The Author Reincarnated As An Extra-Chapter 34: • The One Who Learned to Fight (1)

Standing on a clearing stretched wide and bordered by the glowing plants, Deremiah waited for Elora to begin whatever it was she was planning to teach him.

She appeared to be sizing him up as she pondered, perhaps trying to decide on a way to teach him how to fight. Deremiah’s figure as she saw it, was very fitting for a good fighter.

He was at least 6 ft 2, with a tight lean frame and a figure eleven. However, he lacked combat skill, knowledge, battle IQ and experience. Teaching him as much as she could before Dawn was the approach.

"Have you been in a fight before?" she asked him.

Deremiah lifted his brows at her questioning gaze, and answered, "No. Not really," in a nervous manner. It was one of the few truths he had told.

Elora seemed surprised by the answer. She tilted her head to the side, face softening with the realization. "You’re a slummer. I assumed that you would have at least ran into a fight at least once in your life."

Feeling slightly offended by that, Deremiah replied, "I’ve been in some violent altercations, but never in something that you would consider a fight."

"I see," Elora said. She straightened up, deciding to take another approach. "Do you know what the goal of combat is?"

Deremiah thought about it for a moment. "To defend oneself?"

"You wouldn’t need to defend yourself if your adversary is dead, would you?"

"Oh." he frowned, understanding what she was getting at. "No, you wouldn’t."

"So what then is the goal of combat?"

Deremiah narrowed his eyes. "To kill," he answered.

"Correct." Elora lifted her sword and spun it around, before grabbing it by the hilt and extending the sword to her left. "If you’re willing to fight then you must be willing to kill. Death is the only ultimate way in which you can ensure victory. Death is final and irreversible."

’Well it wasn’t for me,’ Deremiah joked in his mind.

"Once you step into a battleground and you’re unsure of what your intentions are, then your opponent has already won," Elora continued, her face steeled and emotionless, voice steady and instructive. "Their intentions are to kill you. If yours are anything else, then you... will... die."

Deremiah gulped. ’She’s intense.’

She looked up to the sky one more time. "Now that you know that, we do not have enough time. I hope to teach you as much as I can before we face the Paragon at dawn. Let us begin with your control over that sword."

"Okay."

She gave him a quick once-over, then looked down at his grip on his sword. "Before we do anything else, I need to see how you handle your weapon," she said. "Show me your stance."

Deremiah adjusted his grip on the corrupted sword’s hilt, dragged one leg backward, bent the knee of the forward one, and held the sword low. He was trying to emulate some of the stances he’d seen fictional warrior characters make in movies.

Elora looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

"No, no," she said sharply, stepping closer. "You’re holding it all wrong. Let me show—" She reached out with her hand towards his sword.

"No!" Deremiah panicked, stepping back and pulling the sword out of her reach right before she could grab it.

Elora froze, her hand suspended in the air, her brows knitting together. She looked at him with a gaze that said she had no patience for his mysteriousness.

Deremiah stared at her, heart beating. The moment was awkward, but that was very close. If Elora had taken the sword, she would have not been able to lift it, and questions would be asked as to why Deremiah could.

"Sorry," he said, when Elora continued to stare at him. "It’s just... this sword is special to me. It was a gift from someone important."

He lowered the blade and looked at her own weapon. "Could you use yours?"

Elora blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. Her eyes stayed on him for a while, and even though she said nothing, it was clear that she had many questions about him.

Finally, she withdrew her hand and stepped back. "Fine. We’ll use mine."

She spun her sword once again, smooth and gracefully as the blackstone reflected the multiple lights of the forest. Then, she planted the tip into the muddy earth and rested her hands on the hilt.

"Pay attention," she instructed with a voice of authority.

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"Your stance is the foundation of everything," Elora began. She shifted her feet, demonstrating the proper positioning.

"Both of your feet should be a fair distance apart from each other, shoulder-width is a perfect enough distance. With it, your entire body can be balanced and ready to move in any direction. Keep one foot forward."

Deremiah stared at her legs and her hands, then, he mirrored her stance, adjusting his footing as she had instructed.

He got it on the first try.

"Good," she said, nodding slightly. "Now, your grip. Your inexperience with the sword is very blaring to see. It should not be that way when facing an opponent, because they will see that weakness and they will exploit it."

She stepped back again. "It’s your weapon, and your weapon must be so attached to you that it becomes part of you. Do not wrestle with it, Hold it firmly but not like you’re strangling it. Let it move with you."

Giving him a visual representation, she raised her sword, and moved through a series of basic strikes; slices, stabs, and blocks. She moved like water with each motion, fluid and authentic. Like the blade and the battle was second nature to her.

"Watch closely," she said after. "It goes without saying that the blade should be an extension of your arm, so do not treat it like a separate entity. Do not forsake it so it doesn’t forsake you. And do not let it control you. It is part of you, and just like you control your feet and arms, you should also control your blade."

Deremiah took a deep breath and followed her lead. He held the corrupted blade in his right hand, keeping it straight at first, then he tried to perform a slice.

The first attempt was clumsy. The blade wobbled in his grip and the slice was not as clean as it would have been.

"That was poor," Elora said with no filter. Deremiah frowned.

He watched as she approached him, closer and closer. His brows furrowed, confused as to what she wanted to do.

Her eyes didn’t leave his as she approached, and soon they were standing at a hair’s distance from each other, staring into their eyes as Deremiah felt his heart pounding.

Then she suddenly rolled to his back and placed her hands on his shoulders, pressing in on his scapula, before ordering him to lift his hands to the sides.

Deremiah did as he was told.

"You’re too stiff. The blade knows you, respects you, but your inadequate control over it doesn’t allow it to serve you its fullest. You must know the blade like you know your arm."

He tried to look back at her, to get a glimpse of her face as she was speaking, but he was unable to.

"You are to keep this stance for ten minutes," she said. "Your hands raised and straight on your sides. Your wielding hand should not falter, even though it carries the weight of the sword."

Deremiah frowned. "Ten minutes?!"

"Yes," Elora replied. "Your body must bear the weight of the sword till that weight is no longer, and the sword becomes natural to your form. So natural that you will feel incomplete without it."

She then appeared in front of him and their eyes locked again. "Your time starts now."

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