The Fat Aristocrat Waltz in the Labyrinth - Chapter 52
Chapter 52: The fat aristocrat takes a small shield course
Unbeknownst to most adventurers, the guild has a small courtyard. It’s not a resting place or a tourist spot, but simply a bare ground that can be used as a sports ground, without a single blade of grass growing.
Thanks to the receptionist, Mitrof was able to attend the shield course without much waiting. It’s not scheduled for a fixed time; rather, it is held whenever there are enough participants and the instructor is available.
There used to be a time when they determined the time, but it was changed to the current format because there were more occasions when nobody showed up.
As a result, only Mitrof and the instructor were in the courtyard, observing each other.
“What, the first student in a long time is a fat kid?”
The middle-aged man lazily surveyed Mitrof with his tired eyes and waved the bottle of alcohol in his left hand.
The amber-colored liquor spilled from his lips and flowed down his unshaven jaw, wetting the collar of his shirt. It was so dirty that Mitrof wondered how many days he had been wearing it.
The man’s standing posture was frail and unreliable, with a slight hunch in his back and bad posture. His hair, a mixture of gray and black, was long and tangled with grease. Beast ears grew from there, but one of them was twisted and severed midway.
He was introduced as a lecturer, but to Mitrof, he looked nothing more than a beastman hobo.
“I’m Sonn—It’s my job to teach you techniques.”
“I’m Mitrof.”
“Fine, fine—I’m not good at remembering names anyway.”
While Sonn gave a rough response, he pointed to Mitrof’s left arm with the thin stick he held in his right hand.
“You want to know how to use a small shield?”
“…Yes.”
“What are you up against?”
Without looking at Mitrof or showing any interest, Sonn drank his booze.
“It’s the smallblade rabbits and the swordhorned rabbits.”
“If you can’t avoid it, hold a shield—you’re lucky you’re smart enough to think.”
He laughed it off with a “Ha”.
With obvious mockery, Mitrof narrowed his eyes.
The emotion that came over him was, “What the hell is this?’ He came here to learn techniques to survive, but the so-called lecturer was a man who dressed like a drunken hobo. For no reason at all, he was mocked, and he involuntarily took a step forward and said,
“I didn’t come here to be made fun of.”
“Prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
Pew.
A surprisingly light sound echoed.
“——Block it with your shield!”
Mitrof opened his eyes wide in surprise.
Sonn had swung a stick, and it was already touching Mitrof’s shoulder.
‘Fast—no, slow?’
Sonn had only swung his arm lightly. It should have been visible, but Mitrof couldn’t react.
In just a moment, his thoughts and reality became confused, and Mitrof was focused on the stick hitting his shoulder, causing him to stop moving.
“Everything has a category—let’s call it milk, ale, wine, and liquor—you’re milk.”
Without showing any concern for Mitrof, Sonn removed the stick from his shoulder.
“It’s simple for you, Milk—just see where and when the attack is coming and decide whether to place your shield or not.”
The stick was swung again, and this time Mitrof used his shield to block it.
“That’s it. Don’t think about deflecting or repelling. Got it milk?”
“…Is this a training course?”
“What, did you think I was going to teach you a magic spell, my lord?”
“Fuurin” swung his stick again, this time to the right.
Mitrof instinctively twisted his body and blocked it with his shield.
“Avoid that one—what are you going to do from there?”
When he checked his posture as instructed, it was indeed unnatural. To protect his right side with his left arm holding the shield, he was twisting his waist.
“A small shield is not meant to block everything—It’s only supposed to be used minimally in times of need. Stupid people who don’t understand this complain that small shields are useless.”
Mitrof choked on his words, unable to speak. He himself had only recognized the small shield as an inferior version of the large shield.
“…how do you determine when you need to use it?”
“Gut feeling.”
“What?”
Mitrof thought he was joking, but Sonn didn’t even change his expression.
He stirred his drink and wiped his lips with his arm, then lifted an eyebrow in response to Mitrof’s gaze.
“When you blocked this stick just now, did you think about it?”
“…no.”
“Look, think, move your body, and block. That’s too slow, move by reflex—that’s the only way.”
“So how do I learn how to use it, or rather, how to distinguish it?”
Sonn shrugged his shoulders and then shook the stick he held up and down in his right hand.
“You have to learn it with your body—you understand, fatty.”
There was a whizzing sound.