Chapter 30: Mistakes

The instructor looked completely untouched despite the devastation surrounding them. There wasn’t even dust on his clothes.

His rough beard, short dark hair streaked with grey at the temples, old facial scar, and ever-present wine flask made him look exactly as he had before the battle began.

Sigurd stared at him for a moment, then glanced toward the distant cliff where Osric had been standing during the fight. When his eyes returned to his instructor, annoyance was already creeping into his expression.

Sigurd lowered his hand from his sword and asked, "Do you deliberately appear directly in front of me like that?"

Osric lowered the flask from his mouth and raised one eyebrow as though the question genuinely confused him. "Like what, Tenth Young Master?"

Sigurd pointed toward the distant cliff with his blood-covered hand before gesturing back toward Osric. "You were standing all the wayover there a moment ago. Now you’re standing three feet from my face without me sensing you approach."

Osric looked down at his own boots, then toward the cliff, and finally returned his attention to Sigurd with an approving nod. "Excellent observation. Those three years of training haven’t been wasted after all."

Sigurd’s iron-grey eyes flattened immediately, and Osric’s serious expression lasted only another second before the older man laughed. Three years had apparently done absolutely nothing to improve his instructor’s personality.

Once his amusement subsided, Osric walked past Sigurd and crouched beside the Silvervein Direwolf’s severed neck. His expression gradually became more thoughtful as he inspected the corpse.

He examined the wounds Sigurd had accumulated across the beast’s limbs and

Osric shook his head before turning fully toward his student. The usual mockery had disappeared from his face, replaced by something Sigurd rarely received from the man.

"Nothing is wrong with it. You did well, Tenth Young Master. Three years ago, that Armored Bloodfang nearly tore you apart because your body couldn’t always execute what your mind understood. You wasted movements, hesitated when your experience from your previous training couldn’t account for the creatures of this world, and needed an entire battle to properly adapt."

He paused for a few seconds and then continued. "Today was different. You fought something stronger than yourself, remained calm when it wounded you, learned its habits while fighting, deliberately damaged the parts you intended to exploit, and created the opening that allowed you to kill it. That is progress worth acknowledging."

Sigurd blinked once at the unexpected praise before suspicion replaced surprise. Osric complimented him occasionally, but never without finding something to criticize immediately afterward.

His expression must have betrayed that thought because the instructor snorted and pointed his wine flask toward him.

Osric shook his head with visible amusement and told him, "Stop looking at me as though someone replaced me while you weren’t watching. I’m capable of praising you when you deserve it. That doesn’t mean the fight was perfect. You allowed the tail to catch you because you became too confident after injuring its foreleg, you wasted Vis during the second collision, and there were at least three opportunities when you could have attacked without using Severing Line. A Martial Technique is a weapon, not something you need to force into every opening simply because you’re proud of learning it."

Sigurd glanced toward the corpse and replayed those exchanges in his head. He couldn’t disagree.

"The tail strike was careless," he admitted while rubbing the side of his ribs. "I thought the damaged foreleg would slow its turn more than it did. I won’t make the same mistake next time."

Osric gave a satisfied nod before approaching the severed neck again. "Good. As for Severing Line, you’re firmly within Major Completion now. That final strike was probably the closest you’ve come to crossing the next threshold, but don’t confuse being close with reaching Perfection. At Perfection, you won’t need to think about executing Severing Line. The distinction between the technique and your ordinary swordsmanship will almost disappear. You’re still consciously bringing the principle into your movements."

Sigurd rested his hand against the hilt of his sword as he considered those words. He had felt it during the final attack. For a fraction of a second, everything had come together more naturally than ever before, without the deliberate synchronization that had characterized Severing Line when he first learned it.

Yet Osric was right.

There had still been a boundary. Sigurd had chosen to use Severing Line, then executed it. Perfection apparently demanded something deeper.

"I’ll reach it eventually," Sigurd said, his thumb brushing absently against the sword guard.

There was no frustration in his voice this time. Three years had taught him that some thresholds couldn’t be bullied into opening simply because he wanted them badly enough.

Osric watched him for a moment before a small smile appeared beneath his beard. "That answer is already an improvement. Seven-year-old you would have returned home and swung the sword until his hands started bleeding."

Sigurd glanced at him and replied dryly, "Ten-year-old me knows you’ll make me swing it until my hands bleed anyway, so there’s no reason to volunteer."

That earned a loud laugh from Osric, who slapped the side of his leg with his flask before taking another drink. When the laughter eventually subsided, however, the instructor didn’t announce another training exercise.

He didn’t tell Sigurd to harvest the Direwolf’s materials, nor did he begin explaining everything Sigurd had done wrong during the fight. Instead, Osric simply stood there and studied him.

Sigurd noticed immediately.

Something had changed.

Wind swept through the devastated valley, carrying dust between them as loose stones continued falling from the damaged mountainside.

Sigurd stood amid the destruction with blood drying across his arms, his ash-white hair disheveled, his clothes torn, and his sword resting against his waist. Behind him lay the first Demonic Beast he had ever killed without assistance.

Three years ago, he had entered this stage of his training as a seven-year-old boy struggling against his first Ferocious Beast.

That stage was apparently over.

Sigurd narrowed his eyes slightly and asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Osric didn’t answer immediately. The instructor raised his flask, took one final drink, and then rested it casually against his shoulder.

There was something different in his expression now, a mixture of satisfaction and anticipation that made Sigurd realize the Silvervein Direwolf hadn’t merely been another training opponent. Osric had brought him here to determine something.

Apparently, Sigurd had given him the answer he wanted.

A slow smile spread beneath Osric’s rough beard as he looked directly into Sigurd’s iron-grey eyes.

"Well, Tenth Young Master," Osric finally said, "are you ready to go to Helheim?"