Chapter 8: Swordsmanship and Roland

The Segovia slowly sailed away, gradually fading into the boundless sea until it became a faint, indistinct dot on the horizon.

Resalit gazed quietly at the vanishing ship, the sea breeze brushing against his resolute face, his hair fluttering gently in the wind.

A trace of contemplation flickered in his eyes, as if he were recalling the events of the past.

After a long moment, he withdrew his gaze, turned to Carlo, and spoke in a low voice:

“Carlo, let’s go. We still have much to do.”

Carlo nodded slightly and followed closely behind Resalit. They walked along a winding path, sunlight casting long shadows behind them.

The surroundings gradually grew familiar, and the outline of the port of Dieppe became clearer.

As they stepped into the French camp at Dieppe, a tense and oppressive atmosphere immediately overwhelmed them.

The smoke of war had not yet fully dissipated; the air was tinged with a faint scent of blood and dust.

Everywhere within the camp, busy figures moved about—soldiers were busy organizing weapons, tending to wounds, or whispering in low tones, their faces weary and grave.

The scattered remnants of the French army, having escaped from the port of Sluis, gathered here in disarray, fear and confusion etched deeply across their faces.

Under the command of Viscount Arquette, these battered troops were undergoing difficult recuperation. Each awaited further orders, uncertain of their future fate.

Resalit led Carlo through the crowd to a relatively quiet corner.

He stopped, casually took a longsword from a nearby weapon rack, and tossed it to Carlo.

Quick and steady, Carlo caught the sword firmly.

The blade gleamed coldly in the sunlight, and Carlo could feel the weight and texture of the weapon.

It was the first time he had ever held such a longsword, and an inexplicable nervousness stirred within him.

Resalit looked at Carlo and asked:

“Carlo, have you ever used a sword before?”

Carlo gripped the hilt tightly and replied respectfully:

“Lord Resalit, I am from Florence. Though our city values commerce, my father had a fencing master teach me since childhood.”

Resalit raised an eyebrow slightly, a hint of interest appearing:

“Oh? Then show me what you’ve got.”

They faced each other, the atmosphere instantly growing tense.

Carlo took a deep breath, steadying himself. His gaze was focused and determined, locked onto Resalit’s every movement.

Resalit appeared calm and unhurried, a faint smile tugging at his lips, seemingly waiting for Carlo to make the first move.

Recalling his sword techniques, Carlo launched the attack. His body flashed forward swiftly, and the longsword stabbed at Resalit like a streak of lightning.

Indeed, this body still recalled its former muscle memory!

Resalit remained unflustered, slightly sidestepping, effortlessly evading Carlo’s strike.

Missing his target, Carlo immediately changed tactics, swinging the longsword in a sweeping arc toward Resalit once more.

Resalit gently raised his sword, easily blocking the blow with a crisp clash.

Their blades crossed again and again, a dance of shadows and steel. Carlo unleashed all his strength, attacking relentlessly, but Resalit always responded with ease.

His movements were powerful yet precise, each swing exquisitely timed.

He not only deflected Carlo’s attacks but also launched counterstrikes in the blink of an eye.

Sweat beaded on Carlo’s forehead as his breath grew heavier.

He marveled inwardly at Resalit’s formidable skill while feeling the vast gulf between a commoner like himself and a French knight.

Yet, he did not give up—what young man would not need training?

Resalit maintained his composure and focus, his eyes sharp as a hawk, watching Carlo intently.

He recognized Carlo’s effort and potential and began to see this commoner in a new light.

After a fierce exchange, Resalit suddenly exerted force, striking Carlo’s sword from his grasp.

Carlo watched the longsword fall to the ground, bowed his head, panting heavily, sweat streaming down his cheeks.

Unbidden, the image of his attendant, Luwan, surfaced in Resalit’s mind—the loyal youth who once followed him everywhere, tending to every need with earnest devotion.

But now, that vibrant young man lay forever on the Christopher.

At the thought, Resalit’s heart felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer, pain spreading throughout his body.

He looked toward Carlo, who was still standing stubbornly despite heavy breaths and a disheveled appearance. His gaze hardened.

Though a commoner, Carlo possessed an indomitable spirit, potential like a hidden ember nestled in a crevice, waiting to be fully ignited.

Resolutely, Resalit vowed: no more of those around him would be sent to die so easily.

“You have decent physical condition. For a commoner like you, this strength is acceptable.

But if you were a noble’s son, it wouldn’t be enough. These are times of war—I will teach you.”

Resalit approached Carlo, picked up the sword from the ground, and handed it back.

Seeing Carlo’s eager expression, he spoke earnestly:

“Carlo, you’re doing well. But improving your swordsmanship requires time and effort.

You have a foundation, but you need systematic training.”

Carlo took the sword and looked up, listening carefully to Resalit’s guidance, his heart full of gratitude.

Resalit began to explain the techniques and principles of swordsmanship in detail.

He demonstrated each move patiently, explaining the purpose and method behind it.

Carlo watched intently, striving to memorize every detail.

“On the battlefield, fancy moves are useless. Killing blows are simple and direct.

But when starting out, routines are important.”

His voice was steady and powerful, carrying a force that seemed to pierce one’s soul.

“With more battles, you’ll grasp the essence of the techniques.

Swordsmanship is not just a contest of strength but a battle of skill and wisdom.”

Resalit continued:

“In combat, learn to observe your opponent’s movements and find their weaknesses.

At the same time, remain calm and focused; never let emotion cloud your judgment.”

Carlo nodded thoughtfully, beginning to practice each move repeatedly under Resalit’s watchful eye.

Resalit observed carefully, offering guidance and corrections from time to time.

As time passed, Carlo’s swordsmanship improved.

His movements became smoother and more precise, his use of strength more rational.

Resalit smiled with satisfaction as he noted Carlo’s progress.

“Carlo, have you heard of Roland? He was the leader of the Twelve Paladins under Charlemagne—a true legend.”

Curiosity and admiration flickered in Carlo’s eyes.

“My lord, please tell me more.”

Resalit tilted his head slightly, his thoughts drifting back to that grand era.

“Legend has it that Roland was incredibly powerful. In a battle at the Black Rock Valley,

he wore shining armor and wielded the holy sword Durandal, standing like an immovable mountain...

The battle lasted a whole day. As the sun set, the battlefield was in chaos.

Roland single-handedly slew over two hundred enemies. His valor struck fear into the enemy ranks, forcing them to retreat.”

Carlo listened intently, but a strange feeling stirred within him.

When Resalit spoke of Roland’s fearless bravery on the battlefield, Carlo’s mind seemed to drift.

He imagined himself enveloped in a hazy glow, amidst shouts and the clash of metal.

In his hand, a heavy sword felt real, and instinctively he made a sweeping strike—so fluid even he was surprised.

Carlo wondered silently: he had never experienced such fierce combat, so why did his body seem to remember it instinctively?

Could this be a hallucination born of immersion in Roland’s tale?

But this illusion felt so real.

So real that it stirred a strange sense of unfamiliarity about his own identity.

“And his holy sword Durandal—that is a sacred blade, an angel’s sword.

Legend says it contains the tooth of Saint Peter, the blood of Saint Basil, the hair of Saint Denis, and a fragment of the Virgin Mary’s garment.

This sword was crafted by elves and once belonged to the giant Utmundas. Roland seized it from him and gave it to the king.

Moved by his loyalty, the king bestowed the sword upon him.”