Shirone dragged his exhausted body to the library. He hadn’t slept a wink after last night’s events.
His mind was in turmoil, and even sorting books felt sluggish.
He forced himself to regain composure.
’I’m not going to die right away. I have a month. I’ll find a way.’
First—gathering intel.
From what he’d pieced together, the family head, Bischof, had three sons and one daughter.
The eldest son was a publicly recognized 6th-rank swordsman. The second son, Lido, was a prodigy whose talent with the blade was beyond doubt, expected to follow in his brother’s footsteps.
The eldest daughter, too, was gifted—though she chose music over the sword and now worked as a royal pianist.
One by one, Shirone assessed them.
In the end, the only one who hadn’t stood out was Rian.
Despite the family head assigning him a private instructor, reports only ever stated: "He lacks talent."
"Sigh... I really messed up. I should’ve just taken the beating."
It was no surprise Rian had snapped after a lifetime of being compared to his siblings.
’So, not all nobles are exceptional, huh?’
"Now what? I’m really in trouble."
Anxiety creeping back in, Shirone blankly stared at the real sword left neglected under his desk.
He abruptly stood and headed for the study.
’Whether I fight or not, preparation is non-negotiable.’
Living in the mountains had honed his stamina—if he could just learn some defensive techniques, he might survive.
For now, he shelved the history books and gathered every swordsmanship manual he could find.
Some were technical, like "Swordsmanship Fundamentals." Others were philosophical—"What Is a Sword?", "Only Humans Fear the Blade." There were even pragmatic titles like "Winning Through Bluffing" and "The Survivor Is the Strongest."
Shirone flipped open a straightforward one: "Swordsmanship."
It covered the sword’s origins and general principles.
Even to Shirone—an aspiring mage—it was fascinating.
If mages had Spirit Zones, swordsmen had Schemas.
A Schema was a virtual body, a blueprint of the human form.
Everyone carried a mental image of their own physique, but a Schema was its extreme refinement.
Masters of the Schema could perfectly understand their bodies, down to the nerves—even cellular control.
Shirone set the book down and slapped his knee.
"It’s the counterpart to the Spirit Zone!"
Mages erased themselves to merge with the world, but swordsmen obsessively dug deeper into their own existence.
Shirone attempted to manifest a Schema.
He maintained the sensation of entering a Spirit Zone while visualizing a phantom version of himself.
But the virtual body remained shadowed—impenetrable.
’To master the Schema, I’d need to tear away this darkness. Incredible.’
Different families developed Schemas in wildly different ways, emphasizing unique traits.
Some focused on mental discipline, others on pushing the body to its limits.
Some Schemas amplified strength, others speed, and others reflexes.
’Now that I think about it...’
Shirone recalled a red-haired girl he’d met in an alley three years ago.
At the time, he’d been too stunned to process it, but later, he realized—her movements weren’t human.
’She must’ve awakened her Schema. And she was my age... What terrifying talent.’
Rian probably hadn’t mastered the Schema either, but Shirone hit a wall trying it himself.
’Even if I could, a Schema alone isn’t swordsmanship. Just like a Spirit Zone isn’t magic.’
Just as knowledge was vital for mages, physical prowess was essential for swordsmen.
’Without a trained body, improvement is severely limited. Since I already have a Spirit Zone, focusing on swordsmanship is the faster solution.’
His strategy? Use the Spirit Zone as a foundation and learn a few life-saving techniques.
He opened "Basic Swordsmanship."
Studying swordsmanship out of nowhere was bizarre—but with his life on the line, his focus had never been sharper.
Dust swirled in the Great Training Hall—kicked up by Rian’s sprinting.
His heart felt ready to burst. Air refused to enter his lungs, and his stomach churned.
He vomited his lunch but kept running, ignoring the mess.
Only his legs mattered.
Swordsmanship instructor Kite roared with approval. He’d never seen Rian —it was almost beautiful.
"A new record! But what’s gotten into you? You never train this hard!"
"Damn it! How is this even training?!"
Kite’s eyebrows shot up.
Here he was, trying to praise the kid, and Rian spat it back in his face.
But today’s defiance was different.
"I’m still standing, aren’t I?! Master, don’t you have anything harder?!"
’It’s been years since he burned .’
Not since Lido’s genius crushed him two years ago.
"Something happened, didn’t it?"
Rian, hands on his knees and drenched in sweat, glared up.
Kite didn’t believe him.
His pupil’s eyes blazed—fixated on someone’s phantom.
No one else could provoke Rian .
Had Lido achieved something new? But what? He’d already awakened his Schema.
Didn’t matter. His student wasn’t Lido—it was Rian. And right now, Rian was begging to be broken.
"Fine! Let’s see you die trying! And don’t blame me if you do!"
Rian swung an iron rod—twice as heavy as a longsword.
If he couldn’t awaken his Schema through insight, he’d force his body to the brink.
Kite watched proudly as Rian drilled vertical slashes—until his face stiffened.
Realization struck. He lunged forward.
"You lunatic! Stop! You’ll tear your muscles apart!"
"They’re not torn yet!"
Tears streamed down Rian’s face as he kept swinging.
"Damn it! Why won’t they break?! Why won’t my arms give out?! I can go further! This isn’t the end! I’m not done yet!"
Kite’s eyes welled up.
He was just as furious as his student.
Why won’t it work?! He’s pushed past every limit—why won’t his Schema awaken?!
This wouldn’t do. If even his master doubted him, what hope did Rian have?
Kite caught the iron rod mid-swing.
This time, Rian stopped—it was his master’s hand, after all.
"Rian, enough. Rest for today."
The warmth in Kite’s voice doused Rian’s frenzy. His arms had long since gone numb.
He didn’t even notice the rod hitting the ground as he bowed his head.
Kite draped an ice towel over Rian’s shoulders. His bones were unharmed—a natural iron frame.
Sitting on the training hall’s slope, Rian stared blankly at the distant mountains.
"What’s on your mind?"
"That my arms hurt like hell."
"Rian, I’ve never once written in my reports that you have talent."
"But I do think you’re talented. Talent isn’t just achieving things quickly. The will to challenge the impossible—that’s a talent too."
"Don’t bother comforting me. Let’s be real—I work this hard because I lack talent."
"Is that so? Geniuses know they’re geniuses. They understand exactly what they can do. Have you ever felt that?"
"...Not really. I just know what I can’t do."
"Exactly. That’s why you’re not a genius."
Rian turned, baffled.
Here he was, arms screaming in agony, and his master was pouring salt in the wound.
Kite smiled at his sulking pupil.
"But Rian, do you know what geniuses fear? Effort. Sure, they work hard—but not like us. They doubt, they struggle—but never question their ability. Effort is the weapon of those who lack innate gifts. You think you work hard because you’re untalented? Wrong. The only ones who can work hard are those who choose to."
He gripped Rian’s shoulder.
"You challenge the impossible. That’s a will no one can take from you. In simple terms—you’re a genius’s natural enemy."
A genius’s natural enemy.
Rian liked that. Even if it was just consolation.
Fine. I may not have talent—but I’ll claw my way up anyway.
He resolved to pour everything into the next month.
Shirone knew his limits.
The moment he grasped the Schema’s concept, he abandoned it without hesitation—focusing solely on swordsmanship.
Selection and concentration.
Talent was about efficiency—choosing the shortest path to a goal.
Shirone discarded all distractions, drilling only the basics.
He’d trained in just eight slashes and eight blocks—nothing more.
Satisfied, Shirone ended his training with one final question:
"What is swordsmanship?"
The culmination of biomechanics aimed at taking lives—yet also a high-level psychological battle, deciding life and death.
Shirone leveled his sword.
An opponent could strike from any angle—but that was an illusion.
’Only the blade coming for me is real. So I only need to block eight directions.’
He visualized countering.
Eight blades, controlling all angles—then multiplying into hundreds with each exchange.
Counting every strike was impossible.
’Not about numbers. It’s about feeling the whole.’
Like seeing the forest, not the trees—perceiving possibilities as one.
But easier said than done.
As patterns fractalized, his mind fixated on specific spaces.
’Failing’s fine. Just observe. Adjust errors.’
Relaxing, Shirone eventually let go of thought entirely.
Then—everything clicked.
His eyes widened in shock.