“Phew.”
Alvin charged forward, turned, and slashed diagonally, the blade whistling through the air.
[School of the Wolf Witcher Swordplay Experience +1!]
Only when that mechanical voice rang out did he finally stop.
He began panting hard, his chest rising and falling violently as the cold wind struck the sweat on his face.
That 1 point of experience had finally come.
Geralt stood up from the stone bench.
“Good.
You’ve made it through the basics,” he said, glancing up at the stars and moonlight.
“About three hours.
Your talent is decent enough.”
Alvin steadied his breathing and looked at his panel.
[School of the Wolf Witcher Swordplay Lv1: 1/100]
One point of experience in three hours.
He was not satisfied with that progress.
And that was with Geralt guiding him.
If he had been left to learn alone, he probably would not have even grasped the basics after several days.
“Geralt, how long did it take you to get started?”
Alvin asked out of curiosity.
Geralt paused, raised his right hand, and held up two fingers.
“Two hours?”
Alvin’s cat-like eyes trembled slightly.
Only an hour’s difference.
It seemed his talent for swordsmanship was not as bad as he had imagined.
Geralt shook his head and gave a short laugh.
“Two tries, Alvin.”
Two tries?
Alvin’s expression turned deeply shocked, and a strong sense of defeat rose in his heart.
In that moment, he understood clearly that people truly were different.
Without the System, the gap between him and these geniuses was like the difference between a firefly and the bright moon.
He had to work even harder to build up experience.
Diligence could make up for weakness.
Geralt had been wondering whether what he said had been too discouraging for the dark-haired boy before him.
But when he saw those gray cat-like eyes full of fighting spirit, a trace of approval passed through his gaze.
Geralt placed his training sword back on the weapon rack.
“All right.
It’s already very late.
Training is over.
We should head back.”
“Vesemir said rest is just as important as training.
If you want to practice swordsmanship, there will be plenty of time later.”
Alvin understood the importance of knowing when to push and when to rest.
He returned the training sword to the weapon rack, went with Geralt to drink some water by the well, and the two walked back side by side.
Inside the apprentice quarters, the apprentices’ snores rose and fell one after another.
Alvin crept back to his bed.
As soon as the muscles throughout his body relaxed, soreness and exhaustion followed.
His heavy eyelids soon closed, and he fell into a deep sleep.
…
The eleventh day after the Autumn Equinox.
In the kitchen, the Witcher and the apprentices were eating breakfast.
There was milk, along with fried eggs and bread.
Of course, green juice was indispensable.
The apprentices chatted back and forth, completely unaware that Geralt had given Alvin special training the night before.
Breakfast ended.
Vesemir and Geralt led the apprentices on five laps around the castle for warm-up training.
Whether apprentice or long-famous Witcher, no one could slack off in daily training.
Even Brad, whose right arm was wrapped in bandages, was no exception.
By afternoon, Vesemir had brought everyone up onto the castle walls.
The vast, rolling Blue Mountains were a magnificent sight.
Under the sunlight, the snowcapped peaks gave off a faint golden glow, and clouds and mist wound through the pine forests.
No matter how many times Alvin saw it, he was still deeply awed.
Vesemir clapped his hands, and everyone began checking their equipment.
Once they were nearly ready, Vesemir spoke.
“Today’s training course is Windmill Training.
Do you all see the ‘comb’ in front of you?”
A comb?
Alvin and the others looked over, confusion appearing in their eyes.
Vesemir said, “Take a careful look at the wooden stakes ahead.”
Only then did Alvin realize what he meant.
On a platform not far ahead stood dozens of wooden stakes of different heights.
The distances and positions between them all varied considerably.
Paul touched his hair.
“Master Vesemir, aren’t those just wooden stakes?
Why call them a ‘comb’?”
Vesemir crossed his arms.
“My child, you are Witchers.
The comb you know is used to tidy a woman’s hair.
This ‘comb’ is used to tidy your bodies.”
“Geralt, show them.”
Geralt drew his training sword and, using the battlements for leverage, leaped easily onto a wooden stake nearly six feet high.
Vesemir said, “Keep your eyes open.”
Geralt moved.
His feet landed precisely in the center of each stake, without the slightest unnecessary wobble, as if he were walking not on swaying wooden posts, but on level ground.
He grew faster and faster, his movements smooth and fluid.
In just a few breaths, he had reached the middle of the “comb.”
There, a wooden dummy was fixed to one of the stakes, with wooden rods serving as claws on its body.
The moment it sensed Geralt approaching, the gems on the dummy’s chest and neck lit up.
A mechanical whirring came from the dummy’s upper body, and its two claws began to flail wildly, like a spinning top.
Geralt’s amber cat-like eyes were filled with aggression.
He pressed in close, raised both arms, and his sword light pierced through the dummy’s dense, rain-like claws, striking the gem on its chest.
Clang!
With one strike, the high-speed dummy was knocked out of action and stopped moving.
Geralt sheathed his sword, stepped into empty air, and jumped down from the “comb.”
Alvin pressed his lips together.
Beside him, Paul could not help blurting out, “That…
that was amazing.”
“Well done, Geralt.”
Vesemir turned to the apprentices.
“I assume you all saw the process clearly.
As long as you strike the gems on the Windmill Dummies with your swords, you can make them stop moving.”
“It looks simple, doesn’t it?
But be careful.
If one knocks you off the ‘comb,’ the side closer to the inner wall is manageable.
If you fall on the outer wall side, you had better pray you catch on a tree branch.
Otherwise, you’ll end up as a Drowner in the Gwenllech.”
At that, everyone swallowed.
Many of them had already begun to tense up.
Alvin poked his head out from between the battlements.
Kaer Morhen was built against the mountain, and below was a bottomless cliff wreathed in mist.
He could only faintly hear the rushing waters of the Gwenllech.
Falling from here meant certain death.
Fear spread through his heart, only to be forcibly suppressed by his mutated body.
Vesemir’s expression was stern.
“Relax, children.”
“First, Aiken.
You’re up!”
Aiken picked up his training sword, his cat-like eyes already eager to try.
“All right.”
He copied Geralt’s method, stepping off a corner of the battlements and leaping onto the “comb.”
After familiarizing himself with the route ahead, he quickly began to sprint, treating the cliff at his side as if it did not exist.
Soon, he arrived before the Windmill Dummy, its wooden claws spinning at high speed.
Aiken stopped, hesitated for a moment, then squeezed in close.
Smack!
The wooden rod struck Aiken hard on the shoulder, making his body sway violently.
At that moment, the apprentices watched with their hearts in their throats, cries of alarm breaking out one after another.
Aiken gritted his teeth, forced himself to endure the sharp pain in his shoulder, and thrust his sword into the dummy’s chest.
Creak, creak, creak…
The dummy immediately stopped moving.
Aiken rolled his shoulder, then flipped backward and jumped down from the “comb” in a handsome motion.
“My goodness, Aiken succeeded on his first try.”
“By the Plague, that backflip was impressive.”
The praise from Winston, Brad, and the others made Aiken forget the pain in his shoulder, and a pleased look appeared on his face.
“It was easy.”
Vesemir took out a small hourglass from behind him.
The sand flowed quickly, and the lower section was engraved with dense markings.
“Twenty-nine seconds.
Not bad.”
Geralt leaned against the battlements and nodded slightly.
For an Apprentice’s first attempt, that result was indeed very good.
With Geralt’s approval, the curve of Aiken’s smile rose even higher.
Vesemir reset the hourglass and called out,
“Alvin, you’re next.”
Alvin stepped forward when he heard his name.
As he passed Aiken, he heard Aiken’s smug voice.
“Careful.
Don’t let the windmill knock you down, Alvin.”
Alvin heard the mockery in his tone and merely smiled.
“No need for you to worry about that.”
Twenty-nine seconds?
Hah.