Chapter 97: Combat Teacher

Chapter Ninety-Seven
Combat Teacher

At two in the afternoon, outside an old-fashioned, two-story house in the outskirts of the North Borough, which looked as if it had been in disrepair for years.

Wearing a probationary inspector’s police uniform, Klein looked at the garden overgrown with weeds and the walls covered in climbing plants, slightly stunned. He turned his head and said, “My combat teacher lives here?”

Someone chosen by the Nighthawk team as an expert in fighting should certainly be outstanding…

Leonard Mitchell, who had led him here, chuckled softly.

“Do not look down on Mr. Gawain because of where he lives. Although he ultimately failed to obtain a title, he was once a true knight.”

At this point, the Nighthawk with a poet’s temperament, casually dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and buttonless leather boots, suddenly grew sentimental.

“He was active during the final glorious years of knighthood, when warriors wearing breastplates charged madly toward lines of rifles and cannons, crushing opponents and flattening formations. Unfortunately, they soon met the invention and deployment of high-pressure steam rifles and six-barreled machine guns. From then on, knights gradually withdrew from the stage.

“Mr. Gawain was the same. More than twenty years ago, the Awwa Knight Order to which he belonged encountered an Intis Republic army equipped with the most advanced weapons… Sigh. Whenever I think of such things, I feel as though I have touched the dust of history. I am shaken by that irreversible vicissitude and destiny. Poems brew and surge within my heart, and yet I cannot write poetry.”

…Then why did you say so much?

Pretending not to hear Leonard’s self-mockery, Klein suggested with a solemn, serious expression, “My university classmate told me that writing poetry requires a great deal of talent. It is best to begin by reading Collected Early Classical Poems of Loen.”

Leonard’s mood changed as quickly as a flipping page. Cheerfully, he continued, “I bought that poetry collection long ago, as well as Selected Poems of Roselle and other books. I will work hard to make myself a true Midnight Poet, Mr. Seer.”

Is that an allusion… to the acting method?

Klein responded as though he had understood nothing.

“Then you will also need books on grammar.”

“All right. Let us go in.”

Leonard reached out and pushed open the half-closed iron gate, then walked along a road wide enough for two people to pass side by side toward the house.

Before they even drew close, Klein saw the front door open from behind and a tall man step out.

The man’s blond hair was very short, and white had appeared at both temples. The skin of his face seemed marked by wind and frost, while the wrinkles on his forehead, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and the lines beside his mouth were deep and obvious.

“What are you here for?”

The middle-aged to elderly man asked in a low voice.

“Mr. Gawain, according to the contract you signed with the police department, our probationary inspector here will study combat under you.”

Leonard explained with a smile.

“Combat? In this age, no one needs to learn combat.”

Gawain looked toward Klein with muddy eyes and a deathly stillness in his voice.

“You should practice drawing your gun and shooting. Master the most advanced weapons.”

Has he developed a psychological shadow from six-barreled machine guns and high-pressure steam rifles?

Klein did not answer rashly. Amused, he glanced sideways at Leonard.

Leonard seemed long prepared and spoke at once.

“For police officers, combat is still a necessary subject. Most criminals we face are not demons who must be killed immediately. They may not even have weapons. At such times, combat skill becomes necessary.”

Gawain’s expression remained dark. After more than ten seconds of silence, he said, “Try throwing a punch.”

He was speaking to Klein.

With no cane in hand, Klein recalled boxing matches he had seen in his previous life. He raised his arm and swung forward.

The corner of Gawain’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. After thinking for a moment, he said, “Kick.”

Turning his body halfway, Klein moved his hip, tensed his thigh, and whipped out his right leg.

“Cough…”

Gawain pressed a hand to his mouth and coughed twice. Then he looked at Leonard and said, “I will keep the contract. But given his condition, for the first month, he only needs to come four times a week, three hours each time.”

“You are the combat expert. You decide.”

Leonard nodded without hesitation, then turned to Klein with a smile.

“See you at dinner.”

Only after Leonard had walked out the iron gate did Klein ask curiously, “Teacher, where should I begin? Punches? Or footwork?”

As a qualified keyboard expert, he knew that footwork was also extremely important in combat.

Gawain’s hands hung by his sides. Full of aged stillness, he shook his head.

“What you need most right now is strength training.”

“See over there? Those two iron dumbbells will be your companions today.”

“Beyond that, you will also train squats, running, jumping rope, and similar things. We will do them set by set.”

While Klein stood dazed, Gawain’s voice suddenly rose. With stern authority, he asked, “Understood?”

“Understood!”

At that moment, Klein felt as though he had returned to military training, standing before an inhuman drill instructor.

“Change your clothes first. There is a set of knight’s practice clothing on the sofa.”

Gawain suddenly sighed, clasped his hands behind his back, and turned toward the pair of black iron dumbbells.

…

Six o’clock in the evening. A corner of Old Will’s Restaurant.

Aside from Frye, who was on rotation guarding Chanis Gate, every member of Blackthorn Security Company had gathered: six Nighthawks and five civilian staff members.

A white tablecloth quietly covered the long table. Waiters carried dish after dish over, carving and portioning them before sending them to each guest.

Klein saw steaks covered in black-pepper sauce, bacon, sausages with mashed potatoes, custard, aloe, specialty cheese, and amber-colored champagne. Yet he had not the slightest appetite. The afternoon’s training had nearly made him vomit.

Glancing at the new Nighthawk member, whose face was pale and eyes unfocused, Dunn lifted the glass of red wine before him and smiled.

“Let us welcome our newly joined official member, Klein Moretti. Cheers.”

Royale Reideen, the reserved and cold black-haired lady; Kenley White, the short and capable Sleepless; Leonard Mitchell, the unkempt, free-spirited gentleman; and Siga Teon, the white-haired, black-eyed Midnight Poet all raised their glasses together and looked toward their new teammate.

Enduring the discomfort left behind by training, Klein lifted the glass of amber champagne, stood, and said, “Thank you.”

He clinked glasses one by one with every Nighthawk present, then tilted his head and drank the small amount of champagne clean.

“At a time like this, should our Miss Writer not say something?” Dunn asked with a smile, looking toward Siga Teon.

Siga Teon was a woman around thirty years old. Her features were fairly ordinary, but her bearing was outstanding: quiet and serene. Together with her uncommon long white hair, she had a rather unique charm.

Klein had heard Old Neil mention that this Midnight Poet was an amateur lover of novels who had even tried submitting drafts to newspapers and magazines. Unfortunately, only a few tabloids had accepted her work.

Siga smiled and glanced at Dunn.

“To make the ‘Miss Writer’ you call me into fact, Captain, I think you should specially approve a sum of money so I can pay to publish my novel myself.”

Dunn spread his hands and smiled.

“You should learn from Old Neil and find a more suitable reason.”

“In that regard, I admire Mr. Neil most!”

Rozanne swallowed a piece of roast lamb leg and shouted in agreement.

As everyone chatted and laughed, Leonard glanced at Klein and said softly, “Too tired, no appetite, cannot eat?”

“Yes,” Klein sighed.

“If you have not touched it, I can help,” Leonard said as though determined not to waste food.

Klein nodded without the slightest objection.

“No problem.”

And just like that, the vast majority of food before him was eaten by Leonard and the others.

Near the end of dinner, the waiters brought out beef puddings and servings of ice cream.

Klein tasted the latter and found it cool, sweet, and astonishingly appetizing.

Without noticing, he finished his own serving of ice cream topped with blueberry sauce.

And precisely because of that, he began to feel a hunger that clawed at his heart and stomach: the craving of a body that had spent far too much energy and urgently needed replenishment.

Swallowing his saliva, Klein looked down at the dishes before him, only to see plates in disarray, almost nothing left.

“Let us stop here. Finally, let us raise one more toast to Klein,” Dunn proposed.

Before his voice had even faded, Klein blurted out, “Captain, may I have another dinner?”

Hearing that request, everyone fell silent for a moment, then began laughing softly.

“Haha, you have finally recovered. No problem. Two more servings would be fine.”

Dunn shook his head with a laugh.

Amid anxious and unbearable waiting, Klein heard his own stomach growl.

At last, a freshly seared black-pepper steak was served.

Knife and fork flying, Klein, nearly moved to tears, needed only a minute and a half to finish the medium-well food. The fragrance of meat and sauce echoed through his mouth.

No one knew how long later, looking at one empty plate after another, he breathed out in satisfaction, set down his knife and fork, and drank a mouthful of champagne.

“Waiter, the bill,” Dunn called to the nearby server.

The waiter first went to the front counter, then returned with the bill and explained in detail.

“You had five bottles of Desi champagne in total, twelve soli and three pence each; one small glass of Southville red wine, ten pence… each black-pepper steak was one soli and two pence… each beef pudding six pence; each ice cream one soli… The total is five pounds, nine soli, and six pence.”

Five pounds, nine soli, and six pence? That is almost one week of my salary! Restaurants really are much more expensive than eating at home!

Klein clicked his tongue inwardly, feeling extremely grateful that the Captain had said he did not need to pay. They had a small treasury. Extra funds.

After doing a careful calculation, he discovered that the most expensive portion of dinner had been alcohol. Five bottles of champagne alone had cost just over three pounds.

That part is no different from Earth…

Klein quietly touched his stomach and forced himself to finish the last mouthful of champagne.

…

Early the next morning, Klein, still half asleep, vaguely felt his lower abdomen swelling. He turned over and tried to get up.

The instant he exerted strength, muscle soreness shocked him fully awake. It felt as though his body no longer belonged to him.

“What a familiar feeling… It is exactly like the day after being punished with frog jumps back then… Today is my day off. I still need to visit my mentor and see whether I can borrow that academic monograph on the main peak of the Hornacis from the university library…”

The corner of Klein’s mouth twitched. He moved with difficulty toward the outside.

Every step made him want to suck in a breath of cold air.

“Klein, what happened to you?”

Melissa, just leaving the washroom, looked her brother up and down in confusion. His posture was strange, and his movements were slow.