Adventurer: A Fantasy LitRPG Adventure

I held the practice blade out in front of myself, just as mother had taught me.

I liked the way a sword felt in my hand in general, but not the way the grip she’d drilled into me did; but mother was ever a believer in learning the basics. I’d practiced with a weapon every day since I could remember, and she’d still refused to teach me anything but the first form of her chosen sword style.

“…”

She charged at me. My mother that is. She wore comfortable, athletic clothing. A brown leather jerkin, wrapping around her body and ending just at the mid-ribs, and a pair of baggy cloth-sack training shorts.

The swords we used were just wooden; she didn’t need armor to protect herself from them. Not when I hardly had the strength to threaten her, but this would have held true even had the blades been steel instead of the baneoak practice weapons my father had meticulously shaped for his wife.

Mother jump-stepped directly in towards me; she moved linearly at first and then shifted to strike sidelong, planting her non-dominant left foot at the end of her initial lunge into my range. Only to then use that leading foot to spin-pivot and to step out towards my right side.

I inhaled deeply.

In theory, the first form of the fiend-hunter style should allow one to be evenly protected on both sides. Still, something about mother’s movements kept me from feeling protected at all, even if I knew she was holding back.

I just didn’t have the skill to face the woman who’d brought me into the world. I hadn’t, no matter how much I’d practiced it, mastered the first form of the fiend hunter style, or unlocked its corresponding skill ability—but not for a lack of trying on the part of my mother Celis.

I want to impress my parent turned teacher, but a familiar and primal tingling at the base of my neck informed me that I was outclassed. When I’d once brought the feeling up to her, mother had explained it was a warrior’s instinct—something to be trusted and followed, but not controlled by.

So, I endeavored to do what was expected, to react in the way that was expected, even though my instincts told me it was futile.

Despite not truly having unlocked the skill, my hands still had the muscle memory of my countless hours of imitating my mother’s use of her style’s first form, along with her advice to never allow fear to freeze you when you can do something against what you feared. Thanks to this advice, when faced with the picture of mother’s shining carmine hair blowing in the morning breeze as she raised her weapon to strike down at me, my arms did move.

Strike Redirection, my mind silently spoke the name of the skill that I was trying to imitate, as I’d been trained to do. It was a practice that was not strictly necessary, but one that meant to center the mind further into the movements of the body—to align the two into unison.

My wrists twisted, my left hand opened momentarily and gave free rein to my right hand, which was now the only hand of the two wielding my practice blade by the handle; by this motion I swept my sword into the start of a wide arc meant to intercept and then redirect my mother’s horizontal slash.

My heart jumped a bit. I could see it: the movement of the two blades of myself and my opponent, their arcs set to intercept in a loud harmony that would force the weapon that was determined to strike me to instead fly haphazardly away as I pivoted around its wielder to gain a better position. If I could pull everything off perfectly that was.

My heart quickened in anticipation. It was all going to work out; an exchange between my mother and myself was finally going to end in my favor and, more importantly, in that moment where my mind froze the two blades in my gaze, I finally felt like I was almost understanding the first form of my mother’s fighting style.

I didn't believe it. Surely, she would stop me, as she had done so many times before. Could I truly beat her, even if only in one, small exchange?

A loud wooden clang strained my ears a half-moment later.

“…!”

I could hardly believe it.

Our swords had actually connected; I felt the weight of my mother’s blade shift along my own in a way I could manipulate. I’d never gotten this far in an actual spar, only in practice drills where she’d allowed me to get a feel for the movement—but those didn’t count.

In that moment of collision between our blades, I searched my mother’s beautiful, cherubic face. I saw the upturning of a smirk on her lips.

What was that? Was she proud of me?

I felt the surge in my chest rise up further at that. Finally, I’d done something right when it came to wielding this darn sword.

Mother's smile quickly faltered, however, as I did the same. My mind had wandered with my mother’s approval, and I forgotten to take the final, proper step of footwork to solidify my movement.

“Disarming Parry,” my mother spoke the words and I felt the battle aura leak out of her, just in the smallest of fractions. It was an energy that smelled like life and vibrancy, sweat and hot springs.

All at once--as my mother spoke the name of her skill, as she always did for my benefit, but didn’t need to do to activate her abilities—her arm twisted, and I lost the upper hand when it came to the battle of leverages between our two weapons.

No! I was so close.

My blade was ripped from my hand, as my mother returned her second hand to the back of her sword for added leverage, and her arms became a perfected whirlwind.

I stumbled backwards, my confidence leaving me as mother’s body flowed like a surging animal, shifting from the third form of her sword-fighting style to another—one I feared much more than the first or third.

“Direct Execution,” mother spoke.

“…!”

My eyes widened. I saw death. I knew she wouldn’t kill me, couldn’t kill her own child—or should’ve known it, but her battle aura was emotionless. It felt curt, shameless, efficient. Unable to be channeled into anything but swift, humble murder.

Mother had demonstrated the three most basic forms of the fiend-hunter style—and used them to soundly defeat me.

A form to redirect a strike. Which I’d failed to utilize when she’d struck my blade.

A more exertion heavy form to reclaim the upper hand in a clash of weapons, should the first form fail to give it to you, as my mother had used when I’d failed to deflect her attack.

And a form to immediately and swiftly end a fight once the first or third forms left the enemy open. A straightforward killing strike designed not to injure or maim, but to finish a fight as quickly as possible.

It was the second form [direct execution], that was perhaps the most lethal of them all, and, just as she’d said, it was the skill that she was now using against me, and another my mother’s fighting style boasted and that she had completely mastered. Direct Execution didn’t pretend to be anything that it wasn’t. It was not showy or flashy, not meant to protect as was the first form. The second form was purified, simplistic violence carefully sharpened to a harsh utility.

And it was coming to end me, or so it felt like.

Mother's blade shot towards my face, faster than I could stumble backwards.

I felt the weapon tap my forehead and my entire body clenched and convulsed.

The killing intent was palpable. My mother wasn’t my mother to me then, but a killer. My killer, or so my mind screamed.

My backside hit the lush grass and I blinked. The aura that ran my body cold dissipated as quickly as the strike itself was pulled back. I wasn’t dead.

Of course, I wasn’t dead.

I scowled. I never died when she beat me… and yet I always thought that I would.

I was afraid each time she struck me. I was ashamed of that fear. I could lie to myself, but in those moments when it reared its head, the terror of death controlled me and not I it.

My mother’s face, now smiling and sweet filled my vision as she leaned down in front of me.

She reached out to squeeze my cheeks together with her palms. “You’re so silly. I’ve told you a thousand times that I'm not going to hurt you.”

“Mom,” I blushed and waited for her to remove her hands.

She did so. The mother I knew in the hours that we weren’t sparring was back. The sweet, bubbly, oftentimes sarcastic woman that had been with me every day since I could remember. She didn’t scare me, not like the other mother did, the mother whose eyes were devoid of anything but focus and violence.

Celis removed her hands from my cheeks and ruffled my red hair, a slightly lighter shade than her own though speckled with bits of my father’s blonde.

“Did you learn anything?” Celis asked me.

Just that I can’t even manage to stay focused even when I’m doing good.

“Maybe,” I replied.

Her smile turned into a nod, and we stood. “You almost had it, you know.”

She didn’t help me up. She never did.

“I messed up,” I said looking at the ground.

“If you learned then it’s okay, this time,” she said and laughed. “Stop sulking. You remind me of your father.”

“You love dad,” I said, feeling a bit offended at her mocking of her life partner.

“Yes, but he’s always like you are now before he figures something out that’s bothering him,” she said, “but maybe it’s good. He was like that before he created his first expert level spell. It could mean you’re close to mastering the first form.”

“Really?” I looked up to her.

I really loved my mom, but my dad was so smart. If he was like I was, then maybe I wasn’t hopeless just because I wasn’t as good as mom.

“Mhm,” Celis replied and motioned for me to follow beside her; she’d retrieved our practice swords and was carrying both in her hands. “He’s probably in the garden now. Go help him; maybe he’ll tell you about it, but don’t let him show you anything too advanced. It’ll discourage you. You have to be happy with the small skills before the big ones, or you’ll never get good enough to pull off the big ones.”

“Mom… you’re lecturing me again,” I said, before feeling a wooden bonk on the back of my head. “Ow!”

Celis smiled devishly, the wooden sword she’d just half-smacked me with was still in her hand. She wasn’t even trying to hide what she’d just done! “I’m your sword master. We lecture.”

“That hurt,” I said rubbing my head as we walked.

“You’ll get good enough to dodge strikes from behind someday,” Celis said, “until then you’re going to get bonked when you say dumb things.”

“You’re so mean,” I said, keeping my eyes on her hands.

She just smiled at me, looking particularly carefree and beautiful under the twin suns of Arden. “Yep.”

We continued on to the house, a large manor, chiseled from white stone, framed in dark wood, and accented by carefully maintained withervine ivy among other floral dashes of color. The house was a product of my father’s learning, skill, money, and magic. Mother shooed me away to find the man himself and told me she’d meet us both later when it came time for our midday meal.

Father helped our maid to cook. I’d never really thought it was odd. He was the one who was so good with plants. We ate a lot of meat too, of course, which was something mom provided. She’d hunt in the morning, drop it off with my dad, since he tended to sleep in, and then wake me up for a few hours of sword practice; by then our maid would have consulted with father about how he wanted the meat butchered and prepared while he went out to tend to the garden and collect whatever he might want from it to garnish the day’s meal.

I brushed through the double doors of our house and into its main foyer.

Usually, I’d have been met with the sight of the village blacksmith’s large hunting dog waiting for me outside our home, hoping for a pet or two and maybe a snack from my dad. The hound didn’t like dad as much as she liked me, but had surprisingly really taken to mom, but dad still often tossed her a treat or two and a few polite words. The hound didn’t like the blistering heat or fire of her master’s forge, not since she’d been stuck in a small house fire as a young pup, so she generally explored while he was working during the day and returned to sleep at his feet at night, but she had just had puppies a while back, so I assumed she was still resting or taking care of them. Apparently, it had taken a lot out of her, but I’d asked the dog not to give me too many details—not that dogs, in my experience, were generally detailed focused creatures, unless they were working of course.

Instead of taking the time to talk to the lazy canine, since she wasn’t around, I continued walking through the reception hall and beneath the twinned staircases that led to the second level balcony and sleeping quarters of our home, and then went further on through the back door that connected to the stone-walled garden behind our manor.

I was met with a world of verdant green and rich, edible color. Well-watered flowers, gliding songbirds, and trees with normal and multi-hued leaves alike all filled my field of vision. The smell of fruits, foreign and domestic, all grown and touched by my father’s hands and mana, danced across my nose. The garden was one of my favorite places in the world.

A hum of magic pulsed in the oxygen rich air. It wasn’t burnt or scary, but was the scent and sensation of potential and nurtured-intentions. The plants and shrubbery of the garden, my father’s walled world, were apart from those outside it; they were healthier, thicker, and more plentiful—each one also gave off a hum of tingling energy that was mixed into the very oxygen they produced and wasn’t intrusive at all, but more peacefully energizing than anything else as it slipped into your lungs and revitalized them.

I looked for my father as I stepped onto the earth-cobble path that led into the many trails of the garden. The path was walled by sections of uneven boulders stacked atop one another that occasionally gave way to groupings of vegetable-bearing vines or mini-orchards of fruit-bearing trees.

The garden was rather big—no, it could probably be considered massive; the hewn-stone walls that enclosed it were as wide, and twice as deep, as the white manor that they were built firmly against.

I pulled up my status sheet as I casually walked and looked for dad. The garden was safe, and its pathways were almost always cleanly free of obstacles and thus easy to navigate. This was because the trees very rarely shed either seeds or branches and were supremely healthy specimens, preternaturally so in fact.

The semi-opaque character sheet filled out in front of me. I could mentally shift its position or dismiss it with but a thought. It was entirely user-friendly and only I could see it, unless I chose to show it, or parts of it, to others.

<<<>>>

Peregrine Borncrest

Body: N/A

Mind: N/A

Soul: N/A

Attributes

Brawn: 1 (20/100) (Novice)

Dexterity: 1 (60/100) (Novice)

Endurance: 1 (40/100) (Novice)

Magic Potency: 1 (20/100) (Novice)

Magic Control: 1 (50/100) (Novice)

Magic Efficiency: 1 (60/100) (Novice)

Proficiencies

Acrobatics: 1 (80/100) (Novice)

Archery (No Style): 1 (40/100) (Novice)

Alchemy (Potion-Making): 1 (70/100) (Novice)

Animal Husbandry: 1 (60/100) (Novice)

Butchering: 1 (50/100) (Novice)

Cooking: 1 (50/100) (Novice)

Druidry: 1 (97/100) (Novice)

Herbalism: 1 (90/100) (Novice)

One-Handed (Fiend-Hunter): 1 (98/100) (Novice)

Traits

Mind of Memories: With effort, you can perfectly visualize anything that you have felt, seen, tasted, or heard. You can relive the moments of your life, as you perceived them exactly, at will. The more focused you are on something, in the moment a memory is created, the easier it is to recall it. (Born)

Titles

None.

Skills

None.

Spells

Growth: Use your mana to influence the growth of plant-life that you are physically touching. Mana cost is determined by the level, scale, and rate of growth. (Nature) (Novice) (Upgradeable)

Mending: Lay your hands on anything that is or was living. You may accelerate the healing of living things or repair damage to natural fibers and crafts. Mana cost is determined by the extent of the mending done. (Nature) (Novice) (Upgradeable)

Minor Beast-Tongue: Through extensive practice and understanding, you can learn to speak the tongue of beasts and plant-life fluently. The fluency of communication is based upon the understanding and druidic resonance with individual’s species. Mana drain is negligible. (Nature) (Novice) (Upgradeable)

<<<>>>

I’d brought up my character sheet because, despite the beauty of the garden all around me and how much I really did like it, it was a place I was used to and that I’d seen all my life. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wandering away from it and back to my bout with my mother--and thus to my skills.

I was getting better. She always told me that when I asked, but, despite her paradoxically both bubbly and sometimes prickly personality, she wasn’t the kind of person to ever offer praise unprompted. It was there if I asked for it, but that almost made it feel cheaper.

I wanted to become so good that she’d compliment me without me having to ask. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to beat her… but surely I could make enough progress to make her proud?

I was approaching the point where my one-handed skill, in my mother’s sword style, would reach one-hundred proficiency points. It’d taken my whole life to get to that point. I was just eleven now, but I couldn’t ever remember not training with mother. It seemed like it was taking a long time to get better.

Mother had also mentioned that swordsmen without talent could bottleneck once they’d reached the peak of the novice level. This was apparently enough for some and devasting for others.

I didn’t really care about what other people did, however. I just knew mother would be disappointed if I didn’t’ have any talent. She spent so much time teaching me… I really didn’t want to fail her.

Just as I was thinking this, a yellow and black creature fluttered down onto my shoulder.

I glanced at the songbird as it chirped and stared intently into my eyes. Not a bit of fear or skittishness radiated off the confident. tiny avian as it hopped twice on my shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll follow you,” I said, not at all surprised by the intelligence in the creature’s beady, cute little eyes.

The yellow thing chirped happily and gave another small bounce, before counterbalancing itself with its tail and flapping away from me and onto the breeze, trailing along the garden path I was walking on.

I mentally closed my status screen and followed after the bird. Normally, it’d be too fast a flyer for me to keep up with, even by running, but I was familiar with the path and my guide didn’t rush along to the fullest of its capabilities.

The bird slipped between two white-droop willow trees, fluttering gracefully between the low-hanging, squat trunked, purple and white blossomed flora.

I smiled a bit as I saw the bird settle onto the shoulder of a man who was picking berries methodically from a large row of bushes--bushes that sat just beyond the willow trees that made a natural gateway along the garden path.

The bird chirped excitedly to the man, who slowly turned his attention to the creature with recognition in his gaze.

“Oh, you found him for me? Thank you,” the man, in a plain, cream-colored work shirt and surprisingly clean, brown sack-cotton pants said to the bird, listening politely as the avian chirped in reply.

Nodding in understanding, he lifted a berry to the bird’s beak and allowed the thing to take it and then fly off happily.

The man’s face was bookish, but handsome. His hair was a shoulder-blade length and straight; the length of it was a naturally hay-colored mane in places, and in others it mixed and intertwined with what appeared to almost be a thick moss that also grew from his scalp. He often pulled up his mana-touched locks into a pale, untanned leather strap when he was working or studying. His nose was a mix between thick and thin, leaning towards the latter, with a dash of longness. His jaw was angular, but not too pointy, but it was definitely a bit more feminine than it was rugged. His eyes were a grey cobalt, ringed around the iris by a near-glowing and ever-shifting gold, that contrasted my mother’s naturally vibrant, but more mundane looking green. His eyes—also unlike my mother’s always energetic gaze--appeared perpetually tired in a way that didn’t quite seem to reach too much deeper than the surface or the purple-bagged skin that set around those intelligent orbs themselves. The most interesting thing about my dad's appearance, of course, were the velvety and truly large stag horns that grew from his forehead, a mark of his mastery over nature magics.

“Dad,” I said as I approached the man. “What are you picking today?”

The man looked at me softly and gently lifted up another berry, between his thumb and index finger, towards me. “You tell me, Pery?”

The berry was mostly a golden orange; it was a little bigger than a pea or medium-sized lentil. There was a burnt pumpkin gradient that blended into the rest of its hue towards where it grew on the bush. I glanced towards said bush, noting the heart-shaped leaves that could look slightly like ovals from a distance or if you squinted a little.

“Those are heartberries,” I said confidently.

“Very good,” my father said, “and what are they used for?”

“They can be brewed into weaker health potions to allow the veins to better tolerate the mana inherent in the stronger ingredients,” I offered.

Dad nodded but didn’t smile. I could still tell he was pleased though.

“True, but we’re not brewing potions for lunch,” he prompted me.

“Um,” I paused, “are they for a sauce?” I asked. “Mom loves them.”

“She isn’t the only one who loves them,” father replied.

I blinked. I didn’t really like heartberries. Despite their citrus-like coloring they were more tart than tangy and created a thick, creamy taste--that I didn’t find appealing--when you added water and flour to them, before thickening that mix’s consistency through reduction.

So, who else liked them? Oh, really?

“Brother is coming?” I asked with excitement.

My brother was a knight, much like my mother--though he belonged to an actual knightly order and she didn’t really; mostly anyway--it definitely wasn’t a traditionally structured order that mother had been granted induction into at least. As far as allegiances went, my brother served Duke Vembrandt as one of his men-at-arms, in the nearby city of Highseat. The city was about a week-and-a-half’s ride away from the fief that my father managed under the authority of the castellan of said same city.

“Bastion should be here sometime tonight,” my father answered. “I’ve already picked some greenroot and spryleaves for lunch, but these are for dinner.”

Bastion was amazing; I was very happy to hear that he was coming. He’d reached the competent level in mother’s fighting style by the time he was eight and the journeyman tier a half-decade later. I was jealous, at least a little, but mostly I just wanted to be more like him. He’d also gone on to also become a journeyman rank in his order’s more defensive fighting style by the time he was twenty. He was now twenty-four, married to his lord’s second daughter, and very much a local up and comer as far as I understood.

“Is he here for my birthday?” I asked.

It was tomorrow, my birthday that is. The twelfth year of one’s life was a big milestone in the kingdoms of man. It was the pre-cursor to the final milestone of being fifteen, which marked the official entryway into adulthood. A person was still seen as a child at twelve, but they were expected to take up training in a life path or trade so they could prepare themselves for the fast-coming future.

“He is,” my father nodded and handed me the basket of berries he’d collected. “He wrote me some time ago and said he wouldn’t miss it for anything. I think he has a present for you.”

“What’s the present?” I asked shamelessly.

“I can’t tell you that,” father said and shrugged. “Bastion might be cross with me if I did,” he appeared to reconsider that statement for a moment, “or, rather, I just don’t want to ruin the surprise for you, I suppose.”

“Aw,” I was still smiling, but my mind drifted again as I thought about how amazing my big brother was and my smile faded. “Dad? Do you think he’s going to be disappointed when he sees me again?”

It’d been a year since I’d seen Bastion. He’d been busy in the service of his lord during the majority of the previous months. I honestly hadn’t even known he’d returned from the borderlands until dad had mentioned he’d be coming soon.

My father shook his head. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, he was a lot better than I am at everything when he was my age. Mom always brags about him,” I replied.

It was true. My mother never seemed prouder than when she was talking about her eldest son and all his accomplishments and exploits.

“Hm,” my father hummed and gestured towards a nearby bench that appeared as if it’d grown from the soil itself—mostly because it had. “Let’s sit down for a second.”

“Okay,” I said and followed to rest myself beside him on the spell-grown, root-constructed bench.

“How’s your sword training going?” he asked me.

“It’s hard,” I replied. “I’m almost twelve and I'm still not competent level like brother was at eight--and I haven’t even unlocked a skill yet.”

“Oh, I see,” he sighed.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“Has your mother told you that most adults don’t even have any skills unlocked?” he asked me.

“Huh? They don’t?” I asked.

This was news to me. Mother, father, and Bastion all had skills or spells. All the heroes in the storybooks also had extremely powerful and leveled skills. I’d just assumed it was normal and expected for adults.

He shook his head. “They don’t. Most people never even get beyond the competent level in their life-long trade. I’m guessing she at least mentioned that leveling up from novice to competent doesn’t guarantee a skill to be unlocked either?”

“Well, yeah. She said I had to work really hard and lay a good foundation, or I’d mess up my breakthrough to competent and ruin my chance to get one,” I replied, in a bit of dour tone.

This knowledge was something that bothered me even more than the fact that I felt so slow to progress beyond the novice level. What if I reached the next tier in my swordsmanship, but still messed it up by not unlocking a skill? What would mother think? That I’d wasted all her time when it came to training me up through the lowest proficiency tier?

“Celis, I swear,” my father said with a bit of exasperation as he mentioned my mother’s name. “Pery, your mother loves you very much and is very proud of you, but she’s a little… oblivious to how her high standards put pressure on the ones who look to her for approval. She’s very good at bringing out the best in people because of that and is an amazing warrior, but I honestly don’t think she understands that some of us stress over things more than she does.”

“She’s proud of me? Why doesn’t she say it if I don’t ask her then?” I asked.

“Probably because she thinks you already know, or doesn’t consider that you might not,” my father replied, “but she tells me how good you’re doing every time I ask. Almost being at the peak of the novice level in swordsmanship at your age is almost unheard of. You’re doing just fine, son.”

“How is it unheard of if Bastion did it when he was just eight?” I inquired.

“Not that you didn’t get it too, but your brother inherited all of your mother’s talent and, honestly, I think a little extra,” my father said thoughtfully, “but, you know, Bastion has zero talent for or interest in magic. It used to make me a little sad that he just didn’t want to learn anything from me. Call it a father’s pride, but I wanted my son to look to me and want to be like me. Still, you have talent for both magic and swordsmanship, even if the sword also runs a little deeper in you because of your mother’s strong genes.”

I didn’t feel like I was particularly great at magic, but I was well over halfway to the competent level in what my father had taught me of his druidry.

“I’m not very good at magic either, though,” I said.

“That little bird told me it found you and led you to me, before it harassed me for a berry as a reward. Did you understand it when it spoke to you?” my father asked me.

“I didn’t understand what it was saying exactly,” I admitted, “but I understood what it was trying to get across. I understand dogs a lot better than birds”

“There are far fewer people who can understand the meaning of an animal than can swing a sword,” my father explained. “I’ve already mentioned it to you, but the novice level of magical disciplines all deal with basic manipulation of a type of energy or concept. It's honestly impressive that you can resonate with animals enough to understand some of them beyond vague impressions at all at your level; your passive spell that allows you to do so is like a warrior having a beginner tier, passive body-reinforcing aura.”

“So, I’m not bad at magic?” I asked.

“I always tell you that you’re doing very well,” my father replied.

“I know. I just forget I guess,” I replied, realizing that my father did praise me a lot; however, I guess I’d just not noticed it since it was such a common thing and he did it so casually and calmly. Whereas my mother was loud and mischievous, but pretty much never offered me any words of praise freely.

“You’re a very smart young man,” my father said calmly. “I’m not sure how much of it is your born trait, since it makes your memory simply incredible, but you seem like you could be a very proficient mage if you put your mind to it.”

“I do like the sword though,” I said, gently resting my sore head on the bench behind it.

“You should never give up any of your passions, as long as you have enough talent and time to make something of them,” my father said. “When I was an adventurer, I knew magicians who wielded swords and swordsmen who weaved magic. It doesn’t have to be one or the other if you work hard.”

It almost seemed too good to be true: being good at both magic and swordsmanship--but I couldn’t say I didn’t want that. I liked the sword more, but I didn’t want to just forget everything my dad had taught me either. He’d spent so much time teaching me what the plants in his gardens and the nearby roadsides, fields, and forests did. He’d been so patient as I’d learned to summon my mana from my soulcore and connect it with the ambient magical energy of the natural world. It was also really cool to be able to at least sorta talk to the local animals, like I could now--and dad could do much more amazing things than that with his magic.

“Were they ever any good at both?” I asked, inquiring about the warrior mages and mage knights he’d met.

“Hmm. I won’t lie and say that some of them weren’t seriously lacking and unbalanced,” my father replied. “I knew one rogue-like fighter who depended on creating illusionary afterimages of himself to confuse his enemies in a fight. It made him incredibly effective at doing a lot of damage very quickly, before an opponent could pin him down. However, when we faced a blind devil who fought based off sound and not sight… well, he didn’t have the pure fighting skills needed to be a damage dealer without his illusions providing him a smokescreen against the devil’s attacks. A few of our party got hurt somewhat badly once the thing got past him before we realized what was happening." My father paused, thoughtfully. "But Pery, with your talent, I don’t think there would be much of a problem as long as you remembered to never rely on just tricks."

"What do you mean, not relying on tricks?" I asked. "That I should be more versatile than that fighter you mentioned?"

"Magc is about versatility and swordfighters usually value a form of simpler utility, if that makes sense, but magic isn’t versatile if you only learn a shallow bit of it and swordsmanship doesn’t provide much utility if you don’t hone the basics enough to rely on them—somewhat like your mother always says, honestly." he explained. "Like I said, though, you have talent for both, and if you work very hard. I think you could pull it off. Just don't forget to find time to live a little too; that was a lesson your mother had to teach me, but life would have been a little better if I hadn't waited so long to learn it.”

“You really think so?” I asked my dad.

“I do,” he nodded.

“Thanks, dad. I feel a little better,” I replied. “I guess I’m not doing that bad, then?”

“Not at all,” he confirmed. “I’m very proud of you; I only say it so often because it’s very true, not to make it mean any less than it does to me.”

I smiled. I was about to say something else to my father when a loud metallic clanging echoed from the direction of the manor. Then there was a feminine shouting, but not the terrified kind--it was the taunting kind instead.

My father sighed again. “We were having such a good father-son conversation. Oh well, I suppose. It seems your brother is here early, Pery, and your mother got to him first. Why does that always happen…?”