Swordmaster

The two soon returned to the area near the inn. Soren bought a clay pot, a little over a pound of pork, and about a pound of beans.

He had originally promised Vivian something tasty, but it had not been convenient in the wilderness, so he planned to make it up to her now and cook something for the little girl that evening. Quite a few people had gathered outside the inn. Some were townsfolk hoping to see whether there were any cheap goods to buy, while others were local hunters planning to sell their furs to the caravan at a lower price rather than make the trip to the city themselves. The rest had simply come to watch, mainly to gawk at the Bulettes on the wagons.

"Those really are Bulettes!"

"Looks like they killed at least three of them. These people are incredible!"

There were militia and children among the onlookers. For people living on the frontier, the legendary Monsters were still vague and distant, but Bulettes were among the most dangerous creatures they knew of.

"Let's go in."

Soren glanced at the others and prepared to go inside and rest.

However, when a somewhat lean yet sturdy figure appeared, he could not help stopping. The Guard Captain did the same, setting aside his work and looking up at the man who had appeared. He was not particularly old, perhaps only in his twenties. His face was handsome, with sharp, chiseled features. His gaze was lively and piercing, and his straight brows resembled blades. His appearance alone left a powerful impression, let alone the restrained yet Sharpness aura around him. "A Swordmaster?"

Soren looked at the man's weapon, a playful expression appearing at the corner of his mouth as he muttered, "I never expected this little town to be hiding so many talents."

"There's even an advanced Swordmaster living here."

Swordmaster.

This was not a title for one's level of strength.

Rather, it referred to a class derived from Warriors. The word "sacred" represented a pursuit or belief in many places, such as Paladins, Sacred Fists, and Clerics. Swordmaster was a high-tier advanced class for Warriors, with harsh requirements. It was also a class for Professionals who gave up using armor and protective gear. Unless one possessed exceptional talent, one had to reach tier 3 strength before advancing successfully. Swordmasters had no fixed weapon, but they commonly used Straight-bladed Swords, which many people still called swords.

They excelled at finding an enemy's fatal weaknesses and knew how to maximize their own strength. The ability known as Qi Slash had gradually been passed down from Swordmasters to ordinary Warriors.

Many Swordmasters had received Weapon Master training, and some even studied the meditation techniques of Monks.

The Swordmaster observed the caravan, then a trace of disappointment appeared on his face. He quickly left the crowd and headed toward the back of town.

Swordmasters were a class that enjoyed seeking sparring partners. They hoped to temper their skills through battle. When active in Orc territory, blade-wielding Swordmasters especially loved challenging powerful outsiders.

"Vivian."

"You go inside first. I'll be back soon."

Curiosity stirred in Soren's heart. He quietly followed the man outside, though he did not trail him too closely.

The sky was gradually darkening.

The professional who had chosen the path of the Swordmaster did not go home. Instead, he went straight to a large tree.

He planted the Straight-bladed Sword on his back into the ground, then sat cross-legged behind the blade. His arms were not overly muscular, but their lines were sharply defined. He gripped the hilt and slowly closed his eyes, breathing steadily.

He remained like that for half the day.

Soren's figure was vague beneath the shadows not far away. He watched the Swordmaster intently, his expression rather grave.

The other man was not sitting on the ground.

In fact.

From beginning to end, his body had remained about a centimeter above the ground. His entire weight was supported by his arms. His hands had gripped the hilt from the start, and all his weight rested upon it. His breathing had not changed much throughout. His chest rose and fell slightly, as though he had entered meditation completely.

But Soren was certain of one thing.

The moment he came within twenty meters of the man, the man would discover him instantly.

Most Swordmasters were above tier 3.

That meant his class level might be above level 10. If they came into conflict, Soren's chances of winning were less than thirty percent.

So he quietly withdrew without disturbing the man who was training.

Swordmasters were the most powerful advanced class for Warriors, followed by specialized Weapon Masters, and only then Berserkers with tremendous strength.

Because they wore no armor whatsoever, Swordmasters were actually very vulnerable to death.

Especially during the future period of turmoil, Swordmasters easily became priority targets in large-scale battles. That was why Soren had encountered very few Swordmasters of Legendary Tier. It was said that a Legendary Swordmaster's "Insight into Weakness" could even identify the frailest point in the Protection from Arrows cast by Wizards!

Professionals did not spend all their time adventuring outside.

When they felt fatigued, or when their abilities reached the critical point of a breakthrough, they would find a quiet place and attempt to advance.

Some classes with special inheritances would even return to the places where they had originally trained.

"Looks like I need to find time to start training too."

Seeing so many Professionals in such an unremarkable little town undoubtedly put much greater pressure on Soren.

He had never felt it so strongly before.

But now he realized that these story aborigines were no simple people!

Even though a mysterious stream of data existed in his mind, if he did not put in sweat and effort himself, he might not surpass these aborigines in the future, let alone face the Gods descending into the mortal world during the coming Time of Troubles.

"Hah!"

Soren silently placed a hand on his Scimitar and muttered, "No wonder fewer than a tenth as many Deities killed by Players were story aborigines."

"This gap can't be made up with data!"

The Gods fell.

Fewer than ten Players had once obtained Divine Rank, yet more than a hundred story aborigines had acquired it.

The difference was not merely in class levels!

After returning to the inn, Soren began preparing dinner.

The caravan guards were busy with their own affairs. The mysterious female owner had rarely shown herself these past two days. Wizards seldom dealt with ordinary people anyway, so no one found it strange.

Vivian was obediently learning to read in the room. The little girl had nearly finished learning the common script.

She did not ask where Soren had gone.

Once Soren returned, she carried over a small stool and sat beside him. Soren was cutting the pork he had bought into chunks, then pouring the beans into the clay pot. He carried the pot into the inn's kitchen, carefully sealed it, and covered it with ashes from the charcoal fire. Then he clapped his hands and said, "Let's eat something first."

"It should be done once it gets dark."

It was a fairly simple dish, and it tasted quite good. Soren used to make it for himself when he had nothing else to do.

The only requirement was patience.

Since it was braised, it needed about three hours.

Night fell.

The caravan guards drank and chatted in front of the inn. Occasionally, someone in high spirits would go out and trade a few moves. Some merchants gathered together to calculate their goods. They had bought some furs in town that day, and should be able to make a profit by taking them to the next city. Soren sat in the back playing with his Scimitar, but he was not using his right hand. He was using his left.

.

This was a difficult Feat to train, and it might take quite some time.

One could either spend Feat Points to acquire it or work hard and train it personally. However, Soren already possessed the Personal Feat Dexterous Left Hand, making it much easier to master the related Feats.

Someone began egging Soren on to come down and have some fun.

Soren happened to have the same idea, but when he fought, he used his left hand.

His opponent was a young man from the North.

The Guard Captain had originally been eager to try Soren's skills as well, but when he saw Soren holding the blade in his left hand, he immediately gave up.

Still, his expression was one of considerable curiosity, because people who used Two-Weapon Fighting were quite rare.

It demanded tremendous skill!

Currently, the creatures most skilled at Two-Weapon Fighting were Elves. Only those long-lived people had the time to hone such techniques.

Vivian stood on top of a table taller than she was to watch.

She was simply too short.

In the cleared space, Soren moved about with a serious expression. Holding the blade in a reverse grip affected his performance, but it was perfect for training his left hand's flexibility.

Even fighting with his left hand, he was still not at a disadvantage. In fact, he faintly seemed to be using the other man to test moves.

The little girl watched from the table with great focus, holding a table knife in her fair little hand. As she watched the sparring below, she mimicked a couple of moves with the knife, occasionally furrowing her delicate brows in thought.

She looked rather ridiculous, but her expression was extremely serious!

Gradually.

When she practiced the moves, she even began to resemble them by two or three parts.

No one noticed the little girl in that corner. Their attention had long been captured by the fight in the clearing. Soren's Dodge techniques amazed many of them, especially his shifting footwork and the difficult movements he used to evade attacks. Without specialized flexibility training, ordinary people simply could not perform them.

On the second floor of the inn.

The mysterious female owner of the caravan appeared at some point. Her gaze swept over Soren, who was sparring in the open area, and she quickly lost interest. But when her eyes fell on Vivian in the corner, her expression brightened. She looked very surprised, interested, and amused.

The little girl practiced on the table for a while.

Then she boredly put down the table knife and muttered, "It doesn't seem that hard!"

"Brother isn't even fighting seriously."

"If he used that move where he went whoosh, whoosh, whoosh running sideways along the wall, he would've taken that guy down in one slash."

"He just keeps repeating the same few moves."

"The guy sparring with Brother isn't even as strong as that guy from earlier today!"

The little girl curled her lips, sneakily glanced at the others, then quietly picked up a wine jug with both hands and poured herself a cup of ale.

"Mm."

Vivian took a sip, smacked her lips, and muttered, "It tastes weird."

"Why do they like this stuff?"

With a trace of curiosity, the little girl took several more sips. A blush quickly appeared on her pretty little face.

"Mm."

"Why do I feel a little dizzy?"

Vivian's petite body began to sway.

By the time Soren returned from sparring, the little girl was already thoroughly drunk. Her little face was flushed red, and she hurriedly hid the cup behind her back.

How could Soren possibly fail to notice that she had secretly been drinking?

So when he saw Vivian swaying before him with that adorably drunken look, his face instantly darkened.

Smack!

He gave her little bottom a slap.

Soren tucked her under his arm and tossed her into the second-floor room to sleep.

The night air was slightly cool.

Soren went to the kitchen to check the clay pot, then covered it again with charcoal ashes. Next, he lit an oil lamp and took it up to the room on the second floor. He pulled out a book from his Bag of Holding and silently began reading. Whenever his gaze fell upon Vivian, who was sleeping soundly nearby with a lingering drunken blush on her little face, his expression became visibly helpless and amused.

"You've got some nerve!"

He reached out and pinched Vivian's delicate little nose. Feeling uncomfortable, the little girl waved a hand at him, then turned over and fell into a deep sleep.

She really was drunk.

Even though she had only drunk a small cup of ale.

The night grew deeper.

Soren put away his book, blew out the oil lamp, and went to sleep. The little girl drowsily scooted over, naturally wrapping her arms around his arm. Then she smacked her lips and mumbled one or two indistinct words in her sleep.

And so the night passed.