Once we pass through, we continue to the military compound at the city center, where we pass through one more gate and enter into the absurdly massive and open space, dominated by fields, which stands in contrast to the rest of the dense city all around it. At this point, two soldiers, the injured one and the information guy, break off and head to the section of the compound devoted to medical treatment.
From there, we head over to Reinhart's field. The sun is high above, signifying that it is around noon, coincidentally the time that we would normally be starting Reinhart's class. I foolishly expect him to recognize this and take this opportunity to allow the class to take the period off and rest, but instead he tells us to practice our swordsmanship on our own.
I notice that the soldiers who had been here this morning have all disappeared, an observation that I can't help but worry about.
Apparently, I am not the only one who observes this, as Jorgenson asks our commander "Commander, do you know what happened to those soldiers who refused to go with us today?"
"I'd assume that they have been rounded up and imprisoned for cowardice, an offense punishable by death. At least that has been the historical response to soldiers refusing to participate in training exercises due to fear, so unless they changed it, I'd be expecting an announcement to come from our general tonight."
"Execution?! Merely for not wanting to participate in such a deadly fight, a fight that only a third of us survived?! Doesn't that seem a bit harsh to you?"
"Are you questioning this military's practices?" he asks, his voice as cold as steel.
"O-of course not. It just caught me by surprise, that's all."
[Hmph. I don't know how Jorgenson plans on advancing his ideals if he backs down whenever questioned about them.]
"Good," Reinhart continues. "In that case, get to training. You are doubtlessly the individual here most in need of practice. It is honestly a miracle that you survived out there; if it weren't for no less than three of your comrades devoting their energy - and in one case a leg - to keeping you alive, you would not be here now. If the cannot heal your comrade's leg, he will be crippled for life, all because you neglected your studies and expected others to care for you at their own detriment, even staying near to whoever would allow you to during the whole fight, in hopes that any scorpions who neared you would target your comrades rather than you. You should feel ashamed."
[The cutting nature of Reinhart's words is certainly impressive. It's as though he knows exactly what to say to cause the most possible distress.]
I expect Jorgenson to point out that Reinhart is, as his instructor, the one most responsible for his lack of fighting ability (not to mention responsible for intentionally placing us in such a dangerous situation in the first place). However, Jorgenson says nothing, only nodding and beginning to awkwardly flail his sword about in the air.
Seeing this, I begin to practice as well. I go through the motions that I have long since mastered, the motions that I use as building blocks for every attack that I employ. I notice Reinhart watching me intently, and I quickly realize that it is very possible that some of these base element moves may not be standard practice as they are on earth. It [is] certainly possible that two completely different worlds would develop different swordsmanship techniques, I suppose. I mean, in my single fight with a skilled swordsman in this world, my one fight with Reinhart, he did use a handful of moves unfamiliar to me… Well, it doesn't really matter. If he wants to learn moves that are fully new to him by watching me, I have no complaints.
After about an hour of watching me, he comes over. He surprises me a bit when he asks "Would you like to spar?" However, I still reply in the affirmative, and he positions himself about ten feet in front of me in a defensive stance.
"I'm ready when you are," I say to him, maintaining a defensive stance of my own.
We stare intently at one another, neither moving an inch. Then, ending our staring contest, I leap toward him. I do not use any wind mana to propel myself forward, as it seems like doing such a thing would be cheating in a contest of swordsmanship.
He parries my blow before initiating a counterattack, which I catch on my crossguard. He then disengages with surprising agility, jumping away to take another defensive stance some ten yards away.
"You choreograph your moves a bit too much," he says to me, apparently intent on making this sparring session into training for me.
"How so?" I ask him, genuinely curious, while still searching for any opening in his defense.
"Leaping towards me with your sword held high - It was only too easy to predict where your blow would land."
"Well, perhaps that is the case. However, my primary goal was to initiate a trading of blows, not to catch you unaware with a tricky feint."
"But why not always aim to land a blow? The goal within a fight should be to land as many hits as possible; the only time that you should ever [want] your sword to come in contact with your opponent is when you have decided that blocking your enemy's strike is the best way to proceed. Understood?"
I nod in assent, the tip of my sword still twitching as I make minute adjustments in my stance, trying to anticipate his next strike.
[He is definitely right though. I need to make sure that every one of my attacks has a distinct purpose that will bring me towards victory, as opposed to the goal being a flashy show. Perhaps my time fighting on Earth, where western swordsmanship has been reduced to a mere hobby, had made me subconsciously aim for an interesting show as opposed to an efficient victory. If that is the case, it is indeed something that I must immediately stop doing. Here, the only goal of a sword fight, whether with friend or foe, should be victory; anything else is mere foolishness.]
Reinhart interrupts my thinking when he lunges toward my chest. I instinctively block, my sword raised to protect my chest, but his sword changes target at the last moment, instead going for my leg. Realizing that I have no hope of blocking it, I instead take a large step back, causing his attack to nearly miss.
My hopes that he may have put too much into the attack, which would have caused him to lose his balance, are quickly dashed when he transforms his lunge at my leg into a fluid slash that finds a gap in my defense and leaves a deep gash across my forearm.
Instead of backing away, which would give him the opportunity to press his advantage, I step in closer, taking a position only a foot away from him, a position that he can't hit with his own sword. If this were a real fight, I would sneak in a kick, hoping to knock him off balance. However, something tells me that that would not be appropriate for a mock duel, and I manage to restrain myself.
For a moment, at least. Thinking of all the blood on his hands, the blood of my comrades, my Wrath skill flares up. In the time it takes me to crush the destructive impulse that I feel, I have already lashed out with a nasty kick to his knee that knocks him to the ground.
I have already taken a step forward, jabbing for his neck, when my more rational side takes back control and causes the point of the blade to bury itself a hair's breadth from him.
Relinquishing this fantastic opportunity to make some snide comment about him making the foolish choice to assume that I would fight fair, I only say to him "Thank you for the advice," before backing away.
He gets up and silently retrieves his sword before finally facing me. I expect him to be furious for using a dishonorable tactic in our fight; thus I am surprised when the first words from his mouth are a compliment. "It looks like you have taken my advice from day one, to treat these as real life-and-death battles, to heart. I suppose that only I am at fault for not anticipating that well placed kick of yours. Furthermore, that step into my range was a fantastic idea. That said, I would refrain from doing what you just did if you are ever locked into a duel with a noble. Even if it allows you to win, the consequences of that trick would almost certainly be worse than just accepting the loss. Now, let us continue."
We spar, match after match passing by. Outside of the first match, where I caught him by surprise, only two others go to me. For the most part, he comes out as the victor, though once we begin to tire, draws are often called to give us a moment to separate and rest. During our matches, he points out many flaws and inefficiencies in my style of fighting, along with recommendations for how to remedy them.
During our matches, I finally begin to see why he is allowed to instruct swordsmen here. It is doubtless that he is a master of the blade, and he excels at critiquing the fighting style of others with genuinely helpful recommendations for how to fix whatever issues he finds. Combined with the fact that this military prioritizes individual strength to any tactics which rely on numbers, it makes sense that they would prefer an instructor who produces a small handful of warriors who have gone through his rigorous and in depth training as opposed to a mob of barely-proficient drones who only know a few basic techniques.
Of course, just because he is a good instructor, it doesn't mean that I actually [like] him. He is without a doubt a cruel and somewhat egotistical individual. I mean, if we're being honest, my master is as well. That said, with my master it is the egotistical nature that is clearer, as opposed to with Reinhart where his cruelty shines out as his defining feature. While his methods are truly effective, it is also true that he takes great pleasure in them, despite their almost sadistic nature.
[Well, so long as I don't die to his training, it is doubtless that I am greatly benefiting from this relationship, likely much more than I otherwise would if I had a normal swordsmanship instructor. With this training as the final ingredient, I am beginning to become rather confident in my ability to survive on the battlefield. I have only been here a handful of days, and yet my capabilities, both in magic and in swordsmanship, have been improving rapidly. Where I was once pessimistic about the future, I am beginning to become rather confident that I won't die - on my first mission at least.
Bah! That's not a good way to think. As it is said, "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." If I take comfort in the meager power I have thus far acquired, I will be merely setting myself up for failure. It is undoubtedly the case that there are beings in this world that could crush me like a bug - look to General Lion for example. If I enter battle bereft of caution, my downfall will be certain.]
Once the end of when his class would normally end arrives, we jointly call an end to our duels. I had been intently focused on them - exempting some of my thoughts - to the extent that I had not noticed all of the remaining soldiers in our class gathering around to watch. Their expressions range from respect, in the case of the two nobles who had each soloed a scorpion, to astonishment and admiration from the rest (except for the heavily injured soldier; he's still receiving medical attention and so is obviously not here).
Reinhart looks over them disapprovingly before saying "You should have been focused on your own practice. Not our matches. Frankly, they are probably at too high a level for most of you to get much from them anyway, you would be better off to instead focus on your own training. Well, whatever. Our allotted time has ended, class dismissed."
They depart, and, after thanking Reinhart for his training, I follow them away, headed towards where my master teaches his class.