The next day, after touring the ship and getting a good night’s rest, Det met Captain Simmons out on the main deck of the Sun Chaser. Off the sides of the ship, the mist passed at a steady pace, distant pillars rising out of it at different levels. There seemed to be a lot more of them within line of sight, compared to barely a handful near Radiant, and Simmons told him there were clusters of pillars like this all over.

  They tended to act like states or provinces, banding together to share resources, local laws, and even minor government roles. It was never anything big enough to challenge the kingdom, as Simmons called it—all the pillars within the sea of mist were part of the Nivelhime Kingdom—and instead acted to manage more localized concerns.

  Not that the geography, history, or political lessons were the reason for Det and Simmons to be on the deck first thing in the morning. The sun barely peaked over the eastern horizon, storm clouds rumbling in the distance, as Simmons brought a wooden training sword down at Det’s head like a falling tree.

  The sheer strength behind the blow sent painful vibrations up Det’s arm as he deflected the blade just out wide with his own training sword. A second after the blades touched, Det’s counter snapped for Simmons’ head, a flick of his wrist and the extension of his arms aiming to rap right off the man’s forehead like a finger flick from hell.

  He didn’t even get within a foot of the captain’s skin, Simmons’ sword whipping back up, blasting back his probing strike, then launching one of his own straight for Det’s ribs. Fast hands and a sidestep barely parried aside the blow, though the force of it sent Det stumbling. Like Simmons had told Calisco the day before, for a ReSouled, being ungodly strong didn’t require a muscle-bound body. The captain was easily two or three times stronger than Det was, and he was holding back.

  “Not bad,” Simmons said, hot in pursuit with his training sword lashing out like a striking serpent.

  One, two, three, Det beat aside the thrusts—no time for his own counterattack—then brought his sword down in a chopping blow to intercept a one-handed, diagonal uppercut. At the contact, it was Det’s feet that left the ground, his whole body getting thrown back a solid four feet before he touched down again, quick-stepping to absorb the momentum.

  Simmons was—of course—already there, blade coming in, and his footwork a blur of precise movements. This time, Det only managed to block two of the three lightning-fast thrusts, the final one breaking past his defences to jab painfully into the same shoulder he’d taken the claw before. The fourth, Det whacked aside—ignoring the pain spiking down his arm—then charged back with his own furious assault.

  “Bout time you went on the attack,” Simmons laughed, backpedaling while his sword cracked against Det’s, preventing every strike from coming anywhere close to hitting. The man’s wooden blade might as well have been a tower-shield or wall between them for how much of a chance Det had getting past it.

  Not that he’d let that discourage him. A wall was an obstacle, nothing more. If he couldn’t go through it, he could always try going over or around it. In this case, Det leaned on his ReSouled speed and dashed forward and to the side.

  Simmons simply turned with the motion, able to keep up with Det’s speed like it was little more than a casual stroll on a lazy summer day.

  “You’ll need to be faster than that to try to get around behind me,” Simmons said. “Considering you’re a new ReSouled, you’ve probably got a high-E or maybe even a D-Rank dexterity. That’s a good starting point, but I’m sure we can push to you to do better. Speaking of pushing you…”

  Captain Simmons charged in, the rhythm and motions of his sword suddenly shifting. From a thrusting, fencing-like style on offense, he swapped to something that never let his blade slow down. Never stop. Constantly flowing, the damn blade seemed everywhere all at once, forcing Det to put his other hand on the hilt of his training sword just to resist the other man’s strength.

  No more thrusts came with the change, but the slashing attacks angled in from every direction. It was a style Det had never seen, and if he had to compare it to something, it kind of reminded him of capoeira. There was almost a music to the never-ending stream of movements, extending beyond Simmons’ sword to draw his whole body into the dance. The captain didn’t throw kicks or punches in with the mix—thankfully, Det was already bordering on completely overwhelmed—or draw a second sword, but Det could see it. The man was holding back, his free hand twitching like it should’ve been involved.

  “Oh, you noticed?” Simmons asked, a tsunami of slashing attacks coming at Det from all sides. “This particular style works better with two or more weapons.”

  “… or more?” Det couldn’t stop himself from asking, batting aside another powerful blow on his right side. As soon as the training blades met, though, he saw his mistake with his own sword carrying out too far. Simmons had slackened his wrist—or something—so that Det got next to no resistance at the strike, and his sword moved out of position. “Shit…” he cursed, too late.

  Like an ever-moving river, Simmons’ blade was already coming back around, slapping hard into Det’s left thigh. That’s going to leave a mark. He’d barely had time to think that before the captain’s sword continued the same motion to crack into the side of his left forearm.

  The blow numbed his left hand instantly, the fingers spasming and losing their grip on his sword. Somehow, he managed to get his right hand out of the way—probably because the captain was only using a training sword, and not something that would’ve severed his wrist—and cocked his own hand back. Bending his arm at the wrist and elbow, his sword’s point aimed directly at Simmons’ face, and he wasted no time thrusting forward.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Whack, the natural flow of the captain’s sword brought the weapon perfectly into place to knock Det’s own sword hard and out to the left this time. So out of position, and off-balance from the ache in his leg, it was only a single second before Simmons’ sword stopped with the edge against Det’s throat.

  “Good showing,” Simmons said, his blade coming away after it was clear it had been his victory.

  “Hardly,” Det said. “You controlled that every step of the way.”

  “I’d hope I did,” Simmons said. “I am A-Rank, a Duelist, and my magic revolves around swords. If I lost to a not-even-Ranked, new ReSouled, I’d be laughed straight out of the Mistguard.” As if to accentuate the point, the captain let out a relaxed laugh of his own, then gave a bit of a wave with his free hand to the ship’s crew that’d stopped to watch the training bout.

  “Your magic is swords?” Det said. For the training bout, Simmons only had two swords: the one in his hand, and another on his right hip. “Not your hair?”

  “Hah, that’s just a good haircare routine and the proper products. And, I said it revolves around swords,” Simmons explained. “I can’t create magic swords out of thin air or something like that. Wish I could. Wouldn’t have to carry so many weapons if I was able to.”

  “Is it okay to tell me that?” Det asked. “Sounds like a weakness if you don’t have an actual sword.”

  “It is a weakness,” Simmons said, his face turning more serious. “Which is exactly why I’m telling you. We’re on the same side. If you know what my weakness is—and I know what yours is—we can help cover each other when shit gets real.”

  “Really?” Det said, his voice giving away his suspicion. “This is the start of my academy arc. That always involves things like rivalry, guarded secrets, and training montages. Usually a bit of bullying too.”

  “Training montages?”

  “Too many anime,” Det admitted. “We used them as language practice for my daughter.”

  This time it was Simmons’ turn to be suspicious. “Sounds like a thinly veiled excuse to me.”

  “Hundred percent was,” Det said. “We only watched what I wanted to.”

  Simmons nodded, satisfied with the answer. “There… will likely be all of that. Even the bullying, I’m afraid. Initial Ranks always stratify the newbies to an extent.”

  “You said my dexterity was High-E-Rank or maybe D-Rank?” Det said, and Simmons nodded. “How am I going to measure up? Really?”

  Simmons’ sword moved like lightning to smack into the side of Det’s arm before he could even consider reacting.

  “You’re not bad,” Simmons said, sword back at his side while Det rubbed his arm and glared at the captain. “But, you’re very right-dominant.” As if to prove the point, Simmons’ training weapon came at Det from the other side, and this time, a wood-on-wood crack echoed across the mistship deck. “See?”

  “The hell?” Det asked. He didn’t even realize his body had moved to parry the quick strike.

  “It’s not uncommon,” Simmons said. “You were right-handed in your previous life?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now, you’re not. Not anymore. ReSouled are ambidextrous. Mount Avalon will get you past some of those old habits. Until that happens, people will take advantage of it. Or, you can use it to your own advantage when you see other people with it.”

  “I never even noticed,” Det said. “Somehow, I thought becoming ReSouled took all my old past-life skills and… I don’t know… perfected them. Sure felt that way.”

  “Not perfected,” Simmons said. “Just improved. Took them to the limit of what the old-you thought was possible. Problem with it is, the process doesn’t correct bad habits. In some cases, it makes them worse. In your case, it explains why all your injuries were on your left side.”

  “I guess it does,” Det said, looking from his arm back up to the captain. “You didn’t answer my question, though. How am I going to measure up? Am I going to be getting bullied or doing the bullying?”

  “Hopefully neither,” Simmons said flatly.

  “Hopefully neither,” Det agreed.

  “As for your question, we haven’t talked about it a lot, but, your magic. That’s going to be the real determining factor. Like I said, mine revolves around swords, so I’m expected to be a bit of a badass when it comes to a fight like this. Yours is… painting?”

  “If I had to give it a name,” Det said. “I’d be an ink mage.”

  “Ink? Aaaaaah,” Simmons said, snapping his fingers. “That explains why the bandages looked that way. It’s not just painting, but ink paintings?”

  “Doesn’t have to be a painting,” Det said. “Per se. It can be a drawing as well. Don’t give me that look. They’re different.”

  “Sure they are.”

  “Is a sword the same as a knife?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Swords and knives, paintings and drawings,” Det said.

  “Fine, okay, I yield,” Simmons laughed. “Limitations?”

  “… I need ink,” Det said with a sigh. “As well as something—preferably a brush—to use. And a surface.” He pointed at the scroll holsters he’d left in a pile with his uniform jacket for the spar. “Normally I’d have three scrolls in each of those.”

  “Pre-drawn?” Simmons said.

  “Yeah,” Det said. “As long as I’m the one who prepared them, I can activate them pretty much any time.”

  “How long does it take you to draw something?”

  “Depends how complicated it is,” Det said. “Hence the scrolls. Let’s me use something immediately.”

  “If you prepared it ahead of time.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about writing things?” Simmons said. “Uh… can you write something like, DIE!, on a piece of paper, and then make that kill somebody?”

  “No,” Det said. “No magic-kill-notebooks for me.”

  “What about other writing?”

  “Nothing like that,” Det said. “I have to draw what I want to create.”

  “Any other limits?”

  “Basically size and power,” Det said. “I can make things a bit bigger than the page itself, but it’s only about twice as big, and even that’s really pushing it. Some things can extend too, I guess. As for how strong they are, it’s not like I can draw a dragon and have a real one following my commands.”

  “That’d be too much to ask, eh?”

  “Apparently,” Det grumbled.

  “Last question, for now,” Simmons said. “Does it have to be ink? Can you doodle with any other substances? Blood?”

  “I don’t doodle. And, has to be ink,” Det said. “I’ve tried other things, including my own blood, and none of it works.”

  “And you can draw anything?”

  “That was totally another question,” Det said, only for Captain Simmons to shrug with a meh. “Pretty much anything I’ve tried so far. Animals. Items. Doors. Keys and locks. Bandages, like you saw.”

  “Sounds versatile,” Simmons said. “With restrictions.”

  “That’s bad, huh?”

  “Not necessarily,” Simmons said. “Restrictions like what you and I have,” he pointed at his sword, “are usually balanced out to a degree. You can do a lot of different things, but need to prepare ahead of time for any of it?”

  “Pretty much,” Det said.

  “Then you’re going to be…” Simmons said, adding a dramatic pause for effect.

  “I’m going to be…?”

  “Completely. Absolutely. Totally… average.”

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  Time For Chaos: A Progression Fantasy | Royal Road - Science, measurement, counting have all been outlawed because of the danger they pose – the chaos energy they create. Energy that bloodthirsty sorcerers would use to restart the wars that nearly destroyed the world.

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