Chapter 19: Bear School Swordsmanship

Early the next morning, Old Allen woke groggily on his hay bed.

As usual, his bleary eyes scanned the empty room.

But when he noticed the empty hay bed by the door, his eyes widened in alarm.

He sprang up, ignoring the complaints of his elderly wife, threw on a shirt, and rushed to the wooden door.

"Where is he? Where's the demon hunter? Has he run away?!"

Old Allen's anxiety spiked. It wasn't impossible; after all, if someone had dumped a losing errand on him, he would have bolted too.

"No! He can't leave! I need to..."

The fishing grounds still required development, and more catches depended on him. How could Lane run away now?

Muttering, Old Allen flung open the wooden door.

At that moment, he froze, mouth agape.

Dark clouds still loomed over Wylen, and drizzle fell steadily.

Lane stood in the rain, gripping the steel sword of the Bear School, obtained by slaying his teacher.

The sword's bright blade, half its length, pointed forward at an angle.

In that moment, the young demon hunter's gaze was laser-focused.

Even Old Allen, who had only seen the Duke's tax collector and his soldiers, was struck by the sight of Lane, a true swordsman.

He felt an involuntary gulp as a sigh escaped him—"It's too stable."

The sword was held with such precision.

Even someone like him, who only wielded a harpoon or fishing net, could sense it.

Instinctively, people know their physical limits.

So in Lane's hometown, amid a flood of chaotic information, even if someone encountered a skill they had never seen, they'd marvel at its execution.

They might not comprehend the effort behind such excellence, but they'd instinctively feel: "I can't achieve that; the gap is too wide."

Admiration welled up from deep within.

Old Allen felt this way now.

In Lane's hands, the flat, clear blade resembled a calm lake surface.

If it weren't raining, the effect wouldn't be as pronounced, but the downpour amplified its unwavering steadiness.

Raindrops hitting the blade sounded like stones striking the ground.

Amid Old Allen's shock, a deep breath emanated from Lane's chest.

Then, the long sword and his body began to move in a dance.

It was an unusual style of swordsmanship, with his weight shifting deftly between his feet, often balanced on one at a time, spinning and leaping sideways.

Even an amateur could tell this technique prioritized agility over traditional knightly forms.

After all, the monsters demon hunters faced were often as formidable as a charge from heavily armored cavalry.

No one could withstand such an assault directly, so agility was crucial for survival.

The loss of power and fluidity from frequent weight shifts was compensated by swift spinning movements in his swordplay.

Centrifugal force became a master swordsman's ally.

A full swing of the blade, combined with high angular velocity, could cleave through even plate armor!

The Bear School's techniques emphasized superior physical fitness.

When attacking, their style leaned toward aggression, using weight and rotation to amplify power, sacrificing some rotational energy for a stronger thrust.

Even against the Chimaera in Bordon, the blade didn't merely slice; it shredded the exoskeletons of those worm-like beasts.

Lane aimed to master this advanced technique of gravity control, aided by Mentors.

"Sir, you've passed the basic swordsmanship test, but my analysis suggests that the Bear School's advanced techniques may prioritize agility over stability."

"Are you implying that my focus on basic skills hinders my progression in Bear School techniques?"

"No, I believe basic skills remain paramount. Perhaps my analysis and training plan require refinement."

"I see," Lane replied, contemplating.

He wasn't swayed by Mentors' insights; the foundation of this technical analysis stemmed from his experiences in Bordon's battles.

Ultimately, for an intellectual mind, the feeling of "not understanding" came down to a lack of processing power.

He needed an upgrade.

"Let's continue analyzing the existing data and refine the training plan." Lane lowered and sheathed his sword.

"I still have much to learn; there's no rush with swordsmanship. Someone's coming," he concluded, ending the conversation with the smart brain.

As Lane ceased his spinning dance, Old Allen approached cautiously, feeling like an outsider.

Lane sensed Old Allen's thoughts.

"Don't worry; I'm not going anywhere. One victim's family still needs support, and the academy's compensation won't cease."

His tone was as light as the previous night, but Old Allen no longer felt the same chilling unease.

In fact, Lane had reflected on this throughout the night.

This world was one where death lurked around every corner.

His morals and worldview were, as Bortol said, foreign to this reality.

The man resembling a brown bear had told his apprentice, moments before death, that he was already in hell.

Having heard of the human tragedy the previous day, Lane felt a profound sense of helplessness, a pain so deep it almost drove him to despair.

Yet it revealed a long-acknowledged truth: without power, there are no choices.

It's essential to possess "the strength to survive" and "the strength to maintain one's will to live."

Too many blame others for their misfortunes.

The "seed of strength" lies within him, and the "guidance of strength" operates in his mind. Lane wasn't about to stop here.

"Let's go; it's time to work," he said calmly, twisting his neck and wrists.

The hastily sewn cotton armor replaced his tattered blue one.

His robe, reaching his calves, bore large patches of leather armor, still stained with blood on the shoulders and chest.

Clothes make the man, and Lane now stood tall and proud, ready to face the day's monsters and challenges.

Old Allen observed the determined demon hunter, scratching his chin as he tested the waters.

"Why don't we eat first?"