In the end, Luther left the money with Solomon, thinking of it as buying himself a little peace of mind. Solomon had shared more than tools; he'd given Luther a glimpse into a lifetime of wisdom and hardship. It felt like a fair trade.
Back at the clinic, Luther wasted no time in examining the contents of the black wooden box. His fingers tingled with anticipation as he opened it, revealing three items neatly arranged inside: a worn manual, a short silver sword with a cross engraved on the hilt, and a pair of gloves made from rugged black rhino leather.
He picked up the manual first. Its cover bore the words, hastily scrawled in Venn, the native language he shared with his predecessor. The title read simply, "Sol's Handbook."
A slight grin tugged at the corner of Luther's mouth. 'Old man had some hidden talents after all.'
Curious, he flipped to the first page. There, Solomon had penned a short introduction, a glimpse into the rough-hewn tapestry of his life.
Luther read each line carefully:
Kidnapped as a newborn. Attacked by bandits at fifteen. His adoptive father, lying on his deathbed, had revealed the truth about his origins. At sixteen, his formidable build made him valuable enough to be sold into servitude for a noble family. By twenty-three, he had caught the eye of a young noblewoman, and together they eloped, forging a fleeting happiness.
They had a child when he was twenty-seven. But fate, as always, was cruel. At twenty-nine, Solomon joined the military to fend off an invading force, leaving behind his wife and child. When he returned two years later, battle-worn and victorious, he discovered the noble family had taken his revenge for him running off with the woman, his family was gone, snuffed out by those with power.
Grief turned to rage. At thirty-two, he exacted his revenge, but his actions had consequences. He was marked with a bounty, forced into a life of wandering, hunted by those who controlled the city and the law. By thirty-five, he found refuge in the remote town of Yongye, hiding under a new name, hoping to leave his past behind. Now, after a decade of isolation, Solomon was nearing fifty, and his body bore the cost of a hard, violent life.
Luther felt a heavy pang in his chest. Solomon's life was like a tragic epic, full of loss, love, and violence, written with the blood and sweat of a man who had known little peace.
Turning to the next page, Luther found snippets of Solomon's military experiences. The tales hinted at encounters that were anything but ordinary. There were references to enemies that "were not entirely human," vague descriptions of creatures Solomon had faced on the battlefield. But Solomon hadn't gone into details, leaving Luther's curiosity gnawing at him.
Finally, Luther reached what he was truly searching for: 'Military Sword Fighting.' It was described as a close-combat technique, one that blended the dagger with the raw force of the entire body; hands, feet, elbows, anything that could turn into a weapon.
Luther's heart beat faster as he read through the instructions. 'This is exactly what I need,' he thought, excitement bubbling up. For the first time, he felt as if he had a tool that could give him an edge, something beyond brute strength.
He turned to the third page and found a series of simple illustrations; a stick figure performing various moves with a dagger, accompanied by brief, precise notes. Solomon had kept it practical, straightforward. It was perfect for a novice like Luther.
Picking up the short sword from the box, Luther inspected its silver blade, feeling the weight in his hand. The leather grip fit snugly in his palm. He took a deep breath and began mimicking the illustrated moves, trying to align his body with each pose.
But without any prior experience, his movements were clumsy and awkward. He slashed and thrust at the air, his strikes erratic and wild. In his mind, he imagined himself a skilled warrior, but the reality was far from it. Each movement felt foreign, unrefined, and he quickly realized just how little he knew.
After a few minutes of fumbling, his arms grew tired, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Sweat dampened his brow as he lowered the dagger, collapsing into his chair to catch his breath.
'So much for being a quick study,' he thought, chuckling at his own impatience. Still, he wasn't discouraged. He'd start from the basics, build his skill one step at a time. For now, he needed a break.
As he settled into the chair, catching his breath, a small, pulsing light caught his attention. In the upper left corner of his vision, an exclamation mark was flashing. He hadn't noticed it before, but now it demanded his focus.
Intrigued, Luther concentrated on the mark, letting his mind settle on it.
As Luther focused, a series of glowing prompts materialized in his vision, floating in front of him like ghostly text.
- [Successfully read "Sol's Handbook"]
- [Gained clue of the Old Ones +1, Progress: 1/50. Note: Collect enough clues to unlock new targets.]
- [Learned Sword Fighting LV0]
- [Rough Practice, Sword Fighting Proficiency +1]
- [Rough Practice, Sword Fighting Proficiency +2]
Luther blinked in surprise, processing the notifications. "Did it just quantify my practice?" he murmured to himself, feeling a thrill of excitement. "So, if I practice enough, I'll actually see my sword-fighting skills improve?"
The notification about the Old Ones was intriguing, but right now, his focus was survival, not unraveling mysteries he barely understood. Strength; tangible, practical strength, was what mattered. And if his system allowed him to level up his skills by sheer repetition, then he'd push himself until his body couldn't take any more.
Resolved, Luther dove into practice. The rest of the day was spent in a relentless routine: practicing his stance, his swings, his thrusts, his footwork. He repeated each movement, over and over, feeling his body grow more familiar with the motions, his grip on the short sword becoming steadier with each pass.
He only paused briefly at noon to accept the delivery of food and essentials. Afterward, he returned to his training with a singular determination, testing the limits of his newfound abilities. By the time night fell, he was able to see the results: his sword fighting skill had risen to level 2. He still wasn't anywhere near a master, but he could feel the improvement. His swings were sharper, his movements more fluid. Even his footwork was becoming instinctual.
It wasn't enough, not in a world as dangerous as this.
With a quick meal of three large potatoes, Luther steeled himself for another intense session. This time, he took his practice to the resettlement room, where he could use the restrained ghoul as an imagined opponent. Its lifeless eyes tracked his movements as he shadowboxed, envisioning its attacks, anticipating its strikes.
He began adjusting his movements, aiming for precision over brute force. The system recognized his improved form and labeled his efforts as "Detailed Practice," rewarding him with faster proficiency gains, the numbers ticking up between +2 to +5 for each successful move.
Hard work, he realized, was paying off.
As dawn broke, Luther's persistence bore fruit. He had achieved Sword Fighting Level 4. Though his head felt foggy from exhaustion, a swell of satisfaction washed over him. He knew he was becoming a force to reckon with, no longer just a doctor fumbling his way through this strange world.
The ghoul, meanwhile, had spent the entire night roaring and struggling against its bonds. As a final gesture of thanks or annoyance; Luther gave it a firm elbow to the head, sending it into a blissful silence as it slumped into unconsciousness.
With a smirk, Luther headed back to the main office, freshened up quickly, and collapsed onto his bed, letting sleep pull him under.
---
The clinic was awash in the dim glow of the late afternoon when Luther finally stirred. He blinked up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented. Then, a jolt of awareness snapped through him, and he sat up, grabbing his pocket watch from the bedside table.
'Nearly evening again?' he thought, mildly alarmed at how much time had passed. Shaking off the drowsiness, he threw on his gray robe, stifling a yawn as he headed toward the office door, humming a soft tune under his breath.
Tonight would be another long one, but first, he needed something to eat before he could get back to work.