60 Novel Training

"Attack me," Jacob said, motioning the soldier ahead of him to strike. The man was a private in the military; Jacob's promotion to Special Sergeant granted him the certain privilege of ordering lower-ranked soldiers around if he chose to. He hadn't needed to, until now.

"But, sir, this is a real sword," George, the private, complained. Jacob glared at him, the fire in his eyes compelling the worried soldier to action.

Stuck to the ground by a clump of earth molded over his feet by earth magic, Jacob and George were out in the training yard sparring under the light of the moons. He had only just raised this portion of earth to trap him, forcing him to play defensively rather than his preferred offense. His most glaring weakness was being unable to buy time to enact a strategy, an idea that Cynthia and then Provost Thomson had hammered into him earlier that evening.

Getting out of the earthen trap would be difficult; Jacob's mana was nearly exhausted, and he hadn't quite considered what locking his legs to the training field really meant. A bed wasn't in his cards. Jacob sighed, forcing himself to focus on his opponent instead of the uncomfortable night he'd be spending on the dirt.

A flash of steel-colored light was the only warning Jacob had before George closed the distance. His movements were obscured by the darkness, but the moons provided enough light to illuminate the blade at the very least. The longsword, a common weapon around Delreya, was far closer than Jacob had expected.

Ducking to the side, Jacob managed to only take a light cut to his arm. It stung, but it didn't feel as if it was all that serious. Actually, throwing himself against the earthen shoes hurt more; his ankles were in quite a state. "Sir? Do you wish to continue?" George looked nervous, having injured a superior officer.

Nodding, Jacob waited for the next attack to come. He wouldn't misjudge the distance this time. True to himself, Jacob saw the next attack coming earlier. With the time he bought himself, he was able to get his spatha up in time, deflecting the private's blade out and to the side of his torso. Once the blade was no longer a threat, Jacob struck out, bringing his spatha to a stop just before the private's neck. A successful maneuver!

The private, incensed by the loss, threw himself into his next attack with more gusto. Shocked by the sudden increase in speed, Jacob was unable to dodge completely, taking this blow on his leg. A thin line of blood appeared where his pants had been cut. The sight of the blood sobered the private, who at the very least had the good sense to at least look regretful. Not many in the Fourth Infantry liked Jacob, not as a person nor as an officer. It looked as if Jacob had chosen his sparring partner incorrectly. A small part of him wished Rod were here to train with him, but he knew that he needed to blossom through adversity.

"Again, private. Don't act all ashamed on me. You're here to train." George took this as permission to charge him again. Jacob didn't mind. While the man's speed and tenacity had gone up, his adherence to technique had dropped as a result of his recklessness. It was a worthy trade in many situations, as it often depended more so on whose blade entered the other first than pure skill. This was a concept that Jacob was banking on when it came to the Tournament.

Compared to some of the geniuses like Cynthia, who had trained since they were young, he held a small candle to their roaring fire in terms of sheer skill. His only chance was to outperform them by increasing the speed of his strikes and of he himself.

The training Will had inspired – all the running – had not evaporated with Jacob's souring relations with his former mentor. Jacob still ran almost every day, given that he wasn't busy on duty with something for the army. His speed was considerable, as he focused on short-distance running that wouldn't get him in trouble for disappearing for too long.

Stamina was another issue, but that would get resolved through his near-constant sparring at the Blade College. Provost Thomson relished the opportunity to train with him when he used his magic, as it was an actual challenge to her, or so she said. Whatever the reason, she was never late and she never left early.

It was almost as useful as the training he underwent during the morning with her in which his magical abilities were locked behind the terms of their agreement. His skills were being forged in the hottest of fires; his respect for Relentless' Provost grew with every meeting. She always had some insight that proved invaluable.

Like just now. George had just attempted to change the line of his attack from Jacob's lower abdomen to his chest, but a subtle shift of his blade's tip warned Jacob ahead of time. Able to counter in time, Jacob scored his second point. The third, fourth, and fifth points were not all that far out. George had pulled out some tricks along the way, causing Jacob to grow flustered, but his confidence came out stronger for the experience.

"Thank you for your assistance, private. You are free to go," Jacob shooed the tired man back to the dorms they had been lent. George's irrational anger had long since dissipated, and Jacob felt that perhaps he had turned one more person indifferent to him. It was a reward as much as the training was if he was honest. Having the right allies in the right places made life easier.

Testing his magic, Jacob found that his feet wouldn't be free until the morning. With a grumble, Jacob chose to instead call after the rapidly receding figure of the private he had just sent away. "Private George! Would you mind bringing me a chair and a blanket?"