I Summon Female Knights

The impact echoed through the high-ceilinged training bay like a pistol shot.

Raphael didn’t even see Elena move. One second she was standing ten feet away with her practice blade resting casually against her shoulder; the next, a blur of motion crossed his vision, and the wooden shortsword slammed violently into his left ribs.

The force of the strike blew the air straight out of his lungs. Raphael stumbled backward, his knees buckling as he hit the mat, gasping for breath as white-hot pain radiated across his torso.

”Stance too wide,” Elena said calmly, standing over him as she twirled her wooden blade with lazy precision. ”Weight locked on your back heel. You were leaning away from me before I even initiated the strike.”

Raphael clutched his ribs with his right hand, his left arm throbbing in sympathetic agony. He dragged air back into his chest with a ragged wheeze.

”You... you didn’t even count down,” he panted, looking up at her from the floor.

”Do monsters count down?” Elena asked, arching a single dark eyebrow. ”Does a goblin chief ask if you’re comfortable before it swings a battleaxe at your spine?”

”No,” Raphael groaned, slowly pushing himself up onto his knees. ”I suppose it doesn’t.”

”Get up,” she commanded, stepping back to give him room. ”You asked for combat instruction. That means throwing away your civilian mindset. Right now, your body reacts to threat by freezing, panicking, and backing away in a straight line. That’s how people die in dungeons.”

Raphael summoned his silvery-violet system interface with a brief flick of his mind, keeping the glowing screen angled away from where Elena stood.

[SOVEREIGN QUEST ACTIVE]

- Time Remaining: 29 Days, 15 Hours, 52 Minutes.

He dismissed the text instantly. He didn’t have time to complain about bruised ribs. Every minute spent lying on the mat was a minute wasted against a timer that was actively ticking toward his execution.

Forcing his legs to straighten, Raphael hauled himself back to his feet. He gripped the wooden shortsword tightly in his right hand, adjusting his stance based on the fragmented memories of how Elena had positioned her feet earlier.

Elena watched him, her sharp blue eyes taking in every detail of his posture.

”Better. Keep your forward knee bent, center of gravity low. Never cross your feet when you retreat.”

She raised her sword again, settling into a low guard. ”Now. Attack me.”

Raphael took a slow, deliberate breath. He pushed off his back foot, stepping forward and swinging the wooden blade in a diagonal arc aimed at her shoulder. He tried to put his entire body weight behind the blow, determined to make her respect his reach.

CLACK.

Elena didn’t even step back. She sidestepped the path of his blade by a fraction of an inch, swept her wooden sword upward to deflect his weapon, and slammed her pommel hard into his sternum.

Raphael reeled backward, his vision swimming as his heels caught the edge of the mat. He hit the floor a second time, the wooden blade clattering out of his grip and rolling across the polished surface.

”Too telegraphed,” Elena criticized, standing over him with her weapon lowered. ”You tensed your shoulders two full seconds before you swung. Anyone with basic combat instincts can read your movement like an open book.”

Raphael lay on his back for a moment, staring up at the bright LED panels in the ceiling. His chest burned, his left arm was aching, and every muscle in his body felt heavy and slow.

”This is impossible,” he muttered, closing his eyes briefly. ”My body can’t move that fast.”

”Because you’re trying to fight like an Awakened using pure muscle,” Elena replied, her voice dropping its playful edge and taking on a serious, instructional tone. ”You don’t have high-tier physical stats, Raphael. You can’t out-muscle a monster, and you can’t out-speed an A-Tier operative.”

Raphael opened his eyes and looked at her. ”Then how do I survive?”

Elena extended a hand down to him. Raphael hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it. She pulled him up effortlessly, steadying him until his feet were firmly planted on the mat.

”Anticipation,” Elena said, retrieving his fallen wooden sword and handing it back to him. ”If you wait until an attack is launched to react, you’re already dead. You have to read the environment, read the opponent’s hips, and position yourself where the attack isn’t going to be before it happens. Combat isn’t about strength; it’s about control of space.”

She tapped her wooden blade lightly against his chest. ”Again.”

For the next thirty minutes, Elena showed no mercy. She pushed Raphael through a grueling series of footwork drills, forcing him to dodge, parry, and pivot until his legs felt like lead and his shirt was soaked with sweat.

He was knocked to the mat a dozen more times, each strike leaving a dull ache that reminded him of his absolute powerlessness.

Yet, amid the pain and physical exhaustion, something began to shift. By the time the thirty-minute mark hit, Raphael stopped backing away in straight lines. When Elena launched a swift overhead strike, he didn’t freeze; he pivoted on his back foot, using the wood of his blade to slide her attack off course rather than absorbing the impact directly.

CLACK!

The wooden blades bound together, the force of the strike pushing Raphael back a step, but he remained on his feet. He held his guard, his breathing ragged, his eyes locked onto hers.

Elena paused, her blade pressed against his, a genuine look of surprise flickering across her face for a split second before she broke the contact and stepped back.

”Not terrible,” she admitted, lowering her weapon and wiping her brow. ”Your reflexes are dreadful, but your spatial awareness isn’t complete garbage. You adapt faster than I expected.”

Raphael leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as he panted heavily, sweat dripping off his nose onto the padded floor. ”I... I have a strong motivation.”

Elena eyed him closely, her expression turning contemplative as she sheathed her practice weapon. ”You really don’t want to be dead weight next time, do you?”

”I really don’t,” Raphael wheezed, straightening up with a slow, painful stretch.

”Good,” Elena said, turning toward the bench to grab her water bottle. ”Because that was just the diagnostic. Five o’clock tonight, we start the real work.”

Raphael looked down at his trembling, sweat-slicked hand holding the wooden blade. He was battered, bruised, and thoroughly exhausted, but as he closed his eyes and summoned the silvery-violet quest timer once more, he felt a faint, stubborn spark igniting in his chest.

He had twenty-nine days left, and he was going to make every single second count.