Second Choice Noble Son: Apparently I’m Stronger Than the Summoned Heroes Chapter 96 : The Weight of a Thousand Swings

(Rooga POV)

I woke up to sunlight and the sound of soone knocking on my door.

Well, not knocking — pounding.

“Rooga! Up. It’s ti.”

It was Father’s voice.

I sat up imdiately, rubbing my eyes. “Ti for what?”

The door opened before I finished the question. Darius Valemont stood there, hair slightly damp from the morning dew, a faint grin under his beard. He was holding two wooden swords.

“It’s finally ti for you to learn the way of the Valemont sword.”

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

“Finally,” I said, almost tripping as I jumped out of bed. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

The field behind our house was still covered in morning mist. The forest whispered softly in the distance, but here the air was quiet, expectant.

Father handed one of the wooden swords. It felt heavier than it looked — rough, sturdy, perfectly balanced.

“First rule,” he said, his tone calm but sharp. “A Valemont sword never waits. We swing first, we think after. Our blade carries our conviction, not our doubt.”

I gripped the sword tightly, ready for whatever secret, complex, decades-old sword art he was about to reveal.

But instead of a speech or stance demonstration, Father simply lifted his own sword and swung.

A clean horizontal arc. No shout, no mana flare — just precision and purpose. Then again. And again.

He didn’t stop. The sa motion repeated, steady as breathing.

I blinked. “Uh… Father?”

He didn’t answer — just kept swinging.

I waited. Surely he’d say sothing dramatic soon — like “The sword is an extension of your soul!” or “Balance your heart before your blade!”

Nothing. Just whack, whack, whack.

Ten minutes passed before he finally spoke. “Why are you standing there? Copy .”

“Copy you?”

“Yes. Swing.”

That was it.

No stretching, no forms, no breathing techniques, no philosophical lectures about focus or harmony. Just swing.

I frowned. “Aren’t we supposed to start with… I don’t know, training stances, maybe build foundation first?”

He finally stopped, giving a look sowhere between confusion and amusent. “Foundation? You’re standing. You can breathe. That’s enough foundation. Now swing.”

I sighed and began mimicking his movents.

The mont my sword cut through the air, the familiar shimr flickered before my eyes.

[New Skill Acquired: Basic Sword Art – Slash]

[Category: Physical Technique / Weapon-Based]

[Proficiency: 1%]

I paused mid-swing. “It actually counted?”

Father raised an eyebrow. “Counted?”

“Uh—nothing.”

The HUD glowed again, showing the skill tree expanding faintly beneath the text.

⚙️ Skill: Basic Sword Art — Slash

Description:

The fundantal attack motion of all sword techniques. The essence of striking lies not in strength, but precision and intent.

Effect:

Increases cutting speed slightly with continued use. Each strike refines body coordination and muscle mory.

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Evolution Paths:

Sword Art – Flowing Cut(Requirent: Basic Sword Art – Slash Proficiency 100%, Maintain Consistent Motion for 1 Hour)

Mastery of rhythm and breathing converts continuous slashes into a fluid art.

Effect: Increases chain attack speed and reduces stamina consumption.

Sword Art – Heavy Strike(Requirent: Basic Sword Art – Slash Proficiency 100%, Perform Strike with Mana Reinforcent 50 Tis)

Combines strength and mana to create a forceful cutting motion.

Effect: Increases impact and knockback; consus small mana per strike.

Sword Art – True Edge(Requirent: Achieve Perfect Execution: Flowing Cut & Heavy Strike Once Each)

The culmination of precision and power; each motion becos a single intent.

Effect: Converts intent into cutting force, capable of slicing through mana constructs.

Father swung again beside — sa motion, sa sound.

“Don’t rush,” he said. “A thousand perfect swings beat one desperate technique.”

I followed his rhythm.

After a few minutes, the repetition stopped feeling boring. There was sothing ditative about it — the weight, the sound, the small resistance in the air each ti the wooden sword cut through it.

By the twentieth swing, I wasn’t thinking about form anymore.

By the fiftieth, my arms burned.

By the hundredth, I realized what Father ant by conviction.

When I glanced up, he was smiling faintly. “Good. Now you’re starting to listen to the sword.”

I didn’t know what that ant, but I nodded anyway.

When we finally paused for water, Father rested his sword against the ground. “This is what the Valemont style teaches, Rooga. Simplicity without hesitation. If your swing wavers, you die. If you doubt, you die. But if your strike carries truth, even gods bleed.”

I blinked. “Even gods?”

He smiled faintly. “Well, your mother used to call one.”

I groaned. “Father…”

He laughed — a rare, honest laugh that echoed across the field.

And as I caught my breath, I realized this was the first ti I’d seen him smile without pain behind it.

Next day,

Father woke before sunrise again.

Sa knock. Sa words. Sa tone that could split stone.

“Up, Rooga. Training.”

I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. “You said that yesterday.”

“And I’ll say it tomorrow.”

That was the end of that argunt.

Outside, the field was already damp with morning mist. The two wooden swords stood waiting, leaning against the old fence post. Father handed one without a word.

“Two hundred overhead swings. One hundred side swings.”

“That’s… more than yesterday.”

He nodded once. “Then you’ll be stronger than yesterday.”

The first swing of the day always hurt the most.

The second less so.

By the tenth, my arms started to go numb.

I copied Father’s rhythm as best I could. Each movent ca with the sa crisp whack through the air, followed by the sting of vibration running down my wrists.

He didn’t correct my stance. He didn’t offer advice. He just kept swinging — calm, precise, relentless.

Day after day.

The numbers grew.

Three hundred, then five hundred, then a thousand.

The only thing that changed was the pain.

By the seventh day, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I stopped mid-swing, breathing hard. “This isn’t working.”

Father’s sword didn’t stop. It cut the air once more before resting on his shoulder. “What isn’t?”

“All of this!” I gestured wildly. “Swinging every day, doing the sa thing over and over — what’s the point? I’m not improving! My body’s just breaking down.”

He studied quietly for a mont. “You sound like you’re waiting for sothing to tell you that you’ve gotten better.”

“That’s… not what I an.”

“Then what do you an?”

I hesitated, unable to explain. I couldn’t tell him about the HUD — about how I’d been checking for progress that never ca.

Instead, I looked away. “It just feels useless.”

Father sighed, resting his sword against the ground. “You know, when Elara trained, she never once complained about progress. She smiled every ti she failed, because she knew every swing was one step closer to victory — even if she couldn’t see it.”

“I’m not Elara.”

“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I’m pushing you harder. You don’t smile when you train, Rooga. You think too much about the result and not enough about the work.”

I clenched my fists. “Maybe because the work never shows anything.”

“Then maybe you’re not ready to see it yet.”

He said it without anger — just quiet certainty. Then he turned away and resud swinging, as if the conversation never happened.

The next morning, I told him I wasn’t feeling well.

The day after that, I said I was helping Maori with watering.

Then I said I had to fix the fence.

He didn’t argue — he just nodded each ti and trained alone.

I watched from the window once, as his blade sliced through the air again and again, the sa motion for hours without pause.

He didn’t look disappointed.

He just looked patient.

But the villagers noticed.

“Rooga’s skipping training again?” I heard one of them whisper in town.

“Kid’s lazy. His father’s out there every morning while he sleeps in.”

The words stung, but I pretended not to care.

I told myself they didn’t understand.

That I was tired.

That it was fine to take a break.

But deep down, I knew the truth — I’d given up before the lesson had even finished teaching .

That evening, Father didn’t ntion training at all.

We ate dinner quietly.

Riaz babbled about his sword toy, Selene smiled at him, and Maori kept stealing bites from everyone’s plate like a mischievous spirit.

When the laughter died down, Father stood, stretched, and said simply, “Tomorrow, I’ll train alone again.”

He didn’t look at when he said it.

He didn’t need to.

Sothing in my chest twisted — heavier than guilt.

The next morning, I woke up earlier than usual.

Out of habit, maybe. Or guilt.

I stood by the window and watched him swing.

Sa motion. Sa rhythm. Sa man.

There was no magic, no aura, no visible progress — but there was sothing else.

Sothing unshakable.

Sothing that didn’t need proof to keep moving.

And for the first ti, I wondered if maybe that was what strength really was.