Online Game: Starting With SSS-Ranked Summons

"When's the earliest interview available?" Arthur asked, leaning slightly on the table.

"Right now, sir."

A small smirk tugged at the corner of Arthur's lips. "Perfect. Book me in."

"Done," the clerk confirmed, gesturing toward a corner of the training ground where a tall, broad-shouldered man stood, arms crossed and observing the area with a critical eye.

His stern face was lined with age, his short greying hair and soft-wrinkled features making him stand out among the younger staff.

Arthur's eyes narrowed slightly in recognition. 'One of the old guards from the mayor's office.'

"Thank you," Arthur said, giving a slight nod to the clerk before heading toward the instructor.

As he approached, the instructor's piercing gaze met Arthur's. There was no recognition in the man's eyes—Arthur's mask and altered appearance ensured that.

The instructor, a man with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense demeanour stood unmoving, arms crossed over his broad chest. His gaze bore into Arthur, dissecting him before a word was even exchanged.

No greetings. No pleasantries.

"What will you be teaching?" the instructor asked, his voice low and gravelly, like the sound of a blade being sharpened on stone.

Arthur's eyes remained calm, unflinching. "Swordsmanship," he replied.

The instructor's expression didn't change, but his gaze sharpened. "Do you know the three fundamentals of swordsmanship—the ones all skills derive from?"

Arthur nodded. He didn't hesitate.

"Swordsmanship is built upon three unshakable pillars, each as essential as breath to life."

He stepped forward slightly, his posture relaxed but commanding.

"First, footwork is the silent architect of every duel. It is not merely the act of moving but the art of placement—where each step carves control into the ground beneath. A skilled swordsman does not simply walk or run; they glide with intent, their weight shifting like the tide, never lingering long enough to be caught. Distance is not something they measure; it is something they command, closing in when the moment demands or slipping away before steel can taste flesh."

The instructor's brow lifted ever so slightly, intrigued.

Arthur's tone remained steady, his gaze unwavering.

"Second, blade work is the language of the sword, each movement must be thought of, each angle a calculated risk. There is no excess or wasted motion. A cut is not made to intimidate but to end, a parry not to defend but to shift the flow. The sword does not follow the hand—it becomes the hand. Precision shapes every edge, and control tempers every strike, turning even the simplest motion into inevitability."

Arthur's hand subtly mimicked the fluid motion of a blade mid-air, as if feeling an invisible sword.

"Third, awareness is the unseen edge, sharper than any blade. A true swordsman does not wait for an attack; they recognize it in the tension of a grip, in the faintest breath before a lunge. Their eyes are not fixed on the weapon but on the intent behind it, reading the battle not as it unfolds but as it is about to. Every subtlety is noted, every feint dismantled before it begins. To them, combat is not chaos—it is a pattern waiting to be unravelled."

"These three—footwork that claims control, blade work that offers no second chances, and awareness that leaves no surprises—form the essence of swordsmanship. Not through spectacle, but through mastery of the fundamentals, the blade finds its truest form."

Arthur's voice faded into silence.

The instructor remained silent for a moment, his expression inscrutable.

Then, he gave a single, approving nod.

"You've passed the theory exam," he said, voice slightly softer. "Now, show me your practical skills. Perform a few sword strikes on the dummy."

Arthur inclined his head in acknowledgement. Your next read awaits at My Virtual Library Empire

Arthur walked a short distance to the training dummy and grabbed the wooden sword on the rack nearby.

The wooden sword felt light in his grip.

Without hesitation, he moved.

Each strike carved through the air with accuracy—no wasted motion, no unnecessary flair.

The instructor's eyes held no surprise, only approval.

The instructor nodded his head as he eyed Arthur.

"You've passed."

A faint chime echoed in Arthur's mind.

[Ding! You have acquired the job 'Part-Time Instructor' at Village #420 Training Ground.][Ding! +100 Reputation Points, Instructor ID Card acquired.]

"You can report to the mayor later to discuss your salary and schedule," the instructor added, his tone softened by a hint of respect.

Arthur gave a simple nod. "Thank you."

Nearby, a few players who had witnessed the display exchanged murmurs.

"Who is that guy? He's got skill... never seen him around before."

"Same here. But now that he's working at the training ground, his status is bound to rise."

After passing the interview, Arthur left the training grounds behind. His expression remained neutral, unreadable, as he walked through the village streets.

There was nothing left to linger for—he had seen and heard enough of the mayor's plans. Everything was progressing as expected, and for now, he had no objections.

His mind was already set on the next destination.

The woods.

Through his telepathic bond with Lupin, Arthur had already learned that his summon, along with Jasmine, was farming near the wolves' territory. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Lupin had been busy.

Without wasting time, Arthur made his way towards the dense forest.

Then—he arrived.

In the clearing ahead, Arthur spotted them.

His eyes locked onto a lone wolf, the last survivor of what had once been a pack. Blood smeared the grass, and lifeless bodies of wolves lay scattered. Jasmine stood nearby, her bow drawn at the last wolf with a smirk on her face.

"Come on, Lupin," she urged, her voice eager. "Let's get the final one."

Her arrow notched, ready to fly.

The lone wolf trembled violently, its legs barely holding it up.

The terror that lupin had installed in it, was clear in its eyes. It had watched its entire pack torn apart by the duo. Lupin's power loomed over it like a shadow of death.

With a low, guttural growl, Lupin lunged.