The dull weight of the standard training sword in my hand felt utterly inadequate after the ethereal lightness of the Azurine Blade. Herald stood before , his stance perfect, his presence radiating an almost palpable aura of mastery. His left eye, thankfully, remained shut, sparing the suffocating pressure of his full power. But even without it, the sheer force of his presence was overwhelming.
"Now," Herald said, his voice calm, yet utterly definitive, "let us begin your true training. Show what you have learned. Show you can go beyond the Novice realm."
My heart pounded. This wasn’t just sparring with a manor guard. This was training with one of the strongest character in the novel, a man who had casually shattered an A-tier artifact. I took my own stance, the Front Guard, trying to mimic the perfect form I had seen in my mind’s eye from the novel’s illustrations. My grip on the sword was firm, my knuckles tight.
Herald moved first. Not with the blinding speed he had displayed against Lord Sapphire, but with a deliberate, almost relaxed pace. His blade, a simple steel training sword like mine, moved with deceptive slowness. It was a feint, a probe, designed to test my reactions. I parried, my blade eting his with a dull clang. The impact vibrated up my arm.
He continued, his attacks relentless, yet controlled. He wasn’t trying to hurt , not yet. He was dissecting my every move, exposing every flaw in my rudintary technique. He would strike, then pause, his blade resting inches from my chest, my arm, my leg.
"Your stance is too wide," he would murmur, his voice flat. "You telegraph your intentions. Your footwork is clumsy. Your parry lacks conviction."
Each critique was precise, cutting straight to the point. I tried to correct them, to adjust my stance, to tighten my guard, to anticipate his next move. But it was like trying to catch smoke. My mind, sharp as it was, couldn’t keep up with his subtle movents, his effortless transitions. My Agility, felt sluggish compared to his fluid movents.
We trained for hours in the confined space of the underground hideout. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and steel. My muscles ached, my lungs burned, and my arm throbbed relentlessly. Herald, however, remained utterly unruffled, his breathing even, his movents as precise at the end as they were at the beginning. He was a machine, a relentless, tireless teacher.
He drilled on footwork, on stance, on the proper way to grip the sword, to breathe, to move. He would demonstrate a swing, his movents impossibly perfect, then expect to replicate it, over and over again, until my body ached with exhaustion. He pushed beyond anything I thought I was capable of, beyond my physical limits, beyond my ntal endurance.
"Again!" he would command, his voice never rising, never showing impatience, only an unwavering expectation. "Your recovery is too slow. Your guard is open. You hesitate."
I would stumble, fall, pick myself up, and try again. The thought of Narrative Redaction, of simply erasing him, filled in my mind like a desperate beacon. But I had zero OP. And even if I had them, I needed this training. I needed to enter the academy. I needed to get stronger. My survival depended on it.
Days blurred into weeks. The routine was brutal, relentless. Wake, train, eat, sleep, repeat. My body transford. My muscles hardened, my reflexes sharpened, my movents beca more fluid, more economical. Herald was an unforgiving teacher, but an incredibly effective one. He pushed to my breaking point, then pushed further.
During breaks, I would try to engage him in conversation, to gather more information, to understand his thods, his philosophy. I asked him about mana, about its flow, about how he could wield both sword arts and mage arts. He would offer terse, almost philosophical replies, often leaving with more questions than answers.
"Mana is the breath of the world," he had said one afternoon, as I sat panting, drenched in sweat. "It flows through everything. The blade is rely a channel. The mind, the will, is the true weapon. A sword art is simply mana shaped by intent. A mage art, mana manipulated by understanding. The distinction is arbitrary to one who truly comprehends the flow."
His explanations were profound, yet frustratingly vague. He spoke in riddles, in taphors, forcing to decipher his aning, to connect the dots myself. It was a different kind of teaching, one that demanded active thought, not passive reception.
I also tried to subtly probe his past again, his trauma, his centuries-long rage. He would answer, but his tone would grow colder, more distant, a clear warning not to trespass too far into his personal pain. He spoke of the cult’s insidious nature, their ability to corrupt, to twist. He spoke of ’The One,’ the cult leader, as a formidable, elusive opponent.
One evening, after a particularly grueling session where he had disard twenty tis in a row, leaving sprawled on the dusty floor, I finally managed to ask him about the Azurine Blade.
"Master," I gasped, my lungs burning, "the Azurine Blade. You said its true potential can only be unlocked at a higher sword realm. What... what realm are you?"
He paused, his sword resting on his shoulder, his posture perfectly relaxed. He looked at , a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "That, is for you to discover. When you are ready." He offered no further explanation. He rarely did.
My training continued. I learned to anticipate, to react, not just with my body, but with my mana. Herald would throw mana-infused attacks at , subtle pushes of force, invisible currents of energy, forcing to instinctively harden my own mana, to create rudintary Vexal Walls, to learn to manipulate mana for defense. It was a crash course in mana arts, a brutal but effective thod of forcing my mana core to adapt, to grow.
The days bled into each other, a relentless cycle of pain, exhaustion, and incrental improvent. I was getting stronger. Faster. My swordsmanship, while still far from mastery, was no longer rely rudintary. I could hold my own against the guards now, even against so of the more skilled ones. But against Herald? I was still a novice.
One morning, after a particularly intense session where I had managed to land a single, glancing blow on his arm – a feat that had startled even him – Herald stopped. He lowered his sword, his gaze fixed on .
"You are improving," he stated, his voice flat, but with a hint of sothing that might have been approval. "Your progress is... acceptable."
My chest swelled with a faint surge of pride. "Thank you, Master."
"However," he continued, cutting off my brief mont of satisfaction, "there are limits to what you can learn from simply sparring with . You need to see true mastery in action. You need to see how a blade can truly swing." He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the underground chamber, finally settling on Mudrel, who was ticulously cleaning his own broadsword in a corner.
"Mudrel!" Herald called out, his voice echoing in the confined space. "A quick duel. Let Show him how it’s done."
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