92+50 from static progress bonus, +8 from Concordant Action (Swordsmanship Training) = 150 + 850 = 1000/1500. Two-thirds of the way there, baby!
Question: do gods in this setting play at dice? Einstein says no, Prokhor Zakharov says yes. Edit: Survey says 50/50.
5+2 from Concordant Action (Coding Slice()) = 7 + [NUMBER YOU DON'T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT JUST YET GIMME LIKE A DAY MAYBE TWO TOPS] = [WHAT DID I
JUST SAY].
Skill Up! D => D+.
Anyway, have a KSBD interlude to make up for the accidental interlude skip. It should have been up yesterday, but you close your eyes for five minutes and suddenly it's half four in the morning.
Also, depending on how the oncoming storm goes, it may be the only update for the week. But I'll burn that bridge when I get to it.
That flickering lightbulb's probably nothing.
|||
"What do you think of Mr Arc?" Ozpin asks.
Pyrrha blinks, her confusion of being called up to the headmaster's office only strengthening with the question. She understood, of course,
why such a question would be asked, even among her already rather odd teammates, and those outside her team, from the Schnee Preem-
heiress, who seems to go out of her way to be as cold and uninterested in other people as possible, the Belladonna girl, preferring the company of those leatherbound books of hers to actual people, to Ruby, the 15-year old who speaks the language of the demons that inhabit Patch and Vale now, to Ren, who had proven his knowledge of the otherworldly martial arts more than once in combat, Jaune...
Jaune was off. From the unusable sword to the sweet serenity in his voice, from the philosophising to the sudden changes in demeanour that, even with the logical knowledge that he wouldn't hurt her... no. That was wrong. Every time he spoke, every time he
responded, there was this hint of something... underneath the surface. Like he was barely restraining his patience, but all it would take is one person, one,
moron, to not
see it, and give him an excuse to...
Well. That was what happened today, wasn't it?
Noticing a raised eyebrow out of the edge of her vision, she looks back up at Ozpin, taking a deep breath.
"Jaune is... interesting. He's, polite enough, even if he does have some...
odd, views." She furrows her brow, trying to find something that strikes the balance between critical and diplomatic. "I find some of the stories he tells us about his master rather far-fetched. The idea of someone cutting through space and time with nothing but a sword, it's... well, it sounds like something out of a fantasy story. His philosophy on... ah..."
"Sword Law?" Ozpin supplies, lighting a spark of recognition in her eyes.
"Ah, yes. Sword Law. I know of some schools of thought that talk of treating the sword as if it was an extension of the body, but the idea that the act of battle and living a normal life are the same thing, cutting down your opponent, I, I can't agree with that idea. It's just...
psychopathic." Pyrrha blurts out, immediately regretting her choice of words, before deciding to go for broke. "But... I don't feel
safe challenging him on it. Every move, every word, every expression he makes, it just carries this...
intent behind it, as if he's waiting for his next battle at all times. I-I know it's terrible to be scared of him for no logical reason, but there's just something about him that... gives me goosebumps."
The headmaster sips his coffee, humming in thought.
"... It's... his eyes, I think." The hum takes on a questioning tone. "Especially when he's fighting. They're just so... empty. Like he's not really there. He just... fights without thought. I'm, aware of the idea of empty-mindedness in battle, but it's unsettling to see it so... completely."
"Hmm. They're true, you know. The stories he tells you." He finally interjects, obtaining a confused and mildly concerned smile from the redhead for his trouble.
"... Wh-what? The ones about-"
"Meti, yes. I met her, once. She was actually the one who suggested we take him on."
"O-oh."
Silence fills the air, the ticking of the gears underneath the floor only adding to it somehow. Somehow, being told by Ozpin that everything Jaune had told her about his master was true just... gave it more authority.
...
Oh goodness she actually did fight ten thousand men naked and win-
After a few moments pondering this new source of night terrors, Pyrrha works up the courage to ask the question on her mind.
"What was she like?"
"An ancient woman, dressed in rags, who spent most of the day I had with her oscillating between drunk, and blackout drunk. She invited me to her home and took me to a barrel in the marketplace that only contained a broken sword. She lives one of the most...
base lives I've ever seen. If I didn't know better, I would say she was insane."
Pyrrha, quite rightfully, blinks in honest confusion.
"She's homeless?"
"Willfully. Ah, I'm getting off-track- the point I wish to make is... I know exactly what you mean because I felt the same way about her as you do Jaune."
Ozpin takes another sip, letting her process that.
Seeing she needs a moment more, he reminisces on the times where he had the time and equipment to grind his own blends, instead of relying on the ancient coffee machine in the staff room like everyone else.
Honestly, with
Oobleck of all people around, he thought they might spring for something that doesn't produce brown water, but the budgets say no.
They say it
emphatically.
... Maybe if he cut out the live Boarbatusk demonstrations for the first years-
"I'm, sorry, are you saying that...
you, were scared of... well, a drunk ascetic?"
Oop, time to focus.
"Remember that, lifestyle aside, she
was the one who taught Jaune everything he knows, and could be considered the source of his... unusual mindset. However, those feelings did eventually pass, and when they did, we got along just fine. We still eat noodles every now and then." He notes with another sip of brown water. "I understand your concerns, but you have to realise... he's not doing it on purpose. Those feelings that he's itching for a fight, so to speak, are just a... side effect of what he's learned, and... I suppose, what he and his master are."
"... Very strong?"
With a quick flick of his finger, a picture of the reason Pyrrha was in his office takes up the surface of his desk.
The combat stage.
... What was left of it, anyway. He watched with no dearth of concern as the redhead tensed up, very quickly taking a deep, calming breath.
"To say the least. Now, why don't you tell me what exactly you saw today?"
|||
You watch Goodwitch as she explains what today is, which seems to amount to 'playing gladiators, but without the killing.'
Boring.
"Mr Arc." She grinds out before taking a breath. "Since you seem so keen on deprecating my class at every turn, why don't you come up here for the first round? Perhaps it will be less
boring than watching."
You blink, unsure where that came fr... oh.
Oh.
"... Ah, I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"At. Volume."
Then you deserve this. You peel yourself from the cheap vinyl seat and walk up to the stage, making a point to not seem any cockier than you already do. You
do respect the combat professor, but you really do learn more from self-study, at the end of the day.
This is...
meaningless to you.
"You may not agree with the idea that you need to attend this class, but I will not accept disruptions in it." She tells you, glaring at you over those oval glasses of hers.
You stand where she points, near the edge of the stage, to the audience's left.
"I apologise deeply, instructor. Personal opinions aside, I never intended to disturb your tutelage." You tell her quietly, bowing deeply as you do.
Her eyes soften somewhat at your apology, and she pushes a button on her Scroll, lighting up the screen hanging high above the arena. On one side, you, on the other, a blank square, your opponent not chosen.
Goodwitch looks over your classmates and makes her choice.
"Mr Winchester, you shall be his opponent."
The armoured boy with the mace stands and saunters to the stage, posturing a little as his teammates call out, telling him to kick your ass.
Cute.
He's soon standing opposite you, and the screen changes. Your pictures shrink, a green bar appearing below it alongside a number. Well, that's what it does for Cardin.
In your case, you get a big, fat, 0.
"Er... Professor Goodwitch, I don't think that's meant to hap-" Preem Schnee calls out, showing an uncharacteristic amount of concern for you.
"Ignore it. Mr Arc's Scroll doesn't detect his Aura, and we ran out of spares before he could request one. As such, we'll be doing things a little differently- Mr Arc, is a three-strike rule acceptable?"
You can't help but smirk a little, and you can tell Goodwitch is already regretting giving you the choice.
"One."
Still, it was nice of her to go along with the official story. Makes getting people to not treat you with kid gloves
so much easier.
Cardin looks you in the eye, equally annoyed by your dismissal of him, and obviously ready to savour an easy victory.
The professor sighs deeply but sets it at one strike anyway before getting off the stage.
"Bow." She instructs, and the two of you do so. "Ready yourselves, gentlemen."
You unhook your sword, sheath and all, from your belt, and point it at Cardin. He snorts, an arrogant little guffaw working its way out of his throat.
"Uh, Jauney boy, you forgetting something?" He calls out more towards the audience than you, to a few laughs from his teammates, and more forced ones scattered throughout the crowd.
"Not at all." You reply calmly.
That wipes the smirk off his face.
"... Oh, I am gonna enjoy this."
As are you.
"Glory to the Divine Corpse, o breaker of infinities."
You note your teammates freezing as you speak those words, the perfect images of fear.
Discarding the thought as unnecessary, you focus on your opponent, bringing your sword up and shifting into the proper stance. Feet wide. Grip, loose and unstrained, as warm a grip as a tool designed for separating men from their bodily fluids deserves.
As Goodwitch shouts something, and the boy wearing a nobleman's armour and wielding a peasant's weapon bursts into motion, you set your mind to the side.
To follow your tutelage properly, you would cast it adrift, leaving behind an empty shell. But, sacrifices must be made, for the sake of not actually killing your opponent.
He raises his mace high and brings it down on your head, crushing your face effortlessly with Aura-enhanced strength. At least, he would have, had you not placed the tip of your sheath in the way, arresting its motion almost completely. Backing off for a moment, he goes in for a sideswipe and finds his club arrested, yet again.
You consider going in for a few strikes to his abdomen, but the armour there dissuades you from it. His nose, perhaps?
... Yes, his nose should do. Blocking two more strikes, you step back and drive the tip of your scabbard past his defences, little that they are, and jab him right in the nose. One nasal yell later, he's stepping back, trying to rub some feeling back into it.
You should draw your sword. You know that. But learning death with the sheath is just as important as death with the knees, elbows and fingertips, you feel. Besides, Winchester's done nothing to deserve your blade.
He growls- honest to the gods,
growls at you, before coming even faster. You sway around two strikes and arrest a third, letting the mace slide down the leather strappings to the ground.
That was, in retrospect, a mistake.
You hear the click of the button before you see the glow of the red Dust crystal until now hidden out of sight, beneath the flanges of his mace, and the grin on his face only seals your decision to finally move. Tensing your legs, you throw yourself back, and just about dodge the explosion. The stage holds underneath the fire and your feet both, but your respite is short, and soon you're dodging again. Realising that he's found something you seem to be scared of, the explosion button starts to get a lot of use.
"COME ON, JAUNEY BOY!" Winchester screams at you. "YOU WERE
SO CONFIDENT A MINUTE AGO! OR HAVE YOU FINALLY REALISED THAT YOU'RE JUST TALKING OUT YOUR
FUCKING ASS-"
"Mr Winchester!" You hear Goodwitch shouting over the next explosion.
"-OH, LIKE YOU DON'T AGREE WITH ME!" He continues yelling, snapping to look at your instructor. You take the half second of distraction to pointedly
not seethe at his disrespect and look up at the board and see his Aura's only been dented a little since the fight started- only 15 percent taken off, and you have the sinking feeling that that
wasn't from your little nose poke earlier.
As you dodge yet another explosion, this time feeling the heat singe your leg hair through your jeans, you decide that now is the time to stop playing around. You hook your sheath back onto your belt, keeping your hand on the grip.
Pushing your mind off the cliff, you allow yourself to become empty of feeling, of personality, leaving only that white-hot fire your master saw in you all those years ago. You shift your stance, keeping your feet wide, and shifting your once improper grip to the loose and unstrained one you were taught to keep.
Cut without thought, and one can cut God.
Cardin snaps back to look at you and finds something that gives him just a moment's pause.
Unknown to you, your face has shifted to neutrality, eyes glazed over, lips open just enough to show the slightest hint of teeth, somehow simultaneously looking down on Cardin and looking a thousand yards behind him.
Your teammates understand what it means, and their scramble to move as far away from the stage as possible only shakes Cardin further. However, whatever internal debate he's having resolves itself after a moment, and he comes at you with another strike, raising his mace high to bring it down on your head, mirroring his first.
Fitting, for his last.
You inhale and draw your sword.
You take a singular step forward as the rusted, chipped blade leaves its haphazard scabbard, and take pleasure in the act of the equally solitary Cut you act upon the world. A fluid, sticky motion, you find yourself behind Cardin now, your sword held out to your side as you shift out of your lunge and properly onto your feet.
You exhale.
Exult.
You let your mind back in and move to sheath your sword once more.
"... What was that?" Cardin asks, sounding more confused than anything. You turn to face him, and place the point of your sword in the entrance of its sheath. You note that the place where you stood has cracked, the floorboards cracked and sunken where your feet left them with such force.
"Stand down, Mr Winchester," Goodwitch calls out. "Your Aura's critical."
"What?! But he didn't even-" The telltale beeping of a Scroll detecting critical Aura levels rings true through the auditorium. He pulls out the offending device, looking at it with confusion and anger in equal measure.
"The sanctioned action is to Cut." You explain, slowly pushing your sword into its scabbard.
The flanges of his mace begin to come apart, the specific points of separation coinciding with a singular cut. As is proper.
"To Cut means division by the blade of Want, that parer of potentials that excises infinities."
Cardin, in staring at his weapon with horror, fails to realise that his armour is coming apart now. When he does, his movement only shakes it further apart, until he's left no choice but to shrug it off and stare at
it in horror, only wearing a simple button up shirt beneath.
"May we reach heaven by violence." You finish, finally sheathing your sword.
As it clicks home, the final act of Cutting makes itself known, slashing large chunks from the stage and curtains. You step to the side, just dodging the delayed carnage. Once the wood stops spraying, and the winds stop whipping, you look out at the audience-
And catch Ren's eye, watching him stood in front of the girls, batting away pieces of shrapnel with his hands and feet.
Hrm. You didn't know he practised Lazy Kicks style.
But that wasn't the thing that was meant to catch your attention, and you know that you're only focusing on it to ignore the main subject.
The look in his eyes. Angry, almost
venomous, and directed straight at you. Looking past him, you see Nora cowering behind him, and Pyrrha's shield up, trying her best to cover the two of them.
'Look at what you've done,' his glare says.
For a moment, just a second, really, everything you've learned slips away, and you find yourself staring at the carnage you've wrought through more human eyes.
People are whimpering and murmuring in fear. You remember there
being screaming. Nobody's hurt, but they're all staring at you with fear in their eyes.
... You begin to wonder how someone can take pleasure in the result of Cutting, when
this is the result.
"... I believe we can call that your victory." Goodwitch says gently, gesturing to the one set of stairs you haven't ruined, silently telling you to come off the stage.
You follow a shaky Cardin down the stairs as Goodwitch begins putting the stage back together with her Semblance.
As she does that and announces the next pair, and they fight, you find yourself sitting away from everyone else, quietly thinking on what just happened.
It is only when Goodwitch approaches you after class that you realise everyone else has filtered out, and that you've been sitting thinking about it for far too long.
"... Lien for your thoughts?"
You're not sure who the counsellor is at Beacon, but it seems your instructor is trying to fill that role for the moment. No reason not to indulge her, you suppose.
"...I'm beginning to think I may be too dangerous for this place."
"Nonsense." She says almost immediately, prompting you to look up at her. "Jaune, the only remarkable thing you accomplished here today is that you did what you did
without Aura. This is
not the first time that stage has been ruined, nor is it the worst damage I've ever had to repair. I can't claim that I can teach you any better than Meti did, so I won't. I'll even admit that you don't really need combat training. However, you
do need to be taught restraint."
You raise an eyebrow, but say nothing.
"... Would you let me teach you that, if nothing else?"
You consider it.
Precept 13: 'The weak swordsman reserves his strokes.'
To reserve is to retain something, if you were to look at it as literally as possible. Not about holding back. It talks of sword strokes, not the force behind them.
You consider the rest of the precept, and find you follow it fine.
... There is... nothing. You have no Meti-based reason to deny this.
"... Alright. How does one learn restraint?" You ask her, earning a smile for your choice.
"Well, restraining yourself from disrupting my class is a good start."
... You deserve that.
rofl: Don't forget the movement penalty!
