Double chapter
Enjoy !!
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Lance breathed a sigh of relief upon reading the plan detailed by [Fox]. "So, it's not about ingesting murloc blood directly," he mused, a trace of relief in his voice. The idea of using murloc blood diluted in water for bathing was far more palatable to him than the initial, unsettling thought of drinking it. Based on his own observations, the repulsive taste of murloc blood was a significant deterrent, limited primarily to its oral consumption. Its odor, while distinctly fishy, wasn't overwhelmingly offensive otherwise.
This revelation shed light on the common aversion to using murlocs as a dietary option. The overwhelming unpleasantness associated with the blood's taste far outweighed any potential nutritional value, rendering the creatures undesirable as a food source for most.
Lance granted himself a brief respite before departing from Amman's company. Outside the Moonlight Tower, the two stoic potters remained vigilant at their posts, undisturbed. Nearby, Bonnie and the soldier responsible for escorting the murlocs waited patiently for Lance. Clutching the two heavy barrels of murloc blood, Lance appreciated the assistance as the ensemble trekked back to the castle under the veil of night.
After a quick and unspecific meal, Lance, carrying a pail of murloc blood, made his way into the bathroom, insisting that Bonnie keep out. He enforced this order with a serious demeanor, leaving the young maid with no choice but to linger awkwardly at the room's edge. Unbeknownst to Lance, Bonnie had been placed in his service not merely as a maid but as a spy, tasked by Mrs. Nancy to observe and report back on every detail of his daily activities. However, Lance's cold shoulder left her with no opportunities to fulfill this covert role, placing her in a precarious position between the demands of the viscountess and the autonomy of Lance.
With the bathroom door securely shut, Lance found the hot water prepared by Aunt Xili awaiting him, just as it had been the day before. He took a moment to estimate the correct amount and then cautiously added about a third of the murloc blood from the bucket into the steaming bath, beginning the unique and unconventional regimen prescribed by [Fox].
The immediate transformation of the water from clear to a deep, ominous scarlet was startling. The steam rising from the surface seemed to dance eerily in the blood-red light, creating a surreal atmosphere in the small bathroom. Lance, undeterred by the macabre scene, discarded his clothing and immersed himself into the concoction without a second thought.
"Is there anything else required of me in this process?" he inquired inwardly, floating in the red-hot liquid.
[Fox] reassured him, stating simply, {Just soaking is sufficient. Alternatively, this could be a good opportunity for relaxation.}
Lance allowed his eyes to shut gently, surrendering to the warmth that seemed to envelop him. A comforting sensation, like warm tendrils, appeared to emanate from the blood-infused water, tenderly probing and seeping through his skin.
He couldn't help but relax further, whispering to himself, "This is surprisingly pleasant..." as he began to discern the subtle, transformative properties of the murloc blood.
…
Two hours later, Lance opened his eyes to witness an astonishing transformation. The once scarlet bathwater had softened into a delicate pink hue. A fine layer of sanguine foam adhered to Lance's skin, signifying that his body had seemingly assimilated every drop of the murloc's life essence. Stepping out from the bath, he was engulfed by a wave of unprecedented vitality; fatigue had been washed away, replaced with an odd sense of heightened awareness.
"This is curious," Lance pondered, a frown creasing his brow. "How could the people of the Hussar Kingdom overlook the potency of murloc blood for so many years?" The bafflement deepened as he considered his teacher, the wizard Amman, who, despite residing on the west coast for a spell, appeared oblivious to such properties. Lance couldn't help but wonder about this gap in common knowledge.
Regardless, armed with the insights provided by the main chip [Fox], Lance knew he had stumbled upon a valuable secret. With renewed determination, he resolved to leverage this newfound information to his advantage.
In the ensuing days, Lance established a rigorous and structured routine. He rose with the dawn to diligently practice his swordsmanship until the sun reached its zenith. As the afternoon waned, he dedicated his time to scholarly pursuits and mental exercises within the enigmatic confines of the Moonlight Tower. When night fell, he concluded his day with a restorative bath, a ritual he adhered to without deviation for six successive days.
The monotony of this schedule did not dampen Lance's spirits. On the contrary, whether it was the rhythmic dance of his sword or the tranquil immersion in his nightly baths, he sensed a tangible enhancement in his physical prowess. To the casual observer, these improvements might seem minute, nearly imperceptible. However, Lance, armed with the analytical precision of his chip, perceived each incremental advancement with crystal clarity.
{The horizontal splitting is up to the standard!}
{The vertical chopping is up to the standard!}
{The upswing is up to the standard!}…
The crisp confirmations from the main chip echoed, heralding Lance's mastery of each technique within the basic military swordsmanship. This day marked a milestone; his muscles had memorized every stance and swing, ensuring his actions were devoid of any inaccuracies.
Lance persisted in his solitary practice within the expansive grounds, his focus unbroken by the cluster of onlooking youths by the castle's entrance. Their murmurs and chuckles didn't deter him; he barely acknowledged their presence, his mind entrenched in the rhythm of his swordplay.
"Three hundred and ninety-eight!" The main chip's voice resonated within him.
"Three hundred and ninety-nine!" Each count was a testament to his dedication.
"four hundred!" And with that final swing, Lance reached a significant juncture. Drenched in sweat, he acknowledged the complete and thorough grasp he now had over the basic military swordsmanship indigenous to the Hussar Kingdom. His relentless training had paid off, embedding the essence of each movement into his very being.
Lance felt the change distinctly; his arms had bulked up noticeably, his physical prowess had ascended, and there was a newfound equilibrium in his movements. Curiosity piqued about his current capabilities, he commanded while mopping off his brow, "Fox, scan my current physical state!"
The familiar prompt of the main chip resonated: {Okay. The scan is in progress!}
A brief pause later, the results were in: {The scan is complete. The three major indicators of your body are as follows:}
[Physique 0.5, Strength 0.7, Agility 0.5]
The chip continued, {Congratulations, your physical fitness has improved significantly in the past week, and you are currently getting closer to the level of a normal person.}
These results bolstered Lance's spirits. The hard work and consistent practice were yielding tangible benefits, edging him closer to matching the physical standards of an average individual.
Just the previous night, following his sixth session submerged in murloc blood, the scan had revealed an uptick in his attributes, each by 0.1. Now, having rigorously adhered to his regimen, achieving four hundred iterations of the standard military swordsmanship, he observed another leap in his physical attributes.
This was a remarkable improvement from his initial state post-transmigration.
Typically, the three main physical fitness indicators for an average person hover between 0.7 and 0.9, with those engaging in specialized training showcasing further enhancements across all metrics. Lance's consistent dedication was gradually moving his metrics towards these normative ranges, marking significant progress from his starting point.
"Fox, with my current state, am I capable of activating another sub-chip?" Lance inquired, his voice tinged with anticipation. The manifold advantages he'd reaped from the main chip had kindled an eagerness in him to unlock additional capabilities. His previous life's experience as a chip salesman lent him an intimate understanding of these sub-chips' nuanced, yet substantial, potential.
Yet, the response from Fox dampened his spirits slightly: {You have yet to meet the minimal physical requirements necessary for the activation of a subsequent sub-chip.}
"And what might those requirements be?" he pursued further, not willing to concede just yet.
{Simultaneous attainment of a 0.7 level across all three physical metrics,} detailed Fox.
Lance absorbed this silently. Presently, his metrics for both physique and agility hovered at 0.5, despite his strength having met the requisite threshold. The path forward was clear, albeit challenging: enhance his overall physical condition to unlock further enhancements from the chip's arsenal.
"It looks like he has to start practicing the next kind of swordsmanship," Lance mused as he evaluated the latest updates from Fox. He understood that to continue enhancing his physical fitness through swordsmanship, he'd need to complete the standard movements a staggering thousand times just for a minimal strength boost of 0.1. More importantly, this extensive effort would yield no improvements in agility or physique. Clearly, the strategy of leveraging basic swordsmanship for enhancing his physical attributes was losing its efficiency, pushing Lance to consider advancing to more complex techniques.
On the other side, Fox analyzed the implications of continued murloc blood use. {Your body is developing a resistance to murloc blood, similar to a drug-resistant effect observed after the first cycle.
To achieve another slight increase in physical and agility of +0.1, you would need to extend murloc blood bathing to two weeks. However, strength is not likely to see any further increases} Fox reported. This news slightly disheartened Lance.
Similar to phenomena on Earth, the body adapts to substances like murloc blood, diminishing their effectiveness over time. An initial significant improvement could lead to lesser effects with continued use, until eventually, the benefit plateaus and ceases entirely.
Lance implemented a plan to ensure a steady supply of murloc blood by instructing the soldiers to capture live murlocs and keep them within the castle's confines. When necessary, he could have one killed for its blood. He incentivized the soldiers with gold coins from his own pocket, a fraction of the ample allowance given to him monthly by the Viscount. Given the frequent sightings of murlocs along the west coast, this bounty system significantly boosted the soldiers' motivation, ensuring Lance wouldn't face a shortage of murloc blood for his experiments and personal use.
"Regardless, if it's effective, continuing the baths is a must," Lance resolved, setting his wooden sword back on the rack. Just then, unexpectedly, a group of teenagers entering from the city's gate made their way towards the training field where he stood.
A dozen youths gathered around a blond boy who wore a confident smile. Despite his young age, around sixteen or seventeen, his build was impressively sturdy, towering over many adults.
Lance recognized that most of the group were offspring of the castle's artisans and soldiers, who had been under specialized training from a young age. The commanding blond youth at the forefront was Ola's eldest son, Ola being the respected captain of the castle's guard.
Upon noticing Lance, the group, albeit somewhat reluctantly, all paid their respects. In the hierarchy of the castle, Lance's status as the viscount's son placed him inherently above those born to craftsmen or soldiers.
Only the blond boy, nonchalant and bold, asked Lance, "Master Lance, am I seeing right? Are you actually practicing swordplay?"
Lance paused for a moment, his gaze inadvertently catching a fleeting, graceful figure among the onlookers – it was young Irene. "Yes, I am practicing swordplay. Do you have any advice, Eric?" he responded with equanimity.
Eric flashed a wide grin, his demeanor one of mock surprise mixed with challenge. "It's quite the sight to see Master Lance in such high spirits, engaging in sword practice. How about I spar with you for a bit?" He suggested, his voice laced with a hint of mockery. "After all, as my father often says, secluded training can blind you to your flaws. It's only through crossing swords with another that the true gaps in one's skill come to light."
His glance swept over the assembled youths, a flicker of challenge in his eyes as he squared his shoulders, silently daring Lance with his posture.
The prevailing notion within the castle walls had long been that Lance, the Viscount's second son, was nothing more than an inept noble, a sentiment that had been deftly cultivated and spread by the Viscountess. The label had stuck so securely that despite the wizard Amman's recent endorsement of Lance's arcane potential, skepticism persisted. Magic, after all, was a distant and abstract concept to the castle's inhabitants, far less tangible than the clear, immediate power of swordsmanship. Compounding this, rumors had been swirling around the castle, suggesting Lance's newfound magical aptitude was a sham, hinting at undisclosed motives behind Wizard Amman's sudden validation of Lance's spell-casting capabilities.
In the absence of the Viscount and Griffin, rumors in the castle flourished unchecked, bolstered by Lance's historical lack of prowess. With the authoritative figures away, Nancy's control allowed these speculations to spread even more widely. The prevalent view held Lance in the same old light of incompetence, accusing him of merely bribing the aged wizard to maintain an illusion of talent in front of his father.
Eric, surrounded by his peers, had an unmistakable confidence. His posture was relaxed yet assertive, a reflection of his belief in his own swordsmanship skills, especially compared to Lance, whom he regarded less favorably due to persistent castle rumors and Lance's reputed lack of prowess.
In Eric's mind, there was a clear hierarchy: "I respect strength like Master Griffin's. But Lance? Why should I, skilled as I am, respect him?" This wasn't just about skill; it was about status and recognition in the castle's social order.
Yet, his thoughts were interrupted by Irene's plea, "Brother Lance, you are weak, don't practice with Eric, he is very good." Her concern for Lance, evident in her tone and expression, threw a wrench into what Eric had anticipated as a straightforward challenge.
Lance, surprised by Irene's presence, masked his concern with a question meant to remind her of their differing social standings: "Eileen, why are you with them?" Despite his words, there was an underlying note of sibling care that he couldn't completely hide.
Irene's cheeks turned a deep red, caught off guard by the sudden attention. Before she could muster a response, Eric stepped forward, his voice laced with a condescending tone, "Master Lance, Miss Irene was merely mingling with us out of curiosity. Yet, her concern is valid. Given your frail constitution, rigorous sword training might not be the most prudent activity for you. Perhaps, retreating to the shelter of the castle would be wiser to avoid the chill of the sea breeze."
He then gave Lance a smug look, clearly satisfied with his own advice. The other youths, while not as bold as Eric, shared in his apparent triumph, hiding their snickers behind a façade of neutrality.
Lance's response was deliberate and measured, but it swiftly turned icy, "Eric, the decisions regarding where I choose to spend my time are beyond your purview. The inferior should recognize their place. Your father pledges his allegiance to mine, and accordingly, your loyalty is expected to be to me. I am the lord here; you, on the other hand, are the vassal. A servant must understand his position when addressing his master. Yet, your tone just now was exceedingly inappropriate."
His gaze hardened as he continued, "Now, I demand an apology!" The atmosphere grew tense, the playful air vanishing in an instant. The crowd was taken aback by Lance's unexpected assertiveness, not at all in line with the submissive demeanor they had come to expect.
Eric's face flushed a deeper shade of red, his pride wounded. As a young man accustomed to respect and admiration, particularly in the context of his skills and lineage, being publicly chastised by someone he considered inferior was a bitter pill to swallow. The humiliation was amplified by the presence of Irene, the object of his unspoken affection.
This public rebuke was utterly unacceptable to him.
Eric, understanding the delicate balance of power in the absence of the Viscount, knew it was in his best interest to submit. The rigid hierarchy within the castle's walls meant that defiance could lead to severe consequences not just for him but potentially for his father as well. Reluctantly, with a mix of anger and resignation, Eric lowered his gaze and muttered a coarse apology, "Sorry, Master Lance."
Yet, as he bowed, the resentment in his eyes did not wane but intensified, a clear indication that his apology was anything but sincere.
Irene, observing the tension, reached out for Lance's hand, her eyes filled with concern. "Brother Lance, forget it. Eric didn't mean it. Let's go back," she pleaded, hoping to defuse the situation.
However, Lance, undeterred and ignoring her plea, continued with a mocking tone as he faced Eric. "I heard you're quite the swordsman," he said, a playful challenge in his voice.
Eric, trapped in the awkwardness of the moment, responded with a muffled, "It's okay."
Delighted by this response, Lance's smile widened as he took a step forward, pointing directly at Eric. "Good," he declared boldly, "Eric, son of Ola, now I command you to compete with me."
"What?!" Irene's voice was laced with disbelief and worry. She tugged at Lance's sleeve, her expression one of deep concern. "Brother Lance, Eric is highly skilled in swordsmanship, while you... you've barely practiced! It's not safe for you," she pleaded, her eyes beseeching him to reconsider this rash challenge. "Why don't we just go back?"
The surrounding group of teenagers shared in Irene's shock, their expressions mirroring her concern. Their interactions with Lance had never revealed this level of assertiveness or confidence. "Where is this newfound confidence coming from?" they whispered among themselves, puzzled and surprised by the change in the young master's demeanor.
Yet, one observant youth in the crowd noted something different about Lance. "Well, Master Lance does seem a bit stronger," he muttered, almost to himself. True, Lance's arms showed signs of newfound strength, a visible change that hadn't been there before. But even with this slight improvement, when compared to Eric's robust build, Lance still appeared significantly less formidable. "But still," the boy thought, doubting, "against someone like Eric, what can that slight improvement really do?"
Eric, at seventeen, boasted a physique nearly mirroring his father's in both height and strength. His eight years of disciplined swordsmanship training had made him one of the most skilled within the castle's patrol, a fact known by all.
Given this, the crowd watched with a mixture of anticipation and dread as Lance singled out Eric for a sword duel. The consensus was clear: Lance's decision was tantamount to seeking his own humiliation.
Upon hearing Lance's challenge, a wave of thrilled satisfaction washed over Eric. He had been simmering with frustration, seeking an outlet for his bottled-up anger. Lance's invitation seemed too good to be true – was this so-called waste truly stepping up to be the object of his release?
With a swift nod and a gleam in his eye, Eric accepted the challenge without hesitation. "Very well, Master Lance, let's begin," he said, masking his eagerness with formality. In his mind, the outcome was already decided.
As Eric leaped into the arena, his movements fluid and assured, he grasped a wooden sword, adopting a posture that was both aggressive and precise. His mind was clear on one aspect: while a real sword was off-limits due to Lance's status as the young master, a wooden one provided a suitable alternative. It allowed him to dish out a lesson without crossing a fatal line—any resulting bruises could be dismissed as mere training accidents.
"Thinking he's above me?" Eric's thoughts seethed with contempt. His pride was wounded, his ego bruised by Lance's earlier assertions. He was determined to show that a true genius like himself could never be subordinate to Lance.
Meanwhile, Irene's voice, tinged with concern, broke through the mounting tension. "Brother Lance, please, this isn't necessary!" she implored, grasping at any chance to avoid what she saw as an impending disaster.
However, Lance merely offered his sister a reassuring smile, gently lowering her hand as a gesture to calm her nerves. He then strode confidently toward Eric, meeting the challenge head-on without a flicker of hesitation in his steps.
Lance's voice was calm, betraying no hint of fear or doubt. "But before the duel, I have a rule," he declared.
Eric raised an eyebrow in curiosity, masking his contempt. "What's the rule?"
Lance maintained steady eye contact, "We can only use basic swordsmanship."
Eric's response was a scoff, disbelief etched on his face. "Only basic swordsmanship, dare to compare swords with me?" The notion seemed ludicrous to him. Lance, the perceived wastrel, challenging him, a seasoned practitioner? The absurdity of it almost made him burst into laughter.
Yet, in Eric's mind, victory was assured, his confidence bolstered by years of disciplined training. "Even if I only use basic swordsmanship, my physical fitness alone can crush this so-called 'master,'" he thought contemptuously, though outwardly he agreed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Of course, we will use basic swordsmanship, and no others."
Lance gave a subtle nod, adopting a defensive stance with his wooden sword, signaling his readiness. "Come on," he invited calmly, masking the anticipation stirring within him.
Without delay, Eric, fueled by arrogance and a desire to assert dominance, charged forward, his movements telegraphing his intent.
In Lance's mind, the scenario unfolded as expected: "How eagerly this boy wants to belittle me..." Yet, with a serene smile concealed in his heart, Lance deftly took a half-step back, transitioning seamlessly into a defensive move—Block successful!
Lance's command over the basic military swordsmanship's six fundamental moves was not just adequate; it was exemplary. Assisted by the chip's precise guidance, his current maneuvers mirrored Poirot's with uncanny accuracy. Given that Poirot's technique stood as the benchmark within the patrol due to its impeccable standard, Lance's replication of his style granted him an unexpected edge in this encounter.
The match progressed, and it was evident that Eric, with his considerable strength and years of practice, expected an easy victory over what he assumed was a less skilled Lance. Yet, Lance's defensive moves, honed and perfected through meticulous practice and the precise guidance of the chip, kept him unscathed.
Despite his effort, Lance felt the strain; each block against Eric's forceful strikes sent jarring shocks through his arm, hinting at his physical limits against Eric's brute force. Yet, Lance's strategy shifted as he began to dodge instead of block, a testament to his growing understanding of combat dynamics beyond mere strength.
Then, seizing an opportunity, Lance transitioned from defense to offense. His counterattack, marked by the basic but perfectly executed sword move, contrasted sharply with Eric's more aggressive but less precise swings. This shift not only highlighted Lance's technical skill but also his adaptability and resilience under pressure.
The crowd watching this unexpected showdown began to murmur among themselves. Lance's performance was rewriting the narrative of incompetence that had clung to him, sowing seeds of doubt about the long-held assumptions of his capabilities.