to make a dent in the wood. Furthermore, the sword slid all the way down as he lost the momentum, his muscles unable to carry neither the burden nor the weight.

Taking yet another deep breath, he did it again… and again… and again. It wasn’t all that different from dying, being stuck in a repeated cycle. One was a loop of life and death and the other was of stab and slide. Forget ten times in five seconds, he couldn’t accurately pinpoint two stabs in however many minutes. It was like hand-to-eye coordination didn’t exist in his body, and he was wired differently. He didn’t give up, however, stabbing and sliding for over an hour before his muscles finally gave out.

“That’s all wrong,” a rather rough and coarse voice jolted Sylas, startling him. Spinning around, he saw a fully armored, middle-aged man with crossed arms staring at him indifferently. Sylas didn't recognize him, though, from the garb and the countenance, he figured it was likely one of the Guard Captains. After all, it was very unlikely that they were all like Tebek.

“W-what’s all wrong?” Sylas asked, swallowing away the pain.

“Everything,” the man said, walking over. “The way you stand, the way you stab, the way you hold the sword, the way you breathe, where you look, how you leave the posture… did you ever hold a sword in your life?”

“… no.”

“Well, that explains it,” the man shrugged, stopping by Sylas and taking the sword from him, easily holding it in one hand as though it was just a small stick. “Swords are lithe, nimble, gracious. But, at the end of the day, just like all other weapons, they are tools of murder. Why is it that we use weapons? To kill. That is all. As such, with every weapon, the point is to find the easiest way to kill. Strangely, of all the things you got wrong, this is the one you got right.”

“…” Sylas swallowed a mouthful, listening keenly.

"Though in the recent times, more and more weapons are becoming means of showing off, in the end… that isn't their purpose. Take the sword—it's long, but not as long as a spear. It's sharp and can pierce, but not as much as a rapier. An ax, on the other hand, packs far more weight into a swing. Knives are nimbler, more diverse. But… swords won't hinder you within narrow corridors like spears. It's also not as bendable and easily parried as rapiers. And though an ax packs more of a punch, it's also more cumbersome and predictable.

“Your idea is right—find a weakness in the enemy and repeatedly stab at it. However, will they let you?”

“… no?”

“Unless they’re morons like you.”

“Oi, I’m trying!”

“Try harder,” the man handed the sword back to Sylas. “It’s clear you can’t do what you want, so, instead of that, let’s try this: I will tell you where to stab, and as long as you hit within twenty inches, it will count as a point. If you score five points out of ten tries, I’ll buy you some ale. If you fail, you’ll buy me some.”

“I literally don’t have a single coin on me,” Sylas said, but still focused on the dummy. He’d fail, there was no doubt in his mind—and the man likely knew that too. “But, whatever.”

“Left knee.”

“…”

“Right breast.”

“…”

“Right eye.”

“Left foot.”

“Center collarbone.”

Out of ten stabs, Sylas actually managed to hit one—though it felt more accidental than anything else, really. By the end, he was panting like a dog, having immediately dropped the sword after the tenth swing since his arms were shaking. The man crouched next to him and suddenly grabbed his right arm, inspecting it for a moment.

“Your heart is there, but your body can’t keep up,” he said. “What’s your job?” Job? Sylas thought for a moment before replying.

“I’m, uh, an assistant… of sorts… to the Prince.”

“Oh? The young pup’s servant?” Sylas’ brows twitched for a moment but he said nothing. “Why’d you suddenly decide to start training, then?” the man reached into his armor and took out a small, leather gourd, popping it open and taking a swig.

"The invasion," Sylas mumbled a lie—well, it wasn't really a lie. The sole reason he was training was that the system 'gave' him the 'Heartseeker', right after beating the invasion. "I felt helpless." That part, however, wasn't a lie. He truly did feel helpless—so helpless, in fact, he ran away from reality and hid away in shame.

“That’s no sin,” the man said. “Most men felt helpless.”

“I don’t want to feel helpless.”

“… do you know the story of Agel the Unlucky?” the man suddenly asked, prompting Sylas to look at him dumbly. “While I was in training, most of my mates loved stories about heroes and the like, the kinds that fought armies and beasts and saved the world from the night. I didn’t. Until, one day, I read the story of Agel. He was posed to be the hero, just like the rest—he was strong, brave, kind-hearted, all the points. But… he was always late, he watched others die, he got terrified, and it broke him. People hated the story, and they mocked Agel.

“I… sympathized,” the man said, taking another swig. “The truth is, the only people who don’t feel helpless are those that don’t care. I lost six of my men during the invasion. I, too, felt helpless. They didn’t need to die, I figured—if only I had been just a smidge stronger. But, short of those made-up heroes from the story, there ain’t a soul in the world that can prevent the innocent from occasionally dying. Such is the nature of everything. That doesn't mean we should stop trying, though. Before you go on wildly swinging that thing, though, you need to build up some muscle.”

“I know,” Sylas sighed, standing up against the pain. “But that takes time.”

“Ah, yes, and mastering the sword occurs over one training session,” the man took a jab at him, glancing at Sylas oddly. “If you’re one of the Prince’s men, why not just ask him to teach you Royal Mantra?” The fuck is a Royal Mantra?!

“If you think the Prince is at liberty to do much,” Sylas said, dusting off his behind and glancing at the man with an indifferent look. “Then you’ve been fighting ghouls for far too long. Who are you?” Sylas asked out of curiosity, having not noticed the change in man’s countenance for the brief moment.

“… Tenner,” the man said. “Westbound Captain.”

“It was a pleasure, Tenner,” Sylas smiled. “Do teach me well, always.”

“H-huh?”

“Well, I’m gonna go visit a God real quick and I’ll be right back. See ya!”

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