Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

After failing to recruit the white-bearded man, Peter inquired with several cobblers, shoemakers, and carpenters in the camp. Some expressed interest, while others longed for freedom, but none gave a clear answer.

Peter wasn't discouraged. Recruiting is a matter of mutual consent; you can't force it.

Peter and Martin then arrived at the training ground in the corner of the refugee camp.

The tomcat, the swordsmanship master, leaned alone against the wooden railing of the training ground, still lazily sunbathing. Upon seeing Peter, he opened his squinted eyes a crack, and a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"My God! Look who has returned! Lord Red Griffin! Your story is being sung by bards!"

The two embraced tightly, the iron armor and chainmail colliding with a dull thud.

Then the tomcat casually picked up two wooden swords, tossed one to Peter, and said, "Come on, let me see if your swordsmanship has improved."

The nomadic camp was fine in every way except for its lack of martial spirit. These Gypsies, who loved horseback riding, dancing, wrestling, and acrobatics, showed no interest in heavy swordsmanship; perhaps their free spirit disliked such heavy and clumsy techniques. Therefore, the tomcat's training ground was practically deserted, and he didn't earn much money, spending his days idly growing weeds.

A month ago, Peter's swordsmanship talent amazed even him. Since then, news of Peter's victories has been constantly coming in, making his "teacher" itching to try his hand at it.

"As you wish, Master. In order to learn from you, I have even prepared some tuition fees."

Peter smiled, patted the bulging money pouch at his waist, took the wooden sword, and assumed a fighting stance.

"Then let me see if you're qualified to learn all my secrets."

The male cat was also in high spirits; he could compete and make money at the same time—it was perfect!

Soon, after exchanging blows, both realized the other's skill level. They both stopped smiling and became cautious.

Peter has 30 points of Strength and his swordsmanship has reached level 20, bringing him close to the master level. He has gained Master Martin's approval; if he also gains Master Tomcat's approval, he will meet the requirements to enter the master level.

The male cat, on the other hand, is a gifted individual, having grown up drinking bear milk since birth. It possesses immense strength and agility. Even without seeing its stats, its strength is estimated to be above 25 and its agility above 20.

A month ago, it was the tomcat who was unilaterally dominating and teasing Peter. No matter how Peter attacked, the tomcat master's stick could always hit Peter's wrist, elbow or shoulder with incredible angle and minimal force, making him wince in pain and drop his wooden sword several times.

A month later, Peter had caught up in strength and agility, and although his swordsmanship was still inferior, the gap between him and Master Cat was already visible. The two exchanged blows for ten minutes, with Peter taking quite a few hits, while Master Cat was also hit twice.

"Stop, stop, that's enough."

The slightly panting tomcat looked at the still composed Peter and couldn't help but admire him, saying, "You are the most talented swordsman I have ever seen. You have learned so much in just one month. You are only a little short of becoming a sword master. With a few more decades of training, you have a good chance of becoming a renowned sword saint."

Hey, here comes the master's approval.

How do you distinguish between a master and a sword saint?

Peter asked curiously. He had asked the old monk Martin before, but Master Martin always gave vague and ambiguous answers that he couldn't understand.

The male cat sheathed his sword, pondered for a moment, and said, "Ordinary swordsmen focus on each move; advanced swordsmen have learned one or two combos as killing moves; masters can skillfully apply multiple combos, and even seize the initiative to defeat the enemy in one move; sword saints are in an even more profound realm, no longer bound by moves, which I have only heard about."

"A sword saint is someone who incorporates the principles he has followed throughout his life into his swordsmanship."

Master Martin, who was following Peter, suddenly spoke up.

"I see."

Peter seemed to understand something. He also recalled the deeds of several legendary swordsmen in Europe.

Fiore, the Italian swordsman, was born into a wealthy knightly family. He learned martial arts from a young age, studying various weapons under countless German and Italian masters. Later, he traveled throughout Western Europe, exchanging ideas and lecturing, eventually becoming a diplomat. In life-or-death battles, he was unarmored, possessing only his sword, an old robe, and his beloved sheepskin gloves. Yet, he fought countless duels to the death, emerging unscathed and never suffering a defeat. His students included various nobles, princes, dukes, knights, and generals, achieving great success throughout his life. Therefore, when he incorporated his life philosophy into his swordsmanship, the Fiore-style swordsmanship became both practical and elegant in battle, incredibly stylish and impressive.

Meyer, the German swordsman, was born into poverty, starting as a blacksmith's apprentice and later becoming a blacksmith for the army. However, as the army traveled throughout the Holy Roman Empire, Meyer suddenly realized that blacksmithing couldn't save the people of the Holy Roman Empire, so he began to learn swordsmanship. Penniless, he even married a wealthy young widow in the city to become a citizen, thus gaining the right to wield and learn swordsmanship. After mastering his swordsmanship, he was virtually unbeatable, so he wanted to open a swordsmanship school to earn money. His applications were rejected countless times, and he had to rely on small loans to maintain his weapons and equipment. Even with tens of thousands of taels of debt, he continued to forge greatswords. He understood that his status as a commoner was not valued, so in his documents to nobles and the city hall, he proclaimed himself a "master swordsman." This caught the eye of a count, who granted him permission to open a school on his country estate. Just as Meyer was enthusiastically on his way to take up his post, he fell seriously ill and died on the eve of the school's opening. Therefore, when Meyer incorporated his life philosophy into his swordsmanship, his swordsmanship—the "New Year's Greeting Windmill"—became crude yet practical, indomitable yet cunning and deceptive.

The tomcat also fell into deep thought for a long time before turning his gaze to the old man he had subconsciously ignored at first. He saw an old man dressed in a simple monk's robe, with a long sword at his waist, white hair and beard, but clear and sharp eyes, and a steady gait that was inconsistent with his age.

The tomcat then realized that this person he had overlooked was probably also a swordsmanship master—a master even stronger than himself. "May the Lord bless you, esteemed monk. May I ask who you are?"

"I am Martin Ambrose, a monk."

The old monk responded with a slight smile.

"Lord, are you perhaps the Knights of Prague?"

The tomcat was once a master of the Kutenberg Fencing Association and was very familiar with several sword masters in the capital, Prague. Combined with the other person's appearance, it couldn't be wrong. Unconsciously, he straightened his back, a simple movement that seemed to bring the heavy armor to life, each plate adjusted to the most advantageous position for exerting force.

Martin nodded slightly, his voice as calm as an ancient well: "That's old news. But Master Tomcat's skills in 'fishing in the frozen lake' and 'passing by a carriage' are truly captivating."

The two then engaged in another round of mutual flattery. Peter, listening from the side, felt rather awkward. Who said swordsmen didn't understand social etiquette?

"How about..." Peter took a half step back, opened his arms, and "let steel replace pleasantries?"

The male cat's eyes gleamed: "Ha! Just what I wanted!" This was the excitement of wanting to compete with an expert of the same level.

He turned and picked up two blunt training swords leaning against the car, heavy enough to mimic the weight of real swords.

Martin took off his monk's robe and handed it to Peter, revealing the faded military uniform underneath. He caught the blunt sword tossed to him by the tomcat, casually twirling it with a movement as light as if he were handling a quill pen.

The two stepped into the center of the training field.

The tomcat made the first move. His steps were heavy and deep, like a bear stomping its feet, and he began with "Natural Strike" with his blunt sword—the very combo he had taught Peter. The blade whistled as it sliced ​​through the air, aiming straight for Martin's left neck.

Martin didn't take the hit head-on. He sidestepped, twisted his waist, and slid his blunt sword along the incoming blade like a fish, the tip of which then pointed at the tomcat's wrist. The tomcat quickly changed his move, pressing down on the hilt to parry.

"clang!"

A muffled thud kicked up dust. The tomcat used the rebound to spin around, delivering a second "horizontal strike" that swept across Martin's ribs. This change of move was astonishingly fast, and Peter, who was watching, couldn't help but gasp.

Martin, however, seemed to have anticipated this. He took a small step back, raised his blunt sword like a cross, and blocked the sweeping attack with a "crack." The two swords clashed, marking their first struggle.

The tomcat's arm strength was astonishing, its weight like a millstone. Martin's arm, however, remained as steady as a rock—not brute force, but the "strength" honed over decades, the precise control of every muscle. The old monk suddenly released his force and pulled to the side, and in the instant the tomcat's center of gravity shifted forward, Martin's sword tip, like a viper's tongue, lightly touched his throat.

Point to end.

The male cat stumbled back three steps, stroked its neck, and grinned: "Good! That's the real 'force dissipation'!"

"My turn," the tomcat growled. He unleashed his full power, his heavy armor surging like a war chariot, his blunt sword whipping up a storm. It was no longer a display of skillful combos, but a primal outpouring of force: slashing, smashing, sweeping, and ramming! Each strike carried the brute force that would tear the tiger's mouth of an ordinary swordsman, sending dust billowing across the training ground.

Martin was like a rock in a storm. His footwork was as agile as a dance, always managing to evade fatal attacks with minimal effort at the last second. The blunt sword in his hand transformed into a shield and a whip, parrying at extremely tricky angles, deflecting force while leaving a soft cracking sound at vulnerable points such as the joints and armpits of the armor.

"Clang! Clang! Snap!"

The sounds of collisions grew more frequent. The tomcat's breathing became heavy—combat in heavy armor was extremely exhausting, and Martin's defense was like a deep pool, making each of his attacks feel like hitting cotton.

"Drink!" The tomcat suddenly changed his stance. He deliberately feigned an opening, and as Martin's sword thrust at him, he abruptly spun around!

"The master rebels!"

The special technique that Peter had been taught was suddenly unleashed. The tomcat's blunt sword deflected the thrust at an incredible angle, then, using the momentum, it flipped over like a venomous dragon, the blade drawing a deadly arc, aiming straight for Martin's head—if this strike landed, even a blunt sword would be enough to shatter the skull.

Peter clenched his fist.

Martin did not dodge.

His wrist trembled slightly, and the sword tip, which had been deflected, "stuck" to the tomcat's sword as if it were alive. It wasn't a direct clash, but rather a gentle pull, like vines wrapping around the cat's force.

The male cat was startled to realize that his all-out attack had been deflected, and he staggered forward with the force of the sword.

Martin brushed past him.

The blunt sword hilt struck the tomcat's nape like a bird's pecking. At the same time, the old monk's gentle voice rang out: "Excessive force leads to exhaustion, making one vulnerable to attack."

The tomcat froze on the spot. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and soaked into the collar of his chainmail.

Silence enveloped the training ground.

The male cat slowly turned around, staring at Martin with a complex expression.

"That 'introduction'...it wasn't 'Master's Rebellion,'" the tomcat's voice was hoarse. "Then what was it?"

Martin helped him up, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains: "Young people call it 'Master's Reversal,' old warriors call it 'Sword-Seizing Style,' and monks call it 'Humble Hand'—the essence is the same, all based on the principle of 'striking first after striking later.' But..." He paused, "What you just saw is something I've been searching for my whole life, something beyond this principle."

"What is it?"

"Do not contend."

Martin picked up the tomcat's blunt sword and handed it back to him. "I will not contend with you, nor with you in haste, nor with your 'intentions.' Observe the movement of your sword as you would a stream, knowing where it comes from, where it goes, when it is swift and when it is gentle. And then..." He held his hands in a circle, "simply place a suitable stone at the crucial point."

The tomcat took the sword in a daze, then suddenly felt a jolt. He remembered how each of his moves had been easily deflected, how the ever-present sword tip always lingered on his vital points—it wasn't just fast, it was early. Long before he even exerted his strength, his opponent was already there waiting.

"Can... this be mastered?" the tomcat asked, his voice trembling.

"I've spent thirty years and I'm still only scratching the surface," Martin smiled. "But if you'd like, we can figure it out together. Peter told me you grew up drinking bear's milk, and your physique is a divinely bestowed foundation. I'd like to see what kind of temple can be built upon that foundation."

Carter the tomcat, this boisterous man who laughed as carriages rolled by and fished in icy lakes, now had tears welling up in his eyes. He looked at Peter, and the red griffin nodded gently at him.

"Master..." The tomcat took a deep breath, pressing his hand to his chest. "No, Master Martin. Where are you going next?"

"Naturally, we will follow Lord Peter."

"Take me with you." The tomcat pulled off his helmet, his eyes burning. "I want to become your disciple and see the scenery beyond that 'threshold'."

Why not? After all, anything is possible.

Peter joined in at the opportune moment, responding with a catchphrase of the tomcat master.

"Hahaha"

The three of them burst into laughter.

Well, we failed to invite Whitebeard, but we did manage to abduct a male cat master. It can be considered a loss on one front and a gain on another.