My Parasite Skill System

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The blade of light; I want Old to teach it to me.

He, teaching me about how to replicate it. I'm sure I could learn that … and they say that's how normal people get to learn new skills.

They can't steal them away. And as unfortunate and unconventional as it may seem–that's just the way things are.

Old isn't cool with me getting into his head in order to learn it.

And I wasn't cool about making that old wrinkled head of is my home, after all.

And so, I want to go that path, too. For the sake of the blade of light.

Plus, since I was strong, I had the right to know this skill, right?

So Old must accept to teach me. That's what I told him very briefly.

Ho? Old exclaimed himself. Wasn't he weaker than I? Wasn't I stronger than him?

Should he teach me, when he's just one sorry poor old man without much use but for getting information about boring stuff?

It's true that I said all that, but well … c'mon, Old, simply teach me!

I really was eager to know that skill. I wanted to use it again, and again, and again, towards the best of infinity.

And while the human princess occasionally silently giggled at our torrid exchange, I didn't stop but ask for him to teach me.

Going like the way he was, Old didn't stop teasing me before long.

Did I really think such a skill could be used and used, again and again, ad infinitum?

Because such a skill clearly couldn't.

And still, I wanted to learn it nonetheless.

Much teasing coming from him to me took place and like I said, before long, he finally explained:

It was just a scroll. A skill sealed within a scroll. And the scroll you use in order to replicate the skill. Most of the scrolls one could only use once.

After it's been used, you just toss it to the ground, because ain't no sheet of paper gonna be of any use after it ain't a scroll no more.

That … was kind of a let-down? But sure, why not, okay.

I wanted more about the scroll.

Scrolls like this were of many sorts. You could make them, so naturally, you could buy them, too.

That was an important detail.

How was such a scroll made, then? I wanted to make one so that I could use it later on; just like Old Sipping.

Even though it was only usable once then perished, I was ready to go this way.

How was that made, oh? Even he himself didn't have the required skills to produce one!

But how has he made it, then? Doesn't he want to tell me, at last?

Myself didn't understand. Myself had yet to understand. Myself had yet to be even more disappointed.

The scroll had just been bought by Old Sipping! Like he'd made it himself!

My reaction was just about a 'what?'

Old repeated what he'd said. He'd just bought it instead of making it. You could buy such a thing to mages and alchemists. And though it was pricey, it was worth it.

Understanding where he was coming from, I only shook my head repeatedly. I arrived at the conclusion that he wasn't so strong, finally.

And we stopped talking about it right away.

Once I'd heard about it, I didn't want to talk about it anymore. There was no potential in this and mastering such a weak tool would just be being resorting to the same puny elves' tactics.

I reassured Old I still knew he was very strong, just like me. Why did I add that? Well, I simply didn't want the old senile man to go pouting again like a child.

He pouted a lot that old man. And I never really understood whether that was for the sake of being funny, or if he was being serious about his feeling-down moments.

We stopped talking about the fake blade of light–but we didn't stop talking; rather, the discussion drifted to some other topic.

Old had something to let me know, this time about:

The things we discussed back onto that branch up in the tree we'd been observing the battlefield from before letting me go chiming in, did I remember?

My head nodded. 'The weaker, the trickier.'

And so, was I still holding onto that theory of mine?

Hmm. After thinking I nodded again. Of course I thought I was right. Why wouldn't I?

Old had something to say against that, though. His tricks (I think he was talking about his weak scroll) weren't lesser than the puny elves (I so much liked to call them 'puny' the elves, he was just using my own words to speak my language) even though he wasn't weaker than them.

So my theory being 'the weaker, the trickier' instantly fell apart, right?

In the end, he added in, only intelligence and willingness have significant importance in deciding the winner of any battle.

And I immediately knew where he was coming from, then again.

It was very simple, to me, using such tricks and resorting to using these consumables, I found it weak.

And I was right. Because let's say, for instance, that all of a sudden, tomorrow or in the near future, Old had lost the ability to get one of his scrolls on hand, or the elves losing all their runes and stuff in order to fight … well, they'd be in trouble; that was as simple as that.

I detailed that to himself.

And so, it was better to rely only on one's own power and strength, and that all the time.

It was my way. It was the best way. Probably.

But I was stopped right away. I needed to acknowledge this little puny theory of mine was wrong, because, was Old weak or strong?

He was strong.

And so did I spot the inconsistency in my dumb theory yet?

Yes … kind of, but I mean, it still holds some truth.

Old cut me short then again, shaking his head, with a stern look on his complexion this time about: I was wrong, and I needed to acknowledge it.

What drove even drove him to that, furthermore? In his genuine kindheartedness to me, seeing how I wanted him to teach me some super strong skill; he decided he'd rather teach me that I was wrong, because it was equivalent in value to any of the strongest skills ever, according to him.

Before any top-tier skill, what was needing teaching with me, above all else, was a change of my mind.

My reaction was to say that I was okay, maybe, and that I'd bite. Only if it was well-explained, though.

One word after the other, what he uttered next seemed strong enough: only a fool would not be using every material he had in order to achieve victory–I was weak if I thought otherwise.

Then again, I understood where he was coming from, that Old Sipping, although the way he spoke to me at the time really pissed me off.

Did he just call me weak? I'd told him I had the right to live, though. Didn't that get into that thick skull of his, ha?

I tried to protest against that, even though he was kind of right, but was to be cut short yet again:

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