From Bankrupt Noble to God-Tier Warrior: I Just Broke the Re

Chapter 2: The Sarcastic Tutor

"Oh, you’re completely screwed, aren't you?" Lara chirped, her voice echoing with the biting cheer of a spectator at a gladiator pit.

Arto stared at the rusted broadsword in his hand. It felt less like a weapon and more like a heavy, ill-balanced anchor. He gave it a tentative flick, and the metal hummed a discordant, screeching note.

"I’m not screwed," Arto gritted out, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hilt. "I’m just... unfamiliar with the hardware."

"Hardware? It’s a piece of sharpened iron, Arto. And you’re holding it like a wet umbrella."

"Any tips, then? Or are you just here to provide the commentary for my funeral?"

"I’m a divine entity, not a fencing instructor. But if you die, my current vessel becomes a rotting corpse, which is a massive blow to my professional reputation."

Arto wiped sweat from his forehead with his free hand. "So, you do care."

"I care about not being haunted by a failure. Now, pick your left foot up. No, the other left. You look like a newborn giraffe trying to walk on ice."

He stumbled, his boots scraping against the uneven stone floor of the manor. "This floor is a disaster. How am I supposed to maintain footwork on loose gravel and rotted wood?"

"Stop complaining about the floor and focus on the opponent. Sila is waiting for you to trip over your own laces."

"He’s not waiting. He’s probably out there mocking my ancestors."

"He’s waiting because he wants to watch you bleed, not because he’s patient. Raise the blade, Arto. Higher. Your guard is so low it’s practically flirting with the floor."

Arto hoisted the sword. His shoulder burned immediately. "It’s heavy. Why is it so damn heavy?"

"Because you have the core strength of a library book. Keep it up. If you drop it, I’ll personally ensure your spirit feels the humiliation for the next century."

"You’re a terrible coach, you know that?"

"And you’re a project manager trying to win a duel to the death. I think we’re both suffering here."

Arto swung the blade forward, an awkward, telegraphed arc that would have been blocked by a toddler. The momentum nearly dragged him off balance.

"Pathetic," Lara sighed in his mind. "That was an invitation, not a strike. You just offered him your throat on a silver platter."

"Give me a break! I’ve been in this body for all of ten minutes!"

"And you’ll be dead in fifteen if you don't learn how to pivot. Shift your weight back. Bend your knees. You’re standing like you’re waiting for a bus."

"I’m trying!" Arto adjusted his stance, his calves screaming in protest.

"Don't try. Do. Or don't, and let Sila turn this hallway into a morgue. Your choice."

Arto gritted his teeth, shifting his weight. "Okay. Again. What do I do when he lunges?"

"You don't block. You parry. You need to redirect his energy, not fight it head-on. You’re a twig, Arto. A gust of wind could snap you."

"A little support would be nice," Arto muttered, sweating profusely.

"I’m providing the critical eye you lack. Now, imagine I’m Sila. I’m charging at you. What’s the first thing you do?"

"Panic?"

"Aside from your natural inclination toward cowardice?"

"I’d... keep my eyes on his shoulder. My old instructor for squash used to say people can’t hide their intentions in their shoulders."

"A squash instructor? Truly, the pinnacle of martial wisdom," Lara mocked. "Fine. Watch the shoulder. When it dips, you shift and sweep your blade across his path. Hard. Do it."

Arto lunged forward, swinging the rusted steel in a wide, frantic arc.

"Wrong! You’re swinging at ghosts! Keep the point toward his chest!"

He reset, chest heaving. "This is insane. I’m a manager. I’m supposed to be at a desk, dealing with spreadsheets, not fighting a lunatic in a silk doublet."

"You’re a noble now, Arto. Deal with the politics of steel, or deal with the reality of an early grave. Again."

He swung again. Then again. Each time, Lara’s voice cut through his focus like a surgeon’s scalpel, pointing out every wasted movement, every missed opportunity.

"You’re twitching. Stop anticipating. React. He’s going to strike high—he’s arrogant, he likes the spectacle of a neck wound."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he’s a man who wears fur indoors. He’s obsessed with his own ego. He’ll go for the flashiest kill. Parry left, step in, and pray you don't trip."

Arto’s muscles were vibrating with fatigue. He swung, and as he shifted his weight, he caught the edge of a stray stone with his boot. He stumbled, his blade clattering as he frantically tried to steady himself.

"If you fall, just roll," Lara commanded. "Don't stop moving."

He lunged forward, desperate, and caught an imaginary blade with his own. The metal jarred his arm, sending a shockwave of pain up to his elbow.

"Good," she whispered, her tone softening for the first time. "That. Do that again. Don't think about the weight. Just feel the line of the blade."

He did it again. He parried, the motion sharp and decisive.

"Better. Now, imagine he’s right in front of you. He’s lunging. What’s your next move?"

"I step into his space," Arto panted, his lungs burning. "I jam the hilt into his ribs."

"A dirty move. I like it. Very un-noble of you."

"He came here to mock me in my own house. I think the rules of chivalry went out the window when he mentioned my reputation."

"Good boy. Now, let’s see if you can do it without collapsing into a heap."

Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the end of the hall groaned. The sound wasn't the slow, rhythmic creak of before, but a sharp, impatient slam.

Sila stepped into the dim light of the hall, his hand resting casually on his rapier. He wasn't waiting for the morning light; he was back, and he looked entirely too bored.

"I thought I’d give you an extra hour to settle your affairs," Sila sneered, his eyes flicking to the rusted blade in Arto’s hands. "But I realized, why waste time on a man who’s already rotting?"

Arto held his stance, his breath ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You’re early, Sila," Arto said, his voice steadying.

"I’m efficient," Sila countered, drawing his blade with a sound like a whisper of silk. "And I have a dinner appointment. I’d hate to be late because I was busy sweeping you into the dirt."

Lara’s voice was a cold spike of ice in Arto’s mind. "He’s closing the distance. Remember the shoulder, Arto. Don't look at the eyes—they lie. Look at the shoulder."

Arto gripped the hilt, the metal slick with his own sweat. He looked at Sila, then at the sharp, glinting tip of the noble’s rapier.

"Dinner can wait, Sila," Arto said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, unfamiliar register. "I think you’re going to find this meal a lot harder to swallow than you anticipated."