Shirone’s body trembled like an aspen leaf as the swordsmanship instructor loomed before him.
Rian shouted, "Master, this is unfair!"
Swordsmanship Instructor: "Silence!"
In one brutal motion, the instructor seized Rian by the collar and slammed him onto the ground.
As Rian’s body arced through the air, Shirone instinctively shut one eye. The impact was thunderous. Rian sprawled across the floor, limbs twitching violently.
Swordsmanship Instructor: "Follow me, you wretched brat! Forget training—you need to rebuild your discipline from the ground up!"
Dragged away by the leg, Rian craned his neck to glare at Shirone, his vision upside down. His lips moved soundlessly, but Shirone heard the words as clearly as if they had been screamed:
Though the back of Shirone’s neck prickled with unease in the days that followed, Rian never reappeared. Rumors claimed the swordsmanship instructor had hauled him into the mountains for harsh training. Only after a full month did Shirone finally relax.
Humans were creatures of forgetfulness—unless something truly unforgivable happened, grudges rarely lasted.
’Would he really hold a grudge over something so trivial?’
With a lighter heart, Shirone immersed himself in the founding history of the Tormian Kingdom, his homeland. Over four months, he devoured eighty-two volumes. Not a staggering number, but his reading speed improved with each book.
’Just as I predicted.’
The first volume had taken twenty days. But once he fully grasped its contents, the rest became easier. No book was entirely new—only variations of what he’d already learned.
’Don’t be afraid. The beginning is always the hardest.’
If he could solidify his foundation with two hundred more volumes, the remaining six hundred and fifty would be manageable.
His favorite passages were always about mages. If scholars theorized, mages brought those theories to life. Their disciplines were as diverse as academia itself. Yet not every scholar became a mage—it required an acutely sensitive mental state, the ability to enter the Spirit Zone.
For Shirone, who had already mastered the Spirit Zone, knowledge was power. He suppressed his curiosity for miscellaneous studies and focused solely on history.
’I’ll endure for now.’
The efficiency he’d gain once his foundation was complete would be immeasurable. What kind of mage would he become when that day arrived? The thought made even sleep feel like a waste.
Closing the final page of the founding history, Shirone exhaled in satisfaction—
Rian: "You bastard! I endured hell waiting for this day!"
If Rian’s words were to be believed, he had indeed crawled back from the underworld. His face, twisted with malice, could have passed for a demon’s incarnation.
Shirone clicked his tongue.
’Persistent. Really.’
His fury hadn’t diminished since the day the instructor dragged him away. The only differences were the hollows under his eyes and his gaunt frame.
Shirone: "Is this truly worth your time?"
Rian: "Of course! Do you have any idea what I went through? Climbing cliffs until my hands bled! Every time I thought I’d die, I endured by imagining my revenge!"
Shirone tensed. If Rian had nurtured his hatred daily, Shirone must look like his mortal enemy now.
Rian: "No answer? Think I’m overreacting? Why did you snitch, you coward?! Just looking at you makes my blood boil!"
Shirone: "I didn’t snitch. I told the truth."
Rian: "I asked you for help! Why didn’t you refuse then? I trusted you!"
Having endured noble logic to the point of nausea, Shirone gave up reasoning.
Shirone: "What would you have me do?"
Rian faltered slightly at the unexpected response. This commoner—barely a servant—was far too composed.
Rian: "So you’re mocking me too? Fine. Let me show you exactly what kind of man I am. Follow me."
Shirone obeyed. Given Rian’s rage, he likely intended to take him somewhere secluded and beat him half to death.
’Better than dying. If he hits me, I’ll endure. If he breaks me, I’ll recover.’
He couldn’t waste the life his parents had risked everything to give him. Whenever fear crept in, he imagined his father and mother sharing a meal, smiling.
They arrived at a small training hall. The Ozent family, valuing martial prowess, maintained several such halls. This one was Rian’s private space—where no one would intervene, no matter how loud the screams.
As Rian lit torches, Shirone swallowed dryly. The deliberate delay only heightened his unease. Was this psychological warfare? Any swordsman would recognize the tension of an impending fight.
He tossed a wooden sword. The thick, axe-handle-like weapon slapped into Shirone’s palm with a solid thud.
Shirone: "Why give this to me?"
Rian: "I challenge you to a duel. Unlike you, I’m no coward. The future world’s greatest swordsman settles disrespect with steel."
Shirone: "What did I do to deserve this?"
Rian: "An Ozent servant protects the Ozents. You sold me out to avoid a beating. Didn’t even hesitate. No matter how my family treats me, I won’t tolerate the same from trash like you. Attack. I’ll let you strike three times—consider it mercy."
Rian’s eyes hardened. For all his brutish demeanor, that gaze was undeniably Ozent.
Shirone’s grip tightened.
’A wooden sword. Harder than I expected.’
Three strikes, then broken bones.
Panic flickered through his mind.
’What can I do? What can I do?!’
But even in despair, Shirone refused to yield.
No matter how slim the odds, he couldn’t waste the chance.
His charge was fierce, but Rian scoffed. His stance was sloppy, his balance nonexistent.
’He’s never held a sword.’
Clack! The crisp sound echoed through the hall. To Shirone, it was the footsteps of a stalking lion. Gritting his teeth, he unleashed a furious horizontal slash.
Again, effortlessly blocked. Rian’s smirk was infuriating. Shirone steadied himself, forcing his mind into razor focus.
Sensory overload merged into a single, lightning-fast strike.
’Vertical, horizontal, vertical? Even a novice could block this.’
Rian: "Now! My turn—!"
Both swords shattered. Wooden shards sprayed between them, framing Rian’s stunned face.
He stumbled back, examining the broken weapon. The grain was splintered—a telltale sign of internalized shockwave destruction.
Rian: "This... this is Blade Sunder."
A swordsman’s ultimate technique—one that required perfect timing and force redirection. Even among the Ozents, only a handful mastered it.
Rian: "What are you?! Where did you learn this?!"
Shirone dropped the broken hilt.
The first strike gauged Rian’s reflexes. The second calculated his timing. The third unleashed Thunder Splitter—a technique honed over three relentless years.
Shirone: "I’ve never trained in swordsmanship!"
Rian: "Liar! You snake! Then how did you pull off Blade Sunder?! If you’re mocking me, I’ll—"
Shirone: "It’s called Thunder Splitter."
Shirone: "My father was a hunter. I grew up chopping wood. Too small to rely on strength, so I perfected technique. Lumberjacks call it Thunder Splitter."
’A woodsman? Chopping lumber? That’s impossible! I’ve trained for fifteen years! No one my age has mastered Blade Sunder—except...’
One face surfaced in his memory: Ozent Rai, the prodigious second son—the only Ozent to achieve Blade Sunder at twelve.
The envy of that day burned fresh.
Rian: "I refuse to accept this!"
He roared, dispelling Rai’s phantom. He’d trained endlessly—ten thousand swings, a hundred thousand!
’So why...? Why can he do it, and not me?!’
Shirone: "Young master, I overstepped—"
Rian: "Shut up! This isn’t over! No one’s won yet!"
Storming to the weapon rack, Rian seized an ornate noble’s longsword—real steel.
Shirone’s blood ran cold.
The blade gleamed like molten lava in the torchlight. After testing its edge, Rian threw it at Shirone.
Rian: "Our weapons broke, so the match is void. If you’ve mastered Blade Sunder, you deserve a proper duel. One month from now—we settle this with live steel."
Shirone’s world crumbled. His desperate ploy had only worsened things. Wood and steel were worlds apart. And Rian wouldn’t grant him three free strikes next time.
For the first time, death’s shadow loomed. His parents’ faces flashed before him.
Shirone: "Please reconsider! I’ve never trained with swords!"
Rian: "That’s why I’m giving you time. You ’chopped wood’ and learned Blade Sunder? I don’t believe it—but if you’re that talented, a month should suffice."
In his mind, Rian wasn’t being unreasonable. If Rai could do it, so could this boy.
Because in Shirone, he saw his brother’s ghost.
’That’s it. I just lacked resolve.’
If It Were a Real Sword, If It Were a Life-or-Death Situation—Perhaps the Difference Wouldn’t Be So Great.
Rian’s final words shackled Shirone’s feet.
"Don’t even think about running away. Setting aside my personal feelings, I will surpass you—no matter what."