Chapter No.50: - Advise

Simon and Ivan continued sparring under the soft glow of the dojo lanterns. Simon moved with a calm fluidity, every step, parry, and strike flowing as if it were second nature. It was clear he wasn't fighting with effort—he was fighting with instinct, like his body had memorized the rhythm of combat long ago.

Ivan, on the other hand, struggled.

Though his movements were powerful and precise, they lacked the natural ease Simon carried. He was forcing it—forcing himself to match a style that wasn't his. A few minutes in, breath ragged and posture faltering, he lowered his sword.

"Stop," he said, stepping back and walking toward the weapon rack again.

This time, he picked up a longsword. They resumed sparring, but the results were the same. Minutes passed, and once again Ivan returned to the rack, selecting a new weapon—this time, a polearm.

Again and again, he repeated this cycle: choosing different weapons, testing each one, then discarding it with a growing look of frustration. Simon, meanwhile, stayed with the same twin short swords, never once changing his tools.

As time wore on, Ivan's breathing grew heavier, his body drenched in sweat, movements slower, more erratic. He couldn't find the weapon that clicked—that spoke to him.

Eventually, they paused for a break. Simon stood calmly near the center of the dojo, posture relaxed, barely a drop of sweat on him. In contrast, Ivan was bent slightly forward, catching his breath, sweat dripping like he'd just climbed out of a river.

Watching silently from the corner, the old dojo master finally stepped forward.

He looked at the two young men—first at Ivan, then at Simon—and spoke.

"Sir Flame Knight..."

But before he could finish, Simon raised a hand.

"Please," he said, his voice calm. "Just call me Simon."

The old man smiled gently. "Very well. Simon." He paused, then continued, his eyes sharp with insight. "Your combat style—you created it to fight Dreadbeasts, didn't you? Not just one at a time, but several."

Simon nodded slowly. He wasn't surprised the dojo master had figured it out. The man had clearly trained in martial arts for decades. His eyes could see what others missed.

"That's correct," Simon confirmed.

The old man shifted his gaze, studying Simon more closely.

"Do you use other weapons?" he asked.

Simon blinked. That question caught him off guard. He hadn't used any other weapons in their sparring—just the twin short swords.

Before he could respond, the old man smiled knowingly.

"A great sword, I believe."

Simon's expression shifted slightly, surprised. How could he have known?

As if reading his thoughts, the master chuckled. "You fight with a blend—short sword speed with great sword weight. Your strikes carry a hidden heaviness behind them, and your footwork has the subtle pauses of someone used to wielding something much larger. That kind of timing—it doesn't come from short sword training."

Simon looked down at his own hands, thinking it over. The man was right. He hadn't noticed it before, but now it was obvious.

his weapon wielding style was blend of Short Sword and Great Sword that created this unique style where Short sword had the heaviness of great sword and great sword had the speed of short sword 

The dojo master stepped back, tone growing more serious.

"If I may offer advice—start training to fight people, not monsters. Your current style is built to counter beasts, not men."

Simon's gaze sharpened, and he fell into quiet thought. The old man was right. Dreadbeasts were predictable—they rushed, clawed, roared. But humans? Humans were cunning, deceitful, adaptive. Monsters in their own right.

Seeing Simon reflect in silence, the master smiled to himself, then turned to Ivan.

"And you..." he said warmly. "I think I know what kind of weapon might suit you."

Ivan looked up, surprised, still catching his breath. The old man turned and beckoned.

"Come with me."

Ivan glanced at Simon, who still stood deep in thought, then turned and followed the dojo master. Something told him—Simon was about to realize something important. But for now, his own path called to him.

And maybe… just maybe… the weapon he'd been searching for was finally within reach.

With a flicker of hope in his eyes, Ivan followed the old dojo master across the room.

They stopped at the far end, where the master unlocked a thick wooden door. As it creaked open, Ivan was immediately struck by the sharp scent of iron and oil. He stepped inside and was greeted by the sight of dozens of weapons—some lined neatly on racks, others resting on padded shelves. The dim light glinted off polished metal, revealing swords, axes, polearms, and weapons Ivan didn't even recognize.

"What is this place?" Ivan asked, his voice filled with awe.

The old man smiled proudly.

"A little hobby of mine. I've been a blacksmith most of my life. Every weapon in here—I made it myself."

He stepped forward, moving past the rows of gleaming steel.

"Come," he said, then paused, scratching his beard. "Wait... what was your name again?"

"Ivan. Ivan Tarnell," he replied, still scanning the array of weapons.

"Ah, Ivan." The master gave a nod of approval. "I think I've got something you'll like."

He walked to a stand at the corner and pulled out a halberd—simple in design, nothing flashy, but there was a quiet strength in its balance. The shaft was darkened wood reinforced with bands of steel, and the blade curved with an elegant edge, combining an axe head with a pointed spike.

He handed it over.

"Here. Try this."

Ivan accepted the weapon, its weight settling into his palms with surprising ease. It felt... right. Like the handle had been shaped to fit his grip.

The old master continued, watching Ivan closely.

"From the way you fought earlier, I noticed something. Your swings have power—serious power. But your piercing strikes? Weaker, less focused. That tells me something."

He gestured toward the racks behind them.

"Swords and spears—they rely too much on thrusting precision. Not your strength. And weapons like great hammers or axes are too heavy—they drag you down and kill your mobility. But a halberd..." he tapped the weapon in Ivan's hands, "has strong swing potential and just enough reach and versatility. Not too heavy, not too light. It matches your natural strength and gives you options."

Ivan looked down at the halberd again. For the first time that night, he felt something shift—something clicks into place. As if the weapon belonged to him, and always had.

"Try it out," the old man encouraged with a grin.

Ivan didn't hesitate. He stepped out into the open space of the forge, halberd in hand, and began to move.

And as he did, something about his movements changed—stronger, smoother, more complete.

The search might finally be over.

Back in the center of the dojo, Simon stood still—his eyes distant, lost in thought. He barely noticed Ivan stepping into the room again, halberd in hand, his steps light but purposeful.

"Simon!" Ivan called out, his voice sharp. "Wake up!"

Without warning, Ivan rushed forward. The halberd whistled through the air as he brought it down in a heavy arc—aimed straight for Simon's head.

Simon remained frozen—unfocused, unaware—until suddenly, his instincts kicked in.

A sharp spike of danger jolted through him, snapping him back into reality. His eyes flared with awareness. In a single motion, he stepped into the attack and swung one of his short swords.

The halberd's blade snapped clean off, shattered mid-swing. Before Ivan could react, Simon's foot shot forward, slamming into his gut and sending him flying backward across the dojo.

"Gah—!" Ivan hit the floor with a thud, the wind knocked out of him, limbs sprawled.

The old dojo master, who had watched everything unfold, walked slowly toward Simon, eyebrows raised.

He glanced at Ivan—still upside down on the floor—then back at Simon, whose expression was now calm again, though slightly guilty.

"I think I might've given the wrong advice," the old man muttered, scratching the back of his head. "You don't need to learn a new style..."

He looked Simon in the eye, serious now.

"You need to learn how to control your strength."

Simon blinked, thoughtful, while Ivan groaned in the background