75th of Season of Earth, 56th year of the 32nd imperial era

Newt felt defeated while returning to his lodgings. Axle Strongax should have won. Even if Newt's realm was higher, the fact that one was built like a trihorn and the other like a twig lessened the gap, as for weapon-skills, Axle hunted saurians with his axes, while Newt hadn't picked up his swords in three years.

I need to train, to sharpen my edge.

Salamandra's fangs, which once pulled him off balance, weighed nearly nothing in Newt's hand. His strength had soared to over four times compared to when he trained, but he did next to no weapons practice. Knights slowly adapted to their increased strength, and trained at every layer without sudden surges in realm like Newt's. Had he considered it before, Newt would have done some shadow sparring on his way over to Hailstown, but he was unaware of the problem, haunted by his nightmare.

But once he found the issue, Newt felt a strong urge to go out and train. Immediately. The problem was, his next match less than a day away, training seemed unwise. Newt stewed for another two streets before reaching a decision.

Tickle and Giggle had no space for him to practice, so he turned around and went back to the keep.

"Excuse me, can I go in there?" he asked the guards standing before the hastily built arena.

"Yes, participants are allowed to train and exercise for the duration of the tournament."

Newt stared at the guard for a moment. He asked because asking didn't hurt, but he never expected they would actually let him in. Newt thanked the man and returned to the arena, less than half an hour after leaving it.

The stands stood empty. The crowd had long since dispersed, but in the ring six men exchanged blows. They seemed older than the tournament allowed, and when one noticed Newt, the activity stopped, with them all turning to look at the newcomer.

"Why did Dandy set the age cap at forty?" a man with an X scar on his face grumbled, glaring at Newt.

"Don't call Boss that. You know he hates it."

"What are you doing here, kid?" a third man asked.

The six made Newt nervous. They had the cold, predatory eyes and the sharp bearing of those who had killed without regret. It could have been his imagination, he had only read about the bearing, never seeing it in person, but he knew who those men were - the Blackfist Bandits.

"I haven't practiced with the sword since entering the second realm, and I realized my skill is lacking, so I came here for some training."

The former bandits exchanged glances, wicked smiles appearing on their faces. They all looked at one man, who, without looking back at them, knew he was the center of their attention and stepped forward.

His eyes were wicked, his smile one of insincere friendliness.

"We can offer some help, for a price." While he spoke, the others shuffled, surrounding Newt.

His heart started beating faster. Killers and robbers surrounded him, and he suddenly became aware of how the sun was setting, and how the square was empty, with a chill wind blowing ominously. Other than the two guards in front of the arena, nobody could help him.

And those guards were mortals, while those encircling Newt were first realm knights.

Newt's instincts told him to refuse and fight, but he was rational enough to remember the situation back home, where he and the two loyal advisors had to suffer their indignation.

"What help?" Newt tried to sound confident, but his gulp gave him away, and the brigand smiled with perverse joy.

"We could spar with you, a friendly exchange of blows for the humble price of, let's say… two manarium pieces each?"

The men were robbing Newt, but after giving it a bit of thought, it wasn't all bad. If they could really serve to sharpen his skills, their service might even be worth it. There was a problem, though.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"I don't have the manarium."

That didn't seem to bother the robber. "No problem, we'll collect once you win the reward, you're in the top four already, you can afford a handful of crystals for your friends."

The word 'friends' made Newt feel dirty, but he nodded, agreeing to the terms.

"That sounds reasonable—"

"Great! Burnall, you go first."

Burnall was a short, ugly man, even without taking into account the fierce purple-red scar staining half his face. At some point, the man had suffered heavy burns, and in the dying light, Newt noticed the red creeping down the man's neck, the rest of the scar hidden by his tunic.

Burnall licked his tongue and raised his dagger, its blade long enough to be confused with a short sword.

"Ready?" he asked in a raspy voice and jumped towards Newt as soon as the young man nodded.

The rest of the bandits pulled away, giving the two enough space to fight.

Newt blocked the attack, unsheathing his second sword. His family's training involved two weapons, and fighting with only one was a disadvantage, a handicap he couldn't give neither Burnall, nor his future opponents in the tournament.

Burnall twisted, blade stabbing for Newt's ribs, and Newt jumped back, blocking with his second sword. Burnall moved in a strange, twisting way, his movement full of feints, but with Newt's perception, he read the false advances well enough and batted them away without over-committing, blocking the real attacks which swiftly followed.

Burnall's fighting style was completely different from anything Newt had ever seen, and soon he forgot his fear, getting lost in the thrill. His mindcore helped Newt process the information and internalize the exchange, adapting and growing better rapidly. By the end of the fifth minute, he started sweating, but he also started attacking, blocking with his right and attacking with his slightly weaker left.

Suddenly, an opening appeared. Newt battered away Burnall's dagger and stopped his sword an inch before opening the man's throat.

"Thank you for the lesson," Newt said without a hint of irony or disgruntlement. The bandits were charging ridiculous sums for their lesson, but it was worth it for Newt. "Who's next?"

"Bough," the bandit, whom Newt designated as the group's leader, said and Bough stepped forward.

The bandit was tall, muscular, his arms thick like the limbs of an old tree, and Newt had the feeling neither Burnall, nor Bough were the two's given names. Bough had a long, heavy club, which he swung twice like a bat, air whooshing, and the wind blowing Newt's hair back.

"You ready, kid?" Newt focused on those bulging biceps, thinking Bough was probably physically stronger than Axle, and his frame might even bridge the gap in realm between him and Newt.

Newt's heart started pounding.

I can do this. I can win.

"Ready."

Bough didn't pounce. The marauder crossed the distance between them in one confident stride, sweeping his massive club downwards with enough force to catapult Newt out of the arena. Newt wanted to block and dodge at the same time, doing neither. The club smashed into his crossed swords, sending him barreling backwards, where he fell and rolled back to his feet.

Bough didn't bother with a follow-up. The giant grinned, slapping the club against his palm with a fleshy smack. He blew Newt a kiss, but rather than infuriate the youth, the gesture confused him.

Newt stared dumbly, and the experienced Bough used the chance. Instead of waiting to counterattack, he stepped forth again, but faced with the same attack for the second time, Newt knew what to do.

Bough was big and strong, but relatively slow for his realm, while Newt was quick for his. Instead of contesting his opponent with strength, he should have done so with speed.

Newt ducked under the blow, the massive club whistling a palm's-width above his head, then he slapped Bough's chest with the flats of his swords.

"You're dead," Newt said, and Bough seemed like he was about to argue, but the gang leader spoke up.

"The kid is right, Bough. In a real fight, he would've killed you."

Bough didn't seem convinced, but the leader spoke again. "Back away, you lost. Does anyone else want to give it a go? We promised the young lordling a lesson."

Then suddenly, Newt said something unexpected. "Thank you, Bough. You gave me a valuable lesson."

Bough frowned and glared at Newt, but when he realized the boy wasn't mocking him, he grumbled something unintelligible and backed away.

The next three opponents were more along the lines of what Newt was used to, swordsmen fighting with one sword. Unlike the Salamandras, they used shorter blades, and one used a combination of a short and long sword. Newt tapped into what he had learned and instead of relying on slightly greater strength, took advantage of superior agility instead, dodging instead of parrying, and looking to slide his attacks in between the gaps rather than break his opponents' defenses.

Opponent after opponent, he found the fights easier, until the only one left was the gang leader.

Newt looked at the man expectantly, but he didn't move.

"It would be unfair to take advantage of an exhausted kid, you can go." He lied without batting an eye, leaving Newt in a tough spot.

The leader of such men certainly achieved his position based on martial might, meaning he was the most challenging opponent. On the other hand, forcing the bandit would end up antagonizing him.

Thoughts flitted through Newt's mind, and he nodded, having reached his decision.

"Thanks for sparring with me. You've been a great help."

With that, he returned to his lodgings to wash up and rest for the night. He had to be at his peak for the next day's match.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.