Chapter – 18
The blazing sun scorched the afternoon.
“Haaap! Haaap!”
The knight swung his sword again and again, sweat pouring down his face.
“You’re still at it?”
A fellow knight approached, clicking his tongue.
“Take it easy, will you? You’ll collapse at this rate.”
“I’ll be fine.”
The knight smiled faintly and gulped down a bucket of lukewarm water.
“This heat is nothing. It’s no worse than what those barbarians endure.”
“I can’t talk sense into you, can I? Fine then. Don’t overdo it.”
“Thanks for your concern.”
Even after his comrade left, the knight kept swinging his sword, never pausing.
His silent training — the constant rhythm of blade and breath — carried a kind of sacred dignity, like that of a monk walking the path of martial devotion.
Summer passed, and cool autumn winds began to blow.
Whish, whiiish!
The knight still trained day and night.
“Heh heh! You could swing that sword for a thousand years, and you still wouldn’t improve with talent like that.”
“Just give up your title and go farm your land already!”
“Tsk. No talent, no sense. What a fool.”
His fellow knights passed by, tossing their barbed jeers as they went.
But the knight didn’t so much as flinch.
His eyes saw only the tip of his blade.
His ears heard only the whisper of his sword through air.
His mouth knew only the cry of exertion.
Winter came.
Even as blizzards roared, the knight’s training never ceased.
Snow piled thick on his broad shoulders, yet he kept swinging.
Thus the years rolled on — thirty of them.
Despite poor physique and meager talent, not once did the knight skip a day of practice.
Then one day—
“Uaaagh!”
“Argh!”
“Spare me!”
“Retreat! Retreat at once—!”
A vast barbarian horde had crossed the border, flooding into Decaron.
Walls fell, buildings burned, and screams echoed everywhere.
“None who invade this land shall be spared.”
Without a hint of hesitation, the knight charged straight into the heart of the enemy and unleashed the swordsmanship he had forged over a lifetime.
“Guhk!”
“Argh!”
Barbarian warriors fell before his blade like leaves before the wind.
A single cut.
A single thrust.
Those two simple techniques — honed over thirty relentless years — were more than enough to annihilate his foes.
The knight became the hero who saved Decaron from destruction.
Those who had once mocked him were dead.
The few survivors owed him their lives.
When the barbarians finally retreated, the knight returned to his ruined training ground.
And there, once more, he began to swing his sword.
“Please, stop. You’ll kill yourself.”
“With that broken body, what’s the point of training now?”
His comrades tried to restrain him, but it was useless.
The battered knight smiled gently and said,
“How could one who holds a sword ever set it down? Until my eyes close for good, I will train.”
Three years later.
Though wracked by the aftereffects of his wounds, he never skipped a day’s practice.
And on that final day, the knight began his last training session.
“Only… to train.”
With those words, he performed the perfect thrust and the perfect cut — and then, still standing, closed his eyes.
A life of ceaseless discipline — a man who overcame his limits through effort alone — thus came to an end.
The scene before Carlisle’s eyes shifted.
Ding!
[Notice: Residual thought detected.]
[Notice: Residual thought can be absorbed.]
Instinctively, Carlisle understood what the knight had left behind — a trace of unyielding devotion and sheer willpower.
This was not the result of effort made for reward.
Had the knight sought reward, he could never have endured such relentless hardship.
It was simply the fulfillment of duty — nothing more, nothing less.
And that blind, steadfast devotion had saved Decaron and raised him to heights beyond his natural limits.
If Carlisle could absorb that lingering will…
If he could take into himself the spirit still dwelling in that old training ground—
“…O noble spirit of the knight.”
Carlisle found himself speaking.
“I shall inherit your will. Dwell within my blade.”
At that, the faint footprints scattered across the ground began to glow and flow toward Carlisle’s sword.
Shhhhh!
The blade shone with brilliant light.
Ding!
[Notice: Residual thought absorbed!]
[Notice: Skill acquired — .]
[Notice: Skill acquired — .]
[Notice: Skill acquired — .]
The skills inherited from the knight’s soul were as follows:
[Steadfast Practitioner]
Skill Level: 1
Effect: While training, enter a state of perfect composure. All distractions vanish, allowing absolute focus on the sword.
Relief washed over Carlisle — like a toothache suddenly gone.
He had been struggling with lethargy and inertia, and now both were swept away.
[Loyal Heart]
The ultimate thrust.
A strike imbued with the will to pierce even the enemy’s soul.
Skill Level: 1
[World-Cleaving Blade]
The ultimate cut.
A strike carrying the will to cleave the world itself.
Skill Level: 1
The knight’s swordsmanship consisted of only two moves — thrust and slash.
But their perfection was unmatched.
For a sword’s purpose is, after all, to thrust and to cut.
Pure simplicity — like the knight’s own life.
“Ah.”
Carlisle suddenly understood how to use the knight’s power.
“Only… to train.”
The knight’s dying words slipped from his lips — the command that awakened the sword’s power.
[Notice: activated.]
Carlisle began to swing his sword slowly.
As he did, his wandering thoughts vanished, and the weight of lethargy melted away.
Whish, whiish!
Ssshhh!
His sword sliced through air, perfectly embodying the Sigmund family’s swordsmanship.
‘So, the young master must’ve been frustrated too.’
Maranello waited for Carlisle, thinking to himself.
‘Well, it makes sense. He’s lived a life of indulgence for so long — his body must’ve gotten used to idleness.’
From long experience, the old butler knew that rebuilding one’s discipline was never easy.
Effort, he believed, was not a matter of talent but of habit.
Even the most diligent man, once he let go of that thread of will, found it hard to take it up again.
‘He needs to get used to steady effort again, little by little…’
Hours passed as he waited.
The sky began to brighten — dawn breaking into morning.
“Young master?”
Maranello frowned when Carlisle hadn’t returned by sunrise, and went to the training grounds.
What he saw there made him freeze.
Whish, whiish!
Carlisle was still swinging his sword.
Soaked in sweat — clearly he had trained through the entire night.
‘At last, the young master is taking this seriously…’
A smile crept across Maranello’s face — until—
“No… this can’t be.”
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Flash!
Carlisle’s thrust shot forward like a bolt of light.
Even at a glance, Maranello could tell — it was flawless.
A perfect strike.
Only a master could have produced such form.
Then—
Shwaaa!
The blade traced a brilliant silver arc through the air.
“…Impossible.”
Maranello stood dumbstruck, watching Carlisle’s perfect thrust followed by a perfect cut.
He didn’t know it, but these were [Loyal Heart] and [World-Cleaving Blade] — the knight’s ultimate techniques.
Simple, rugged swordsmanship — yet more delicate and refined than anything else in existence.
The knight’s lifetime masterpiece.
Of course, Maranello couldn’t have known that.
‘So the young master has been hiding his true strength all along. He must’ve been acting the fool.’
Maranello’s mind reeled, but now it all seemed to make sense.
Such perfect technique could never be achieved overnight.
Not even by a prodigy.
Therefore, he concluded, Carlisle must have trained secretly for years, enduring hardship in silence.
“Young master.”
“…”
“Young master?”
“…”
No response.
Maranello realized Carlisle was completely immersed — lost in a trance.
He chuckled softly.
“To think someone this skilled went to such lengths to play the wastrel…”
How strange, that a man capable of such focus and endurance had pretended to be incapable of even running a kilometer.
Why had he chosen to disgrace himself before others?
It couldn’t have been mere laziness.
‘What secret are you hiding, my lord?’
Just then—
Thud!
Carlisle collapsed.
“Young master!”
Maranello rushed to him in alarm.
“Young master! Please!”
Carlisle, drenched in sweat, barely stirred.
“Ahh…”
Feeling his pulse, Maranello realized the cause — sheer exhaustion.
He had trained through the night, so focused he hadn’t noticed his body giving out.
Such concentration was far beyond that of ordinary men.
‘I don’t know what secret burden you bear, young master… but this old servant will protect you — whatever it is.’
With that silent vow, Maranello gently lifted the unconscious Carlisle into his arms.
