After a month I can sum up the first results. My master is nothing like a sensei from old Asian movies. More precisely, he skillfully pretended to be one, and for the first three days I really believed in that mask, until he decided to drink.
As it turned out, he's quite the party animal and womanizer, and this time I really screwed up by not asking anyone in the bar about Piandao. He's a regular there. Nothing piggish—he doesn't get drunk like a log, skillfully balancing on the edge. But he often causes quite a ruckus in the whole local village. But without excesses.
It also turned out that besides the butler who greeted me, other peopleQuite live here. Maids, to be precise. And when I realized that he sleeps with all of them, and everyone knows about everything, I thought, is my great sensei a fellow transmigrator?
What? Built a harem? Did. Mastered some secret art? Did. So much that any bender would be sad if they ended up enemies with the Master. Built a mansion? Oh, how he built it, a house to envy everyone.
In short, the man lives enviably well, even his hobby—forging—doesn't take money but brings it, and very, very big money.
I wish I had that. Instead of preparing in the sweat of my brow for upcoming problems. For now the Master has made me just train. Yes-yes, physically—I ran from this all my life and here it caught up with me. Squats, push-ups, abs, running, and so on. The main thing here? Right, not to go bald.
He hasn't fed me any special philosophy yet. Just made me load my body, apparently I really was too scrawny. And at the same time started using me as an assistant in the forge. Bring this, hand that, get out and don't interfere. But he explained different steps to me, even though I wasn't particularly interested. But my own weapon, I must forge myself, it's a tradition.
Yeah, all that's left is to find it. Sometimes the Master brought me different swords, made me swing them, and watched me, watched. What an Ollivander of the local variety. Waiting for visual special effects or what?
By the way, the forge turned out to be without special frills. The most standard, and the master worked not with mithril and adamantium, as I hoped in my soul, but with the most ordinary metals, from steel and iron to various alloys. But, as he confided to me, it's all crap: a sword shouldn't cost more than a ship—yeah, so why do you set such prices—a sword should fulfill the role of a weapon. And all kinds of alloys that are a bit stronger than steel, or fancy guards—are nothing more than frivolity.
What's the difference that this blade is from an alloy a bit stronger than ordinary steel? Tales about long duels between two swordsmen, during which theoretically an ordinary sword would break and a special one would hold—are nothing more than tales. A real fight is quick and fleeting, no more than five-ten minutes, including all talk and breaks. No time for sword durability there.
And sharpening some sword so it cuts others like ears of corn is unrealistic. No matter what alloy you take, it's unrealistic.
But fearing to lose a sword in battle is already very bad. A sword, of course, is an extension of the arm and so on, but it's still a simple weapon. That can be thrown at someone or used not for its intended purpose, without fear of breaking it.
At least that's the wisdom the master shared with me while melting a sword from another alloy for some terribly expensive order.
Maybe he's grumbling because such swords are harder to make? Hm-m.
That's roughly how my first month of training went. Why did I note exactly this date? Because after that the master deigned to have a conversation.
Not that he didn't talk to me before, but now he decided to explain himself.
"You see, Aki, I had to see how serious you are," he began when we were sitting in his office and he was drawing some picture, "teenage rebellions are quite common, and you sounded determined enough for me to accept you, but I decided to make sure. There's a lot of time ahead anyway, and an extra check at the start won't hurt. Anyway, I sent orders through my connections and in the next year samples of weapons from absolutely different tribes and peoples will flow to me. We'll find something for you."
"A-a-a," I profoundly uttered, but decided just in case to thank him, "thank you, master."
"No need," he snorted, "I also needed to get you in shape physically a bit. Because the characteristic "pale moth" was exactly about you. Before any sword swinging, you needed to build some muscle."
Not that the result is really visible. I was tall and skinny and remained so, except my muscles got a bit more defined. Though I definitely got stronger, maybe swinging a sword will be easier.
"Come here, let's start with the simple," he called me and I obediently approached, "a fighter practices many arts to train their mind as well. You must learn calligraphy."
With those words he laid out all the writing supplies, including a brush and paper. With quick and precise movements. The paper and brush weren't standard for a lot of notes, like mine—almost harder than writing with a pen—but large ones, exactly the kind used to learn writing.
"I already know calligraphy," I blinked, "how will this help?"
"Write your name," the master ignored my question, handing me the brush, "you must learn to leave your own mark. It doesn't matter with a brush or a sword, these marks cannot be erased. You won't be able to change your mind after you've already left a mark."
Here comes the philosophy. Well alright, I'll have to accept it and try to understand; after all, considering there's magic here, it might not be just for nothing.
"I understand, master," I nodded, trying not to fall out of such an important atmosphere. A couple seconds, and my name is written neatly and clearly.
"Hm-m," looking at the inscription and rubbing his chin, Piandao drawled, "why didn't you say right away that you'd already studied calligraphy. Good thing I don't have to invent more of this pseudo-philosophical nonsense to make you at least learn some literacy."
"I told you!" I righteously indignated, slowly starting to leak from the situation and realizing where all this tinsel is leading.
"Everyone says they know," Piandao waved it off, "but in reality it turns out they barely learned something long ago. And developing fine motor skills is necessary. As is literacy. Did you go to school?"
"I actually graduated from a men's academy in the capital," I raised one eyebrow in Mei style, "with honors and several years ahead of everyone else."
"And why didn't you say right away when asking to be a student?" if the master was surprised, not a single muscle twitched on his face.
"And how will that help with fencing?" now I was surprised.
"Intelligence is an important thing for a swordsman," the master went into philosophical thoughts again, only traditional Chinese music on some wind instrument is missing in the background, "a sword is a simple weapon, but in the hands of a master it becomes the most dangerous. Just as boundless is your imagination, boundless are the possibilities of the sword…"
"Yes, it's clear you're not teaching dumb swinging and there needs to be something in the head," I translated, "but still average achievement. You saw what they teach there? Complete nonsense, even in senior classes. Calligraphy, for example, I mastered by begging my parents for a teacher at five years old."
"Hm," the Master looked at me with a somehow different gaze, "you understand very precisely what I want to say."
"I understand why these philosophical disputes are needed—to set the student in the right mood, make them not just mindlessly swing a sword but have some principles and views, so I have nothing against it and listen to your wisdom," I translated his vague statement again, only at the end unable to hold back and slightly hitting with sarcasm. Just a drop. It's all Mei's influence.
"You know… recently rumors reached me that there was a real scandal in the capital," the master abruptly switched to a simpler tone, "a bunch of graduates were found at one of their houses with a lot of empty bottles and in clearly compromising positions. The first pregnancies and weddings have already started."
"Oops," I smiled crookedly. I warned the house owner to clean everything up quickly in the morning. But who listens to me.
"So it was you after all," the master said without changing his expression.
"I already knew then that I'd probably have to run soon and decided to make the graduation memorable for the guys," I shrugged, "I warned them, and there were responsible girls and boys so there wouldn't be incidents, but apparently I left the party too early, and responsibility is a relative concept after two cups of sake."
"What a pity that the sword isn't your thing," the master unexpectedly smiled, "you could've become an excellent Master of the Sword. But you'll become no less good a Master of another weapon."
"They won't sell me alcohol, I won't run to the city for you!" maybe this time I didn't translate quite accurately, but I decided to definitely disavow this business. While the master himself doesn't descend from the "mountain", the butler Fat—who greeted me—runs for local strong drinks.
"Hm," Piandao smiled even more, finally losing the mask of a wise teacher and revealing the inner joker, "we'll see. We have ma-a-any years ahead. And you have ve-e-ery much ahead. So you'll run more for yourself. Come on, it's time to start at least mastering the sword."
Here I felt really bad. Better let him continue playing sensei than this.