Chapter 55 - The Humble Life of a Skill Trainer (Patreon)

There are many ways to force someone to develop a Skill. Discomfort, boredom, annoyance, itching, even psychological tricks, and sensory deprivation, they all worked. Depending on the Skill, they could be better or worse, but one tool performed better than any other.

Pain.

I was not a fan of pain. I disliked it just as much as anyone else, but if it was necessary, then I wouldn't hesitate to use it. I'd been avoiding training Snowy for Skills that would require using pain, and I was starting to feel like I was failing her. Before now, her Skills could be trained with other means. Not that swinging a sword for hours on end wasn't painful, but it was far less so than someone stabbing your body with a potion filled needle. The ability to control the pain makes one far less traumatic than the other. Unfortunately, I only had a few ways to train the next Skill, and pain was the only option while we spent the day riding around in a wagon.

Grunting, I clenched my teeth and tried to ignore the pain shooting through my back as Snowy swung at my head with her oversized wooden training sword. We were practicing dual forms. Snowy would perform three left to right forward driving swings, a stab, followed by a rising block. For my part, I matched her attacks with three deflecting parries and a riposte off of her stab that she would then block with her rising defense. Then, we would switch, and I would drive her back. We pushed each other back and forth, only slowing as I began to huff in exhaustion. When I reached my limits, we would substitute in Private Baker. As always, Snowy's Skill allowed her to outlast us both and heal what little damage we caused when we fumbled in our exhaustion.

Sadly, Baker and I couldn't heal ourselves. We were suffering through with my high-quality healing potions. Though, we waited until the end of our practice to use them. Mother Tin was with the caravan, but she made it clear that she didn't want to heal us for our own 'stupid behavior.' Despite her horrible habit of playing with cheeks to heal, I would have preferred her treatment. I had spent the entire night before we left frantically brewing potion after potion, trying to use up the last of my supplies that would go bad while I was gone. Abby had gotten a crash course in alchemy, but I doubted much of it would stick. I mostly rambled while brewing like a mad man and occasionally poked my apprentice to keep her cleaning the glassware that I would need for later brews. Abby and I quickly loaded the potions into sawdust packed crates, crawled into the wagon, and drifted to sleep to its rocking motion.

Flinching, I barely dodged the lead ball that Abigail launched while suppressing her lady-like grunt of effort. The worse part about [Meditation] was not the tendency to leave me drifting in thoughts but magnifying sensation, which came with the time perception shift. There was little benefit to thinking faster in a fight if I wasted that advantage in navel-gazing. [Combat Awareness] had helped me avoid the projectile. Still, its low level and my general lack of practice with the Skill had kept me from avoiding the last three rounds.

"The tips of your fingers can spin it. That'll turn the throw. Keep aimin' for yer Master's chest. If you are a bit off, you can hit his head or groin. That'll work, trust me," Mason said as he lobbed his own lead weight at Snowy's back, his voice not changing as he threw the ball.

Abigail was sweating from her continuous efforts to tag me with her ammo. Still, I couldn't say that I was sorry for her suffering, given that I was going to be bruised and sore until I drank a potion. Mason, on the other hand, was as fresh as a daisy. He somehow managed to lob the weights with even more force than Abigail was capable of. Worse, his throws would come in from multiple directions and angles. Once, he knocked my sword out of alignment and hit Snowy in the face with the bounce! I couldn't tell if it had been intentional, but with his smug look before he tried to fade from my view, I wouldn't put it past him.

It was a marathon of practice for Snowy, constantly regulating her breathing as she suffered through her forms non-stop as she healed. Watching her force her way through our training, I couldn't bring myself to complain about my relatively minor injuries. Once Mason knew that Snowy was capable of healing and continuing, he never hesitated to throw with the intent to damage her. Bruises were the least of the damage Snowy suffered. Private Baker seemed to agree with me about refusing to complain. He seemed to find her focus and hard work to be an inspiration. The man who managed to struggle through repeated beatings to earn [Seismic Sensing] had found himself a role model. Baker was forcing himself to train with us each night. After the third night, I assumed that he would take a break, the patchwork of bruises had grown beyond the potion's ability to keep up without extra food, but he didn't seem to care. When I told him about the potion's limitations, he requested extra food to continue his training.

That Baker was one of the few to take to my training and continue made him someone the Baron was willing to push even further. Baker spent the morning working as a scout, rode in a wagon until we halted, and then trained with us for hours before nightfall. I was glad to see the young man taking his life into his own hands and pushing forward, but I did feel a little guilty each time the potions healed away part of the calluses on his feet. He confided in me that scouting each morning on newly healed feet was almost as painful as the nightly training. Given his inability to stand on man-made materials, a horse was even more out of the question for him. Watching him throw himself into scouting at the break of day, I could only imagine that eventually, his perseverance there would shine through as well. I knew of many different movement Skills—some for distance, some for speed, and others for surefootedness. While I rode on the wagon and he walked, we had discussed his options. He was leaning toward speed and surefootedness, for now, so he started every day at a sprint.

The other men simply shook their heads at his efforts. Baker and I had the same reaction to their behavior.

I yelped when I failed to dodge, this time Mason managed to drive it in my foot while arcing it through Snowy's moving legs. I waved my swords to get Snowy's attention and then sat down. I was pushing myself to develop, to grow, to improve, and it was punishing. But, I had a sneaking suspicion that I wouldn't be increasing my [Combat Awareness]. I hadn't thought about it at the time, but when [Meditation] had pressed at my mind indicating that I couldn't improve, it was a worrisome sign. I thought that it meant that I couldn't improve [Meditation]. The lack of Skill increase - some of which I had definitely been trying to stretch and enhance - suggested something deeper. Looking into my soul - what I had finally decided that the strange space of [Meditation] represented - I could see the potential of the mana my soul contained. I had the big blob of a Skill Point, the condensed thing only waiting for a push to form, which seemed like a liquid to me. The crystallized magic, which was my Skills made manifest, and lastly, the thin wisps of magic floating free in my soul. At least, what had been floating free until I blasted through multiple levels of [Meditation] at once, forming the crystallized Skill while draining the magical gas in my soul.

Which left me looking to my other Skills. Some were almost a waste, and I worried what it meant if everyone only had so much potential. What if I had consumed mine? I expected to recover and keep growing. I could see the magical gas slowly seeping back into my soul, but the rate seemed entirely unbalanced and odd. Some days nothing would change, and then on other days, magic would suddenly rush in. There didn't seem to be a pattern that I could find.

Staggering to my feet, I dropped my worries and waved the others to stop. Shambling over to Snowy, I gave her a gentle peck on the cheek, then stared as she practically strutted back to her ornate carriage. While her Skill allowed her to heal and recover to peak performance, using it was still a severe strain on her mind and will. After our long bouts, she would crash out and sleep until the morning, where she would break her fast and then suffer through an entire day of social grace training. The old biddy who was in charge of her practice was cutting with her words and demanded perfection. The second night, Snowy confided to me she preferred our training. I could understand, she was quoting Noble's family lines, how to politely smile, and all the other minutia she was being forced to remember. I did not envy her.

After eating dinner, I glanced around to be sure the night watch was standing guard and pulled out my wood carving supplies. One of my modifications to the wagon was strapping on a large woodworking leg clamp to the outside. The awkward construction had earned me a couple glances, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I packed a few simple wood tools - a plane, a saw, a hammer, a couple chisels, and a carving knife - and each night, I would start carving away. I had considered if I should bring my drawknife but had decided not too. I was regretting the lack. Even without the seated shaving horse, which would have been too bulky, I could still hold a branch in the clamp and use it to make spokes.

"Why do you do that every night?" Abby asked as she poked at her stew.

Shrugging, I continued to use my carving knife and whittle away at the green branch I'd pulled from the forest near our campsite. Looking at my apprentice, I considered that she honestly seemed curious. I could imagine what it looked like when I kept making spokes, cutting and polishing them, then abandoning the finished work each morning.

Standing from my hunched over stance, I flicked away the last shaving and then thought about not answering. When Abby put down her spoon but kept focused on me, I started to speak. Of anyone, she might understand.

"When I was growing up, we lived outside of a city, in the forest. It was close enough I could run into town for supplies…but we were trying to keep away from others. My parents aren't your average folk. They've made some enemies, and becoming Skill Trainers didn't make that better. But, their Skills are in demand, and they had to leave for work. Some times, they would have to leave me for weeks or even months. They taught me to hunt and fight and care for myself. They would often hire Skill Trainers to teach me Skills and make sure I wasn't going to get myself killed while they were gone," I said while staring at my knife, tapping the blade against my hand.

"But I was alone a lot. [Woodworking] is cheap. It only took a few tools to get started, and it occupied my mind. Filled the silence, you know?" I asked, looking at Abby, who considered me for a moment, then nodded.

At my small smile, she asked, "So, why do you keep cutting the same thing like that? Why not make something?"

I couldn't help but smile sourly at the question, knowing the answer didn't paint me in the best light.

"I earned [Woodworking] a long time ago, and like any kid who manages to earn a Skill, I wanted mine to be the highest ever! So, I made the same small stuff over and over again. I got better at cutting wood, carving it, shaping it, and using the Skill. But I never really built anything. The Skill is pretty high level now, but I've never really stretched it or developed it like a real carpenter. My level is high, but it only does a few small things. I still could stretch it and make it useful, I just…" I said before letting my voice fade away, then shrugged and continued, "I don't want to lose the comfort I get from cutting wood. If I focused on improving it and actually made it useful, it might stop being what I need it to be. That's why I keep trying to get [Cooper], if it's a different Skill, maybe it won't stop being comforting."

I knew it didn't make sense, but Abby seemed to understand my position, as nonsensical as it was.

My love of working with wood led me to other crafting Skills, and I had even developed [Alchemy] enough to act as an alchemist. Still, I worried that my [Woodworking] would lose its charm if I pushed it. [Alchemy] wasn't a passion, it was a tool. I used it to solve problems, but I never spent a casual afternoon of titration. The thought of losing the feeling of a sharp plane pulling back a shaving kept me from developing the Skill further.