NOVEL NEXT Chapter 26: Archangel Michael.
Hovering in the air, slightly tapped the option that he wanted to go with.
The air in front of him shimmered, and a wide glowing panel with a system POV unfolded like a screen.
On the other side of the system there wasn't any kind of dark divine throne or burning battlefield.
It was peaceful; the surroundings felt like heaven. A garden that stretched out under a soft, golden sky, having countless clouds. The trees were tall, stood next to each other in a straight line, their leaves gently glowing.
Small birds with bright feathers were sitting on the branches of the trees, filling the air with their chirping noises like they were singing. A faint gust of wind was there, which made the nearby grass move slightly, and everything felt calm in a way that Silas hadn't felt in his life.
And in the centre of it was a bench, a table was kept in front of it—around it were a few flying utensils carrying hot tea inside them. Beside them sat the Archangel Michael on a fancy chair which was made out of white marble with golden markings forged on them.
There was no shining armor around his body, no giant halo blazing behind him—just a simple white shirt, loose trousers and faintly folded wings that gave off gentle light, a small smile curled up on his lips.
A table was in front of him with a glass of clear water and a few papers that were stacked neatly. His legs were folded, hand was resting on top of one of his knees.
Michael turned his head towards the panel and looked at Silas. A bright smile curled up on his lips. "Silas Veil," he said, his voice firm but steady. "You really came this soon? I have heard about you before."
Silas shifted slightly on his worn-out couch, straightening his posture like he was in some important business meeting. Trying not to wince even a slight muscle, the body throbbed from the last boss fight. "Yeah, well… I don't know how I landed here, but it's a pleasure to see you, great Michael." Silas said as his voice carried the hint of respect, his tone was steady.
Michael didn't react to Silas's joke. His gaze was sharp, as if he could see every tiny flaw in Silas's posture through the system's screen.
"You're here to learn, right? So, today's class," Michael said, standing up from the chair. "Is about the sword and the art that is behind it."
A faint light started to gather around his hand. A sword appeared there out of the thin air, smooth and clean, white steel with a simple hilt. There were no fancy markings on it, just a simple blade that looked right. Balanced, natural, as if it belonged in his hand.
"The first thing about the art of sword which you must learn is," Michael said. "Is that a sword is not just a weapon. It is a line, a decision. It cuts not only the flesh but also the soul, hesitation." Michael said as he placed a finger on the blade of the sword and ran it from the top to the bottom.
Without looking towards Silas, he slightly stepped forward onto the grass.
Instinctively, Silas sat up a bit straighter, without even realizing that his body moved. His right hand twitched, remembering how clumsy his stance, swings had been in the last dungeon.
Michael then began to move. He didn't move fast, he didn't explode with divine power. His steps were slow, controlled with precision. He swung the sword in a simple downward cut, then a horizontal one. Then a clean diagonal slash, foot forward, foot back, turn of the waist, then came the shift of the shoulders to provide enough strength for the perfect swing.
The movements were basic, but they were perfect in their own standards.
Each of his swings landed exactly where it was meant to be, and the blade stayed aligned with his arm. His shoulders remained completely relaxed, never lifted too high. His eyes stayed steady the whole time, like staring at an invisible enemy.
"This," Michael said. "This is what you must learn first."
He repeated the motions all over again, this time it was from the other angle. Then another. Silas watched the way archangel's feet shifted in beautiful, precise motion, always kept a stable base, how his knees never locked in, how his breathing matched each of his strikes.
"Your body must remember this before your mind tries to do something else," Michael continued as his eyes were unreadable, the blade was steady inside of his palms. "You swing with your whole frame, not your arms. You must move with the intent, not with the anger."
Silas swallowed and leaned forward slightly. Even though pain shot through his sides when he moved, he didn't lie back down. His eyes followed every twitch of Michael's muscles, every shift of weight.
For the next thirty minutes, Michael broke down every motion, as if he were teaching a newborn baby.
"Grip too tight and your blade will become stiff," he said, shaking his relaxed finger at Silas. "Grip too loose and it becomes weak; there is a balance. It should be firm, but not forced."
He showed the difference between a swing and a slash, a strike and a thrust. The camera angle was shifting on its own, following each and every movement of Michael, showing close-ups of his feet, his wrist and his elbow.
"At your current level," Michael said, turning his head towards the system's panel, looking at Silas right into his eyes. A small smile curled up on Michael's lips, turning the blade as he finished the last set of the forms.
"You don't even resemble someone who knows the letter S in the word 'Sword'."
Silas's eyebrow twitched slightly, voice came low, shaky. "Wow… did I just get roasted by a divine being?" He said as he kept a palm on his face, slightly letting a low chuckle out.