Chris Huisjen
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Stormblade C14: Pumping Iron
🕑 Added 2025-06-16 13:08:01 +0000 UTC14 - Pumping Iron
“Forty-nine…and fifty! You’re done.” Ellen said.
Much to my surprise, she’d followed me over to the gym. Most mages didn’t put in as much time on their physical conditioning, and my initial read on Ellen was that she was…not lazy. No one who was lazy outlined dozens of possible builds in multicolored sticky notes.
More…focused on her interests and, like she’d said, not interested in hurting.
But she insisted. Then, she ran out to her car and came back with a workout bag. Ten minutes later, she’d changed into a loose T-shirt and shorts, and her hair was out of the bun and back into the far-too-long pigtails she’d worn in the portal. She looked like she was ready to exercise, and, even more to my surprise than her saying she wanted to work out, she’d kept up with me.
I had a routine. I’d been following it since my awakening. Two-mile run, then sets of twenty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and ten pull-ups. Then, alternate those with weight machines. Repeat for two hours, then a two-mile run as a cooldown. Then, I’d see who was available for sparring. Ellen’s weights weren’t much smaller than mine; the only difference was that she hadn’t been trying to be a melee fighter for the last year.
I racked the barbell and sat up. “Run time.”
“About time. All this stuff’s a little too sweaty for me. Not in, like, a working out way. In a ‘taking yourselves too seriously but also not seriously enough’ way. There are so many E and D-rankers in here acting like they’re hot shit,” Ellen said. “Half of them probably don’t even have full sets of skills, much less anything with real potential, but they’re the top two percent of humans, and they act like that puts them at the top of the food chain.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, Kade. Are you allowed in the gym in the morning or right after work?”
I held up my hands. “I’m just saying that every E-Ranker in here could win twenty gold medals at the old Olympics.”
We walked to the track, bickering the whole way, and broke into a light jog. The track was a quarter-mile; I could get eight circuits finished in a touch over eight minutes most days, but today, we were slow after one lap. “And I’m just saying that none of that matters. The delvers who are in here every day? Half of them are serious, and half of them don’t have a clue. Want to know how I can tell which is which?” Ellen asked as we finished our second loop.
“How?”
“Cell phones and sweat. The serious ones don’t care how they look. They’re here because it’s their job. The other ones? They think just being a delver means the world owes them something. They’re taking pictures, not sweating. Dad always…” she trailed off, glaring. “Never mind. Let’s go.”
I nodded and picked up the pace. She followed suit, and by our seventh lap, we’d more than caught up to where I wanted to be. When we finished, Ellen put her hands on her knees and panted. “I think that’s a new record for me.”
“It’s close to mine, too.” We’d finished in under eight minutes—a near-world record speed for anyone whose system hadn’t awakened, but only a touch above average for an E-Ranker. The fastest S-Rank strikers could do two miles in under two minutes at a full sprint. Ellen was right. Being in the top two percent meant nothing when the top hundredth of a percent were just that much better.
“Imma hit the sauna. See you there in ten?” Ellen asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve got sparring to do.”
“Do you?” she asked.
“Yes. I need to learn Riposte. Until I learn that, I have sparring to do. It was nice having a workout partner, though. Same time tomorrow?”
Ellen looked at the door for a second, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.” Then she looked me over, eyebrow raised. “You’re one of the ones who’s here because it’s your job, huh?”
“Yep. See you tomorrow.” I headed for the sparring rooms, grabbing a free water bottle and draining it before shoving it in my pocket. Waste not, want not, after all. I’d pack it on a future delve.
◄▼►
Unlike my local training center, the Peoria one’s sparring room was packed, and I had no trouble finding a fight—especially once I explained what I wanted.
In fact, the first guy I saw stared at me in disbelief. “You want me to hit you over and over?”
“No. I want you to try to hit me over and over, as hard as you can. I won’t dodge, but I will use Parry, and when I do, I’ll follow up and try to hit you.”
“And…you want me to let you hit me?”
I shrugged. That would be the fastest way to learn Riposte. But it wouldn’t help me learn to use it properly. “That’s completely up to you. Let’s set damage to five percent, though. That way, we can do this until I get what I need.”
“That’s perfect,” he said. He was skinny, with shifty eyes. “I’m a striker specializing in heavy-duty burst damage, and I’m trying to learn Opening Flurry. How about this? If you block me and get your attack in before you take ‘lethal’ damage at five percent, you win. If I ‘kill’ you, I win. We repeat as long as we can.”
“Agreed.”
We headed down the stairs. Luckily, every Governing Council training center had been built on the same plan, so I knew exactly what to expect. I took my position on one side of the circle, and my opponent drew a long, wavy dagger. I called forth the Stormsteel rapier, pushed Mana into it, and checked my Stamina levels.
Stamina: 48/150, Mana: 198/200
I’d be doing this unbuffed—it’d be better for focusing on the skill I still needed to learn if I didn’t lean on anything else. And with my Stamina below a third, I’d need to be deliberate about my attacks. Plus, the guy was a pure striker—an assassin rather than a duelist. Almost anything would do five percent to him, but conversely, I’d need to defend myself perfectly, because he was a true glass cannon.
“Ready,” I said.
“Ready. Go.” My opponent didn’t quite vanish. He did blur, though—and not from speed. I could track him just fine, but his skill camouflaged the details of his motion. I tried to keep my blade between him and me, ready to parry, but I blinked. And when I did, so did he. One second, he was in front of me. The next, I felt the five percent tickle as his dagger punched into my chest three times.
“Again?” I asked, when my body un-tensed from the surprise.
He nodded. “Again.”
I let him ‘kill’ me two more times. Both times, I focused on his pattern. Stealth skill, then blink to close the gap, then Opening Flurry. Then I let him ‘kill’ me again, this time focusing on the moments between the skills. After he stealthed, it seemed to take him a moment to get oriented. Then, after a blink, the attack took about a second to hit.
That was enough. I was ready. “One more time?”
“As many as you need, friend,” he said.
He stealthed. The second he did, I lunged, and he got his dagger up to protect his face. The rapier was inches from hitting when I pulled the attack and flourished it. My fencing instructor has always said never to do that shit in a real fight. It opened you up to attacks.
Right now, I was counting on it.
The opening was right there. My whole body, without an obvious way to protect myself. Bait. And he took it. His dagger flashed forward, and I flicked my wrist. The rapier was there, in between my chest and his knife, knocking it up and away. My follow-through would have skewered him if it weren’t for the massively reduced damage.
“Damn,” he said, stepping back and rubbing his shoulder, “you’re tricky.”
“I have to be. You’ve got too many advantages if we stick to the bare minimum. How about an all-out spar?” I asked. The battle trance had already started settling in on me, and I wanted this.
He nodded, and a second dagger appeared in his off-hand. I applied my speed and deflection buffs; whether I learned Riposte or not didn’t matter. This was a good fight, and I had all afternoon.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Just go,” I said.
And he went. Blurred, blinked to the far side of the room. I dashed right; his daggers cut the air where I’d been standing. A spin to reorient, then a quick thrust and a backstep for distance. He followed. I couldn’t make space. An attack. A parry. A riposte that would have jammed through his gut if he hadn’t blinked again. Another spin. A dagger in my back—but not enough. I spun, blocked the second and third. Counterattacked again.
We both stepped back. He’d have been bleeding from the forehead, and me from the back, if this had been real. I was breathing heavily; at this rate, I’d be good for a couple more clashes. My opponent looked less tired and more frustrated. “One more hit, then,” he said, and blinked.
I followed him, dashing across the room as he blurred and launching into a full Vital Lunge. He went left; I’d expected him to go right, and barely spun-sidestepped-recovered-parried in time. It was ugly. Hideous. My instructor wouldn’t have been impressed even from twelve-year-old me. But it worked.
My blade got between his leaping slash and me. His daggers bounced off it. And I followed up with a quick slash to his stomach.
He couldn’t stop me, and before he even hit the ground, the fight was over. More importantly, my system flared to life.
Skill Learned: Riposte
Master duelists knew most fights lasted three moves or less: an attack, a parry, and a riposte. The best of them strived to make sure they were the ones making the last move. Increases damage and speed of attacks following a successful parry.
Upgrade Effects:
1. Each rank increases damage and speed.
That was it. I had it—the last component skill of Grassi’s Greater Swordplay. The man himself had lived hundreds of years ago, but his techniques were still the core of entire styles of modern fencing. And the skill was right. With Riposte, I could completely dictate the pace of a fight. I could be the aggressor with the rest of my skills while relying on Parry and Riposte to win any fights where I was forced onto the defensive.
I had everything I needed. Now it was time to level. I pulled up my status.
User: Kade Noelstra
E-Rank
Stamina: 23/150, Mana: 135/200
Skills:
1. Stormsteel Core (E-04, Unique, Merged)
2. Dodge (E-08)
3. Light Blade Mastery (E-07)
4. Parry (E-03)
5. Footwork (E-02)
6. Vital Lunge (E-01, Active)
7. Riposte (E-01)
“Again?” my opponent asked.
I could have said no. Everything I needed, I had, and all that was left was finding some E-Rank portals to level my skills so I could merge them, then getting my hands on another D-Rank boss core.
But I wanted to practice, so I said, “Yes,” instead.
◄▼►
We’d been fighting, on and off, for the better part of an hour. Mostly on, but we’d both run our Stamina and Mana down to nothing a couple of times, and breathers were becoming more and more frequent.
And, during the last break, a pair of new people stepped into the sparring rooms’ lobby.
Everyone reacted. Even the people who tried to keep themselves under control stiffened as the two newcomers entered. Both wore full battle armor—the good stuff, from B-Rank portals and higher, and what looked like mostly-complete sets. Both had portal metal weapons whose quality had to be at least that of the armor.
And both had auras that burned brighter than anything that should have been in here during low-rank hours.
I didn’t miss the armbands on their armor, either. Stylized, cartoonish roadrunners from an old TV show.
The bigger one cleared her throat and spoke. Her voice was surprisingly deep and quiet from under her helmet. “Clear out the sparring rooms. We’ve got business to settle. Fifty percent damage, full-size room.”
They were A-Rankers. Both of them. Near the pinnacle of power. And they shouldn’t have been here—not right now. But no one was stupid enough to try to stop them, either. I walked to the control panel for the room I’d been sharing with the assassin and logged myself out quietly. Then I did the same for my sparring partner.
“I’m out of here,” he said. “You coming?”
“Nope,” I said. The right thing—the smart thing—was to leave. Most of the E, D, and C-Rankers were. A fifty percent spar between two A-Rankers, with a combined, full-sized room, could easily breach even the GC training center’s construction. It was the highest damage simulation the facility would allow, and I had no doubt that neither of these A-Rankers would hold anything back.
That’s why I had to stay. It was one thing to watch A-Rankers or S-Rankers fighting portal breaks on TV, or in the archives, but I’d never felt two hyper-powered fighters’ auras in battle before. I needed to know. To understand where I was going, the levels I wanted to reach.
“Your funeral,” the assassin said. Then he was gone. So was most of the lobby. The rooms below reconfigured automatically, walls sinking into the ground and expanding the floor until all eight sparring rooms were one long, wide space, with the lobby suspended above it.
The two Roadrunner guild A-Rankers stepped into the sparring chamber. A sword and shield appeared in the woman’s hands, the shield covered with red-and-blue swirls of energy. The man, smaller and more wiry under his armor, summoned a spear—and a familiar.
And suddenly, just like that, the fight wasn’t just about understanding power. It was about research—and the outcome for me might one day be life and death.
I stepped closer to the Plexiglas window. And as I did, the two fighters moved.
In the time it took me to register it, they’d exchanged a dozen blows. The spear flashed. The shield came up to block it, and the sword cut down so fast it left ripples in the room’s still air. A second later, those ripples collapsed, and a shockwave rippled the Plexiglas in front of me. By the time it stopped shaking, the spearman had launched three waves of energy from his weapon. They cut the room into fourths for a moment.
I was more focused on the familiar than the fighting, though. Even though every blow left the room’s concrete divoted and dented, the familiar was the key to the fight—at least for me.
The spearman wasn’t just fighting alone. I saw the pattern in his fighting; what looked like openings in his defense closed faster than even A-Rank reflexes should have been capable of. He was using the long, skinny ferret as a second set of eyes—and even at eighty percent, the woman couldn’t do anything about it for fear of actually and permanently injuring it.
She seemed to realize it, too. Her fighting style shifted; she leaned on her shield more, saving the sword for the openings she thought might be real. And as she did, her opponent redoubled his attack. Sparks flew as weapons ground against each other in a whirlwind of steel and mana.
And then it was over. The spearman rested against the woman’s shield, her sword sticking through his gut. Even at fifty percent, that was a life-threatening injury to anyone I’d fought with. But he shrugged it off. One second, he was slumped on the ground. The next, he spat out glass as a healing potion went to work. He nodded slowly, said something, and held out his hand.
She helped him up. They exchanged a few more words, and their weapons vanished. And, just like that, the fight was over.
I hit the showers as quickly as I could; there was a lot to process in that exchange, but the biggest one was that even though the man’s familiar was probably B-Ranked, it hadn’t once left his side. It hadn’t once so much as attempted to sway the battle beyond sharing its senses with the spearman. And that was a weakness.
My own familiar wouldn’t have that problem. It’d be independent, and a threat on its own. I’d make sure of that.
