The three-day break ended.
For Ritchie, a holiday made little difference. His status let him move freely, but Glasloval was steeped in tension. The old district was under partial lockdown, while others felt like ghost towns.
Outside the city, former picnic spots were now army camps. Playful meadows were scarred with trenches and craters. The flower-lined, tree-shaded riverbank was cordoned off with stakes and chains to block the river.
This was war.
Before it began, Ritchie thought war sounded thrilling. Now, living it, his perspective had shifted entirely.
On the fourth morning, Ritchie headed to camp early and made a beeline for the kitchen.
No clutter littered the floor this time. Back when he'd made a cake in his training armor, it marked passing his first test.
"You're early," came a voice. Only Marilyn would be here outside mealtimes.
Seeing her, Ritchie buzzed with excitement but fumbled for what to do next.
"I… about those days, I won't tell anyone," he whispered solemnly, leaning close.
Marilyn smiled but didn't respond.
Ritchie glanced at the table, where several fish, each over ten pounds, lay wriggling, gills pulsing.
"Put on your training armor," Marilyn said, grabbing a fish-gutting knife from the rack and sticking it into the cutting board.
Ritchie shrugged it off. But once he donned his armor, returned, and grabbed a fish and the knife, he realized the task wasn't simple.
The fish were plump, their meat dense and firm, their scales slippery.
His first cut slid off, missing entirely, and the fish slipped from his grasp.
"Not as easy as you thought, huh?" Marilyn teased from the sidelines.
Ritchie's face flushed. The blunder wasn't huge, but with no way to vent his frustration at Marilyn, he took it out on the fish.
"Don't use too much force," Marilyn cautioned. "This is training. If you want results, do as I say." She could see his irritation, knowing it would cloud his focus.
Ritchie had one strength: he listened to advice.
He carefully picked up the fish, slipping twice because it was so slick.
"What kind of training is this?" he asked, eyeing the crooked, ugly cut on the fish's spine.
Marilyn took the knife from him, turned the fish toward her, and tilted the blade twenty degrees. Holding it with just her thumb and middle finger (thumb on the handle's back, middle finger on the front), she sliced swiftly. The flesh parted cleanly from the bone. Flipping the fish, she reversed her grip and cut again, just as smoothly.
"My father taught me this as a child," she explained. "It trains precision in controlling strength."
Ritchie understood instantly. This was a family technique. Knights inherited strength through bloodlines, but skills were passed down within families, rarely shared with outsiders.
Knowing this, Ritchie grasped the value of the opportunity.
Marilyn continued, "Like me, you're a defensive knight, so my techniques armor you better than the others'. But I can't break family rules. I can only teach you training methods. You have to develop your own skills. No one can do that for you."
She set the knife down after her explanation.
Ritchie, a bit overwhelmed, took the knife and grabbed another fish.
Taking a deep breath, he tried to follow her instructions, relaxing his arm, wrist, and fingers, sensing the fish not with his eyes but through his grip. In his bulky battle armor, it was nearly impossible to feel the fish's muscle texture through the wooden handle and narrow blade. The demand was daunting.
He doubted he'd master it even by Marilyn's age. She'd said she started at six and only succeeded years later.
Unlike peeling potatoes, shucking beans, or picking greens, there were only a few fish. He couldn't practice carelessly.
Ritchie knew each cut had to be precise, every move deliberate.
His first attempt was humiliating. The fish slipped, the knife nicked his armor's finger, and when he pulled back, the knife flew from his hand.
He glanced at Marilyn, relieved to see only encouragement on her face.
Marilyn's the best, he thought.
Compared to others who'd trained him, Master Diana used a trial-and-error approach, letting him learn from failure. Lina, the juicer girl, was slightly better, actually teaching, but her impatience and sharp tongue meant even good efforts earned a "No big deal, any idiot could do it." The three sisters were pure demons. Ritchie shuddered at the thought.
Calming himself, he picked up another fish.
This time, he didn't cut right away. He ran his hands over the fish, feeling its slickness. The scales weren't just slippery; they were coated in a sticky, slimy mucus. It reminded him of the fluids from a woman's body during intimacy, meant for lubrication.
It was sticky, slimy, and carried a faint fishy odor.
Ritchie's focus wavered briefly, but he quickly steadied his mind.
A sudden spark of inspiration hit Ritchie, unrelated to Marilyn's lesson but tied to his practice of parrying close-range attacks.
Parrying relied on deflecting an enemy's strike, but success hinged on reaction speed.
As he gently stroked the fish's slick scales, an idea formed.
What if his battle armor wasn't rigid like a barrel but flexible and slippery like a fish? What would that change?
Glancing at the knife, Ritchie's excitement dimmed. His idea had a fatal flaw—Marilyn's technique was its perfect counter.
He sliced absently, surprised at how natural it felt.
"Not bad," Marilyn praised from the side. "Your instincts are sharp. Flip it and try again. I hope that wasn't just luck."
Ritchie followed her lead, slicing lightly. This time, he caught the feeling. It was his parrying technique; sensing the direction of force in an attack and redirecting it. Now, he was sensing the fish's muscle grain, guiding the knife to the perfect cutting angle.
Grabbing another fish, he didn't linger as before. With a swift swish, the cut felt even clearer.
It wasn't just parrying, as it echoed his footwork training, too. The blade slid along the fish's flat spine, much like how footwork skimmed the ground, staying as close as possible without lifting.
Ritchie stood frozen for a quarter-hour, savoring the sensation. He'd stumbled onto his own unique move.
Eager to hold onto the feeling, he grabbed the remaining fish. Without even pinning them, he sliced: one cut, a flip, then a reverse cut. The fish split cleanly into three pieces.
Another fish, no flip this time, just two quick cuts. It became three pieces, though the bottom slice was a bit rough.
Marilyn watched silently, not angered by his improvisation but astonished. Her family, though not noble, was large, with countless siblings and cousins all trained in this technique. None had found their rhythm as fast as Ritchie.
In moments, every fish was sliced into three. Still eager, Ritchie began cutting thin fillets, angling the knife along the muscle grain. Near the skin, he twisted the blade, skimming it cleanly.
The result was decent but imperfect: fillets varied in thickness, the skin bore minor tears, and some flesh clung to it.
Marilyn observed quietly, recognizing the technique. Her family had similar methods, but Ritchie's approach was different, rooted in his footwork, which was no secret to the squad.
"That's impressive," Marilyn said, then pointed out the flaw. "But it's useless in combat."