My Scumbag System - Chapter 239

Chapter 239: The Predictable, Adorable Failure of a Healer
The basement gym was eerily quiet compared to the morning’s chaos.

At this hour, most students were either studying, sleeping, or finding creative ways to break curfew. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across the training mats and equipment. Gave the space a stark, dramatic quality.

A lone punching bag swayed slightly in some unfelt breeze. Probably the ghost of some poor student who’d died during one of Braxton’s training sessions. The smell of sweat and disinfectant hung in the air. Mingled with the faint metallic scent of old pipes lining the ceiling.

Emi was already there when I arrived. Having changed at supersonic speed.

She bounced in place as she waited for instructions. Blue hair bobbed with each movement. She’d switched her academy clothes for workout gear. A loose pink tank top over a sports bra. Black athletic shorts that revealed surprisingly toned legs.

The tank top rode up slightly as she stretched. Revealed a glimpse of smooth skin at her midriff.

I studied her for a moment. Cataloged her physical attributes with the cold, analytical eye of a hunter assessing prey.

She was built for speed. Not strength. Slender arms with little muscle definition. Narrow shoulders. A frame that would snap under direct pressure.

But there was a wiry resilience to her movements. A hint that she might be tougher than she appeared.

“You’re staring,” she said. Voice equal parts nervous and pleased. “Is there something wrong with my form already?”

“I’m assessing,” I corrected. Circled her slowly. “Trying to figure out the best approach for someone with your particular build.”

She fidgeted under my gaze. Fingers plucked at the hem of her tank top. “You mean someone weak and useless in a fight?”

I stopped. Faced her directly. “I mean someone who needs to play to their strengths instead of trying to be something they’re not.”

I walked toward a weapon rack in the corner. Footsteps echoed against the concrete floor. The metal rack held an assortment of training weapons. Surfaces worn from years of use by generations of would-be Hunters.

“Okay, new lesson,” I said. Ran my fingers along the various options. “Hand-to-hand is a last resort for you. You’re a healer. Your primary job is to stay alive and stay away from the fight. That means you need a weapon. Something to keep enemies at a distance while you support your team.”

“A weapon?” Her eyes widened. Those expressive brows rose toward her hairline. A look of uncertainty crossed her face. Bottom lip caught between her teeth. “But I’ve never… I mean, I don’t think I’m cut out for… I’m supposed to heal people, not hurt them.”

“Everyone’s cut out for staying alive,” I interrupted. Voice hardened slightly. “And the best way to do that is to make sure the things trying to kill you can’t get close enough to try. A dead healer helps no one.”

The weapon rack held standard-issue training equipment. Bo staffs in various lengths. Short swords with dulled edges. Practice daggers with blunted tips. A weathered quarterstaff with leather wrapped around its midsection. A recurve bow with a quiver of practice arrows.

Nothing fancy. But enough variety to find something that might suit her diminutive frame and non-existent combat experience.

“Let’s see what works for you,” I said. Gestured toward the rack. “Sometimes the weapon chooses the wielder more than the other way around.”

She approached hesitantly. Like the weapons might suddenly animate and attack her. Her gaze swept over the collection. Lingered momentarily on each option before moving to the next.

After a moment’s consideration, her hand reached for a bo staff. Slender fingers wrapped around the polished wood with tentative grip.

“I’ve seen this used in movies,” she said with a nervous laugh that echoed slightly in the empty gym. “The hero always looks so graceful with it. Like they’re dancing instead of fighting.”

She attempted to spin it like she’d seen in those movies. Gave it an experimental twirl.

The result was predictable.

The staff slipped from her grasp mid-rotation. Clattered against the floor with a sound that echoed through the empty gym like a gunshot. Narrowly missed crushing her toes. Rolled away. Came to rest against a weight rack with a final, forlorn clang.

She jumped back with a squeak. Face flushing bright red. Hands flew to cover her mouth in embarrassment. “Sorry! Sorry! That was so clumsy of me! I thought it would be easier to control and… oh god, that was so embarrassing.”

I retrieved the staff. Fought back the urge to laugh at her mortified expression. Her eyes were so wide they seemed to take up half her face. The blush had spread down her neck. Disappeared beneath the collar of her tank top.

“Okay, let’s try a simpler grip,” I said. Kept my voice neutral to spare her further embarrassment. “Movie stars have the benefit of CGI and stunt doubles. We’re going to start with the basics.”

I moved behind her. Close enough that my chest pressed against her back. Wrapped my arms around her. Guided her hands into the correct position on the staff.

Her body went rigid at the contact. Breath caught audibly.

“You hold it like this,” I murmured. Adjusted her fingers one by one. “Feel the balance. It’s not about strength. It’s about leverage and momentum.”

I could feel the warmth of her body through the thin material of her tank top. A stark contrast to the cool air of the basement. She smelled like vanilla and something fresh. Like clean laundry dried in sunshine. Hint of fruit from her shampoo.

I felt her heartbeat hammering against my forearm where it crossed her chest. A rapid staccato that betrayed her nervousness.

“Like this?” she stammered. Voice barely above a whisper. She tried to follow my guidance. But her arms trembled slightly. Disrupted the stance.

“Better,” I said. Let my breath brush deliberately against the shell of her ear. Felt her shiver slightly at the contact. Goosebumps rose on her exposed neck. “But let’s try something else. The staff might be too unwieldy for a beginner. Especially someone with your frame.”

I stepped back. Instantly aware of the absence of her warmth.

She turned to face me. Relief and something else warred in her expression. Disappointment maybe. Her cheeks remained flushed. She couldn’t quite meet my eyes.

I selected two practice daggers next. Wooden replicas with dull edges designed for safe training. Placed them in her hands. Curled her fingers around the hilts one by one. “These might suit your frame better. Smaller. Easier to control. And you can use your natural agility to your advantage.”

She tried a basic stabbing motion at a nearby training dummy. The standard human-shaped target with concentric circles marking vital areas.

Her form was so wrong that a Gate-spawn would probably die of laughter before she could land a hit.

She held the daggers like kitchen knives. Arms extended awkwardly in front of her. Elbows locked in a way that would snap under any real pressure. One of the daggers nearly slipped from her grip. Threatened a close encounter with her foot.

“No, no,” I said. Stepped in again with an exaggerated sigh. “You’re holding it like you’re about to chop vegetables.”

I placed one hand on her stomach. Just below her navel. The other on the small of her back.

Her stomach tensed under my touch. Soft but with underlying tone. Through the thin fabric of her tank top, I could feel the heat of her skin radiating against my palm.

“The power comes from your core,” I explained. Pressed gently on her abdomen. “Not your arms. Not your shoulders. Here. Engage these muscles. Twist from here. Not your wrists.”

“Eep!” The sound escaped her before she could stop it. High-pitched. Startled. Her entire body went rigid under my touch. Like she’d been jolted with electricity.

“Try again,” I said. Didn’t move my hands. “Control your breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.”

She made another attempt. Marginally better this time. I could feel her abdominal muscles contract under my palm as she twisted into the strike. Still too tentative. But at least coming from the right place now.

The practice dagger made a soft thwack as it connected with the dummy’s shoulder.

“Good,” I nodded. Finally removed my hands. “But I think we need something with more range for you. Let’s try the sword.”

The short training sword looked comically large in her hands. Like a child playing with an adult’s weapon. She tried a basic swing. But her stance was too narrow. Balance precarious at best. The weight of the blade pulled her forward. Threw her off-center midway through the arc.

Predictably, disaster struck.

She lost her footing mid-swing. Stumbled backward. Right into me.

I caught her reflexively. Arms wrapped around her waist to steady her before she could topple both of us to the floor.

The result was anatomically compromising.