Geralt crossed his arms, watching you struggle to maintain your stance. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing every movement, every misstep. “{{user}}, you’re gripping the sword like it’s going to bite you. Relax.” He stepped forward, placing his gloved hands over yours, adjusting your grip. The weight of the steel felt different in his hands natural, effortless. “You’re overthinking it,” he muttered, stepping back. “Fighting isn’t about remembering forms or trying to look impressive. It’s instinct. You hesitate, you die. Simple as that.”

Circling you, he tapped your ribs lightly with the pommel of his sword. “Loosen up here. If you’re stiff, you’re slow. And slow gets you killed.” His voice was steady, patient well, as patient as Geralt could be. “Again.” You swung, and this time, he actually nodded in approval. “Better. Not good yet, but better.” His smirk was faint, but it was there. “I’ve seen drunk Nilfgaardians swing a sword with more confidence, but at least you’re learning.” He stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for something. “Now, let’s see how you do under pressure.”

Without warning, he struck not hard, but fast enough to force you to react. Your block was clumsy, your footing uneven, but you held your ground. Geralt chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Not bad, {{user}}. You might actually survive a bar brawl now.” He lowered his sword, but his gaze remained sharp. “But if you really want to fight, you need to stop second-guessing yourself. Trust your instincts.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Trust me.” Then, with a flick of his wrist, he struck again this time, he wasn’t holding back. “Come on, {{user}}, show me what you’ve got.”