"Whew..."
Arwen dashed forward, turned, and slashed diagonally, his blade whistling through the air.
[School of the Wolf Witcher Swordsmanship experience +1!]
Only when that mechanical voice sounded did he stop.
He began panting, his chest heaving as the cold wind blew against the sweat on his face.
That one point of experience had finally come.
Geralt rose from the stone block.
"Good, you've grasped the basics of swordsmanship." He looked up at the stars and moonlight. "About three hours. Your talent is decent enough."
Arwen steadied his breathing and looked at the panel.
[School of the Wolf Witcher Swordsmanship Lv1: 1/100]
One point of experience in three hours. He wasn't satisfied with that progress.
And that was with Geralt guiding him. If he had been learning alone, he probably wouldn't have grasped the basics without several days of work.
"Geralt, how long did it take you to grasp the basics?"
Arwen asked with some curiosity.
Geralt paused, raised his right arm, and held up two fingers.
"Two hours?"
Arwen's cat eyes flickered.
Only an hour's difference. It seemed his talent for swordsmanship wasn't as poor as he had imagined.
Geralt shook his head and chuckled. "Two run-throughs, Arwen."
Two run-throughs?
Arwen looked utterly stunned, and a powerful sense of defeat welled up inside him.
At that moment, he understood profoundly that people were different.
Without the system, the gap between him and these geniuses was simply that between a firefly and the bright moon.
I have to work twice as hard to accumulate experience. Diligence can make up for a lack of talent!
Geralt had been wondering whether his words had been too much of a blow to the black-haired boy before him.
But when he saw those gray cat eyes brimming with fighting spirit, appreciation flashed in his eyes.
Geralt returned the training sword in his hand to the weapon rack.
"All right, it's very late. Training's over. We should head back."
"Vesemir said that rest is just as important as training. If you want to practice swordsmanship, you'll have plenty of time later."
Hearing this, Arwen understood the need to balance exertion and rest.
He returned his training sword to the weapon rack, went with Geralt to drink some water by the well, and the two headed back side by side.
In the apprentices' room, snores rose and fell.
Arwen crept back into his bed.
As soon as his muscles relaxed, soreness and exhaustion followed. His heavy eyelids soon closed, and he fell sound asleep.
The eleventh day after the autumn equinox.
In the kitchen, the witchers and apprentices ate breakfast.
There was milk, along with fried eggs and bread.
Of course, the green juice was indispensable.
The apprentices chatted back and forth, completely unaware that Geralt had given Arwen extra instruction the night before.
Breakfast ended.
Vesemir and Geralt led the apprentices on five laps around the castle as a warm-up.
Whether apprentices or long-established witchers, none could slack off in their daily training-not even Blyde, whose right arm was wrapped in bandages.
In the afternoon, Vesemir led everyone up onto the battlements.
The towering, rolling Blue Mountains presented a magnificent vista. Beneath the sunlight, the snow-covered peaks gave off a faint golden glow, and clouds and mist wreathed the pine forests. No matter how many times Arwen saw it, he still found it incredibly breathtaking.
Vesemir clapped his hands, and everyone began checking their equipment.
Only when they were more or less ready did Vesemir speak.
"Today's lesson is windmill training. Can you all see 'The Comb' in front of you?"
The Comb?
Arwen and the others looked over, confusion appearing in their eyes.
Vesemir said, "Take a good look at those wooden posts ahead."
Only then did Arwen understand.
On the platform a short distance ahead stood dozens of wooden posts of varying heights, with considerable differences in the distances and directions between them.
Paul rubbed his hair. "Master Vesemir, aren't those just some wooden posts? Why call them 'The Comb'?"
Vesemir folded his arms across his chest.
"My children, you're witchers. The comb you're talking about is for women to comb their hair. This 'Comb' is for knocking your bodies into shape."
"Geralt, demonstrate for them."
Geralt drew his training sword and used a merlon to leap easily onto a wooden post roughly a meter and sixty centimeters high.
Vesemir said, "Keep your eyes wide open."
Geralt moved. His feet landed precisely in the center of each post without a single unnecessary wobble, as though beneath his feet lay not precarious wooden posts but level ground.
He moved faster and faster, fluid and effortless.
In just a few breaths, he had reached the middle of The Comb.
There, a wooden dummy was fixed to a post, with claws made from wooden rods.
As it sensed Geralt approaching, the gems on the dummy's chest and neck suddenly lit up.
A mechanical whirring came from the dummy's upper body, and its claws began whirling wildly, like a spinning top.
His amber cat eyes brimming with aggression, Geralt pressed in close and raised his arms. His blade passed through the dummy's claws, as dense as a sudden downpour, and struck the gem on its chest.
Clang!
With that single blow, the rapidly spinning dummy shut down on the spot and stopped moving.
Geralt withdrew his sword, stepped into empty air, and jumped down from The Comb.
Arwen pressed his lips together. Beside him, Paul couldn't help saying, "That... that was incredible."
"Well done, Geralt."
Vesemir turned toward the apprentices. "I'm sure you all saw the process clearly. You only need to strike the gems on the windmill dummies with your swords to stop them."
"Looks simple, doesn't it? But be careful. If it knocks you off The Comb, you'll be fine on the side nearest the inner wall. On the outer side, you can only pray you catch on a tree trunk. Otherwise, you'll end up as drowners in the White Stone River."
Everyone swallowed at his words, and quite a few had already begun to tense up.
Arwen poked his head out between the merlons. Kaer Morhen was built against the mountainside, and below lay a bottomless cliff shrouded in clouds and mist. He could only faintly hear the rushing waters of the White Stone River.
Falling would mean certain death!
Fear spread through his heart, only to be forcibly suppressed by his mutated body.
Vesemir's expression was stern. "Relax, children."
"Aiken, you're first!"
Aiken picked up a training sword, his cat eyes already eager to try.
"All right."
Copying Geralt's method, he stepped onto the corner of a merlon and leaped onto The Comb.
After familiarizing himself with the route, he soon began sprinting, treating the cliff beside him as though it didn't exist.
Before long, he reached the windmill dummy, whose wooden claws were spinning at high speed.
Aiken stopped, hesitated for a moment, then pressed in close.
Smack!
A wooden rod slammed into Aiken's shoulder, making his body sway violently.
The sight set the apprentices' hearts pounding, and cries of alarm rang out.
Gritting his teeth, Aiken endured the fierce pain in his shoulder and thrust his sword into the dummy's chest.
"Clack, clack, clack..."
The dummy immediately stopped moving.
Aiken rolled his shoulder, then stylishly flipped off The Comb.
"My gods, Aiken succeeded on his first try."
"By the plague, that backflip was so cool."
The praise from Winston, Blyde, and the others made Aiken forget the pain in his shoulder, and a smug look appeared on his face.
"Easy as anything."
Vesemir took a timer from behind his back and pressed it. "Twenty-nine seconds. Not bad."
Leaning against a merlon, Geralt gave a slight nod.
For an apprentice making his first attempt, that result was indeed more than good enough.
With Vesemir's approval, the corners of Aiken's mouth rose even higher.
Vesemir reset the timer and called out:
"Arwen, you're next."
Arwen stepped forward at the call.
As he passed Aiken, Arwen heard his smug voice.
"Careful, Arwen. Don't let the windmill knock you off."
Arwen heard the snide tone in his voice and merely smiled.
"No need for you to worry about that."
Twenty-nine seconds?
Heh...