The following week, in the sun-drenched garden, the first lesson began.
Under the watchful eyes of Clara, the blond-haired daughter of the Southports, an elegant knight was training in a set of armour. She had just gotten off duty, and went straight to the manor to teach the young boy, similarly holding his weapon, feeling the warmth of the cloud-free weather.
"Again", Emma commanded, her posture perfect as she demonstrated a basic high guard, "The strength comes from your stance, not just your arm. Root yourself"
Greem mimicked the movement. He was careful, always careful, to move with the clumsy deliberation of a novice. But he put real strength into it. His strength stat was higher than average. He'd earned those points through life-or-death struggles in the forbidden mountains, not lifting books. He had also practiced his share fair alone, trying to mimic the swordsmanship manual Vanessa offered him to the best of his ability.
He now had the thing he needed most: a teacher.
He executed the move.
[Congratulations! You have received guidance from a knight who has higher proficiency in the [Swordsmanship] skill. As a result, your proficiency has gone up by 2 points.]
[Swordsmanship: 16 -> 18]
Emma paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Hm. Your form is rough, but the power is there. Surprising", She corrected his footwork, her hands firm on his shoulders, "Now, the thrust. It's a single, fluid motion. Don't telegraph it"
He listened, absorbing her every word like a spell formula. His mind, sharpened by Magical Knowledge and higher spirit stat, deconstructed the physical motion into its component parts. He did it again.
[Congratulations! You have received guidance from a knight... proficiency has gone up by 1 points]
[Swordsmanship: 18-> 19]
This time, Emma didn't speak for a moment. She just watched him. "You... grasped the correction instantly. Most of my new recruits take days to unlearn that mistake"
There was a new, appraising light in her eyes. The "natural talent" she had lightly complimented was revealing itself to be something far more rapid and unnerving.
The lesson continued, and the notifications flashed in his mind with gratifying frequency. [Swordsmanship: 19 -> 20 -> 23]. He was leveling up faster than he had with any tome. What had taken him months to reach was getting corrected, and almost instantly, his ring would infirm his feelings. It must be said that acolytes, while not necessarily wiser than regular humans, possessed a capacity of concentration and memory far greater than the average human.
Greem not only possessed 7 points of spirit, he had also seen Vanessa fight in combat hundreds of times, and possessed enough points in [Magical Knowledge] to know how to learn fast.
Finally, Emma picked up two practice swords, tossed one to him, and fell into a sparring stance. "Let's see how you apply it. Don't worry, I'll go slow. Just try to block my attack."
She moved, a controlled, telegraphed swing aimed at his shoulder. Greem's body, now humming with the new knowledge, reacted. He parried, the wooden swords clacking together. He was slow, but his block was mechanically correct.
"Good!" Emma said, pressing forward with another easy strike. "Now, see if you can—"
It happened in a flash. She shifted her weight, feinting low before bringing her practice sword around in a slightly faster, less telegraphed arc toward his side. It was still a training move, but it was the first one with any real intent behind it.
And Greem's body reacted not as a soldier-in-training, but as a survivor's.
He didn't just block. His Agility (2) was too low for a graceful dodge, so his body defaulted to its most primal, honed instinct: overwhelming threat. As he moved to counter, a sliver of his true self leaked out—the chilling, predatory aura toned by years of missions in the Black Widow Association. It was a wisp of pure, undiluted killing intent, result of hundreds of missions of hunting beasts and assassinations.
Emma's knightly instincts screamed. Her eyes widened. The man before her wasn't a young boy; it was something dangerous, a cornered beast. Her own reflexes, sharpened by real battle, took over. She aborted her training swing and, acting on pure defensive impulse, rotated her wrist and brought the pommel of her practice sword hard against his temple in a sharp, stunning blow.
"Greem!"
He crumpled to the cobblestones, the world going black before he even felt the pain.