The next day Colt was still doing chores for the fisherman. After his nice chat with the Authority receptionist, he'd done the rest of his tasks and returned back to the cabin for dinner. He'd decided that it would not at all do to set off on his journey in the dead of night, so he had let himself get one more night of good sleep.
He was now up, bright and early, doing his morning tasks. His plan was to tell the fisherman that he was leaving as soon as the old man got done with his fishing.
Colt couldn't wait to leave the cabin. He was grateful and all to the fisherman, but this life just wasn't meant for him. He would take a trek through a dangerous forest over doing chores any day of the week. He was starting to get bored by all the work he was having to do, almost like he was a cabin boy again. And he knew he couldn't let that happen. He'd just gotten out of that kind of life. He wasn't ready to return to it.
Colt propped the broom he was holding against the wall, crossed the shack, and set himself down in the singular chair in the building. He had been working hard the whole morning, and had somehow managed to finish all his tasks before the old man returned. He'd swept, cleaned, dusted, and even straightened some pictures on the wall, among other things. Completing the fisherman's checklist had seemed like an impossible task yesterday, however today they were all finished while the fisherman was still out fishing. He must have improved already. That meant that he finally had some free time.
He considered taking a nap and resting up until the fisherman got back and he went into town. But he realized that he wasn't exactly tired. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had a ton of energy, more than he knew what to do with. He was getting good meals and good sleep at the shack and he was about to start out on a journey in which he had an actual end goal in mind. Things were working out perfectly for him for once in his life. That made him energetic, excited for the future. He just needed something to use all the energy on.
Then it hit him.
Colt jumped to his feet and crossed over to where the bed was. He kneeled down beside it and reached under it, feeling around. Then he made contact with it and pulled it out. His singular possession: the sword he'd taken from Captain Lobstar.
He held the sword out and examined it again. The hilt was made out of an orange curved shell and the blade was made from a sharp blue shell. It definitely looked as if it were only for show. Colt wouldn't exactly be fearing for his life if confronted with it, that was for sure. Not only was it utterly unintimidating, it looked to be made from literal shells. Not bronze, iron, or steel. A shell. Colt had been mortified when he realized that this was what he pulled from the captain of that ship. It was the worst thing that could have happened, in fact. He had half a mind to toss the thing in the trash and never set eyes upon it again.
But he didn't. Something that the fisherman had said stopped him from discarding the odd sword. "It's a weapon, and a good one at that. No weapon is created for show. It is created to serve its purpose."
It was a sword, which meant that it was designed to be used as a sword. According to the fisherman, at least. Colt wasn't sure how much the old man even knew about weapons and such, but it was the only sword Colt had at the moment so there was no reason not to at least get some practice in with it. He had a lot of energy, and practicing his swordplay seemed like a fair way to use it.
"Yaar!"
Colt swung out with the sword, striking the air with all his might. The air didn't try to fight back, which Colt took as a sign that his attack had been effective. So he struck out again, and again, and again. He came toward the same spot of nothingness at a different angle each time. He slashed, stabbed, came from below, and even did a spinning slash attack from behind his back that he thought was quite impressive.
The picture of a bass fish on the wall of the shack, however, probably found it less impressive. It had gotten hit with the flat side of the cutlass and flown off the wall. It slammed to the shack floor, shattering the glass inside the frame.
"Oops," Colt muttered as he bent over to examine the damage he'd caused.
"That right there," said a voice, "just earned you another day's work."
Colt turned around and saw that the fisherman had returned from fishing. He was currently standing in the doorway, looking back and forth between Colt and the broken picture.
"How, uh," Colt cleared his throat. "How much of that did you see?"
"The whole thing," replied the fisherman.
The fisherman walked into the shack, grabbed the broom from off the wall, and proceeded to sweep up the broken glass.
"I saw your dance moves, and I saw the damage they caused."
Colt stood up and watched guiltily as the fisherman finished sweeping up the mess he'd caused.
"You should have seen me earlier," he said. "I had a promising technique going."
The fisherman turned to him, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, I saw the entire thing. Your 'promising technique' is precisely what I'm referring to. I don't even know what to call that last thing you attempted."
"Ah," Colt said. "That was the Spinning Slash move."
"No, that was the primary definition of embarrassment."
Colt crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, that's why I'm practicing. To get better."
The fisherman put the broom down and gave Colt his full attention. "I hate to break it to you, son, but that's not how that works. You won't get better by practicing the wrong technique. Practice only makes perfect if you're practicing the right thing. You can't learn how to swim by drowning."
"I'm not sure if that's an accurate metaphor," Colt replied. "And how do you know my technique is wrong. You're a fisherman!"
The old man just nodded slowly. "That's true enough, but I wasn't always a fisherman. I used to be a fighter. Those days may be behind me now, but I still know my way around a good old cutlass. Besides, it wouldn't take a professional to see that you're doing it wrong. You're dancing all over the place, not fighting."
"Okay," said Colt, suddenly seeing an opportunity. "Then show me how to fight the right way."
Colt puffed out his chest confidently and met the fisherman's eyes. The fisherman seemed to consider this for a moment, but then he turned away from Colt and took a seat in the chair.
"Nah," he said after some thought.
"Oh, come on! After all that talk? Nothing?"
The fisherman sighed from the chair and his gaze got far away. "I would like to, sure. But I'm afraid I'm just too..."
"Old?" Colt finished his sentence. "Yeah, you're probably right. That's what I thought at first too, but then you start talking up such a big game about being a fighter. I almost forgot that you're simply way too old to be--"
Colt paused when he realized that the fisherman had stood up from the chair. He was now staring at Colt, his eyes focused and determined.
"Alright, fine. Age will only stop me from doing something if I let it."
Colt grinned, trying to avoid that this had been his plan all along. "Glad to hear it. So where do we start?"
Colt expected the fisherman to take his sword and show him how it's really done, or immediately start shouting pointers at him. But instead the old man just pulled a chair out from the table and took a seat. He motioned to the other chair.
"I thought you were going to train me," Colt said, hesitating to take the seat.
The fisherman nodded. "I may show you how to fight correctly. But first I have to ask some questions. So if you want to learn, sit."
Colt sat.
The fisherman stared a Colt before speaking. "I'll get straight to my main question. Why do you want to know how to fight properly?"
Colt laughed a little, but then noticed that the fisherman was dead serious. "What kind of question is that?" he asked.
"The kind that you answer if you want this to go anywhere."
"Okay," said Colt, clicking his tongue in thought. "Well, look at the world we're living in. There's two types of people, those who fight and those who run. And I'm not a very good runner."
"I see," said the old man. "The reason I ask is this: I don't want to teach someone skills who is going to use those skills to harm others."
"I won't do that," Colt said.
"Can you prove that to me?"
Colt blinked. "No," he said, then, "but I can tell you why I really want to learn how to fight."
He figured this was as good a time as any to tell the old man what was going on.
The fisherman narrowed his eyes. "Yes?"
"I'm preparing to take a trip to the Authority base up north," he explained. "Not to attack the Authority, just to give them information that could save this town from being completely robbed of all possessions."
The old man looked puzzled, and Colt could tell that it was not what he had expected him to say. "For what purpose? You're a pirate. Why help the I.A.?"
"Because in return they'll give me information from their archives. A friendly transaction is all. I just want to learn to fight so I can make it through the journey there with at least a couple limbs left over."
The fisherman tapped his fingers on the table.
"That's extremely dangerous," he said finally. "The last person to travel that route was never heard from again."
"I know," Colt replied. "But I don't care. I'm going, and you can't stop me. You can help me, however."
"Okay," said the fisherman, finally. "But I want something in return."
"What is it?"
The fisherman stood up and crossed the shack. He opened a cupboard and retrieved a slim, white envelope from it. He held it out to Colt, who took it from him. Colt studied it a little. It looked super old and dusty, so he could tell it was written a long time ago and then stored away. It had a faded red seal on the front, and on the back was the name: EDWARD written on it.
"Give this to Edward," the fisherman said, something that Colt had already worked out for himself. "It's a letter." Again, something Colt had already assumed.
"What does it say?" Colt asked.
"What it says is none of your business. Edward is a member of the Infinite Authority. Just give it to the reception desk up at the base when you get there, and in return I'll show you how to properly handle a sword."
Colt flipped the envelope back and forth in his hands, wondering idly what the letter said.
"Do we have a deal?" prodded the fisherman.
Colt looked up, and considered it for a second more. Delivering the letter didn't set him back any or bring him any harm, so he didn't see why not. "Sure," he decided. "We have a deal."
"Splendid," said the fisherman. "Now get ready, this is not going to be easy."