Helping with Adventurer Party Management

Two years have passed. Swivelry was as small as ever, but the boy's arms, who had never tired of the practice of poking at tree branches, had improved to such an extent that he was not added to the play of swinging tree branches because he was a child.

Once I let go of my poking at the older boy with a slight feeling, I almost broke the branch the older boy had in his hand with a poke and slammed his throat through it. Fortunately, a change of direction was made in time where it was at stake and he was slightly off the center when he broke the branch, and although he did not cause any injuries, the other boy got heckled.

Since then, Swivelry has not been allowed into the village boys' stick swinging games.

But that didn't bitter Swivelry at all.

Faster, farther, straighter.

Swivelry, as usual, turns the sword-shaped wooden stick towards the mark on the tree and repeatedly pokes it without getting tired of it.

Poke with both hands. Poke with your right hand. Poke with your left hand. Poke with the front eye. Poke from the bottom. Poke with your right half. Poke with your left half.

Jump in from afar and poke. Poke as you draw your sword nearby.

Swivelry liked the feeling of power being transmitted when poking the sword.

Step on the ground, passing from the spring of your knee to the rotation of your hips, swinging your arms like whips from your back.

That feeling, whose power is conveyed to the point of giving life to the sword and cutting tips.

The unique sword technique of collecting all body power to one point was far from that of a knight, and was also a heterogeneous sword unlike that of a mercenary in basic power, but Swiberry continued to practice believing only in his senses.

In the small garden of a small house in a small village, a boy eagerly waving his sword was equipped with terrible skill without anyone's guidance.

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"Dad, I need a new stick."

From a certain point of time, Swivelry grew rapidly taller.

I'm only fourteen by the count, but the more expensive than my father, who was escorting the caravan.

Though he was as skinny as ever, his arms and legs were snug with muscles like whips and in a physique he didn't think was a peasant.

"Whoa, take it"

Swivelry uses a black, hard wooden stick that my father shredded.

The height increase also dramatically increases the length and weight of the wooden bars used.

As always, Swivelry repeats a unique poking exercise.

Now ten steps away from the marks of the tree is sharp enough to carry out a terrible thrust.

As the back grows and the length of the hands and feet grows, the interval is growing.

Between farming tasks, but families do not try to stop training swiberries.

Sometimes my brother was born a few years ago, and it takes a hand over there, but the fact that Swiberry returned a bunch of goblins who attacked the village in the same period with a wooden sword by himself led me to recognize the whole village as not a human being who stays in the countryside and plows the fields to live.

At that time, there were five goblins who attacked the village.

Fortunately, the young people of the village swung their farm tools with their hips because they were quick to discover, and swivelry appeared with only a wooden sword where they were staring at the goblins.

"Hey, what..."

Putting the confused villager on his ass, he moved forward. Is it the sound of a stepped foot?

What the villagers looked like was a swivelry who took a step and at the same time halfway with one left hand, poking a goblin's throat in a straight line with a wooden sword. That was it, the gagging and noisy monster collapsed silently.

Swivelry repeated it five times.

With your left hand, with your right hand, with both hands, from the lower section. As if it were an archery, he rolled out the poke straight and the goblin collapsed as if it were a promise archery.

"I'd like to hang out with a bigger guy."

The villagers lost their voice calling to the boy who waved a wooden sword with blood on it as if it wasn't enough.

Since then, the villagers have gone far around swivelry, roughly starting to see it.

Swivelry doesn't care.

More than that, because I'm obsessed with following the feeling of concentrating the power at my feet on one point of my sword tip, poking sharply and repeatedly from afar.

Recently, sword arches began to take place outside the village fence.

Because wielding sticks in the village was starting to scare the villagers, and the power of the sword was getting too powerful to hurt the village's standing trees.

If it's a tree outside the village, there's nothing to complain about scratching it with an archery.

Repeating the thrust with all my heart, I feel signs of something staring at this one from behind me.

"Are you here?"

Was the sign a sign? From the sideburn, a black beast flies with white fangs gleaming.

"You're a bad jumper."

I can afford to just whine. Head to the beast in the air and poke the wooden sword straight.

A wooden sword poked straight into his mouth as he smashed the Devil Wolf's fangs, splashing his upper jaw, skull, and brain.

"And it's too late."

Quickly pull the sword back and poke another demon wolf running from behind like crawling through the ground, straight from the top.

The penetration broke through the area connecting the skull and tibia of the demonic wolf and sewed its giant onto the ground.

If you do an audition outside the village, the monster will attack you.

While concentrating on practicing poking moves, the archaeology and environment that captured the monster's signs led to an increasing polishing of Swivelry's sword moves.

"I'm skipping field work. I'm gonna have to get some money."

I don't bother dismantling or anything.

Keep the monster's carcass rolling around it and drag it back to the village when the audition is over.

Then the father dismantles the monster, the meat burns down, and some of the skins and fangs are processed and lined up in the grocery store.

The skin will be a rug on the clothes and the ground, and the fangs will be material such as jaws, fishing needles and buttons.

"If the woods were a little easier to walk, I'd look for a goblin nest."

Forests outside the village are native forests that refuse to enter humans.

The forest, which does not let enough sunlight through, is dark, and there is a lot of undergrowth.

Only around the practice area is archaeology, and the swivelry is cut off with a wooden sword, making it flattering and bright, even in the woods, but searching for a goblin's nest breaks bones by itself.

At the end of the archery, the spreading is used on the nearby branches to link the carcasses of the demon wolf, dragging it and walking out to the village.

Normally, the monster turns off the smell and erases the footprints so they can't follow the smell of blood, but the swivelry doesn't settle for it.

If you're coming after the smell of blood, you're welcome to have more archaeologists.

Swivelry was getting enough skill and spare time to behave that way.