The light engulfed him, tearing through the darkness as Romian stepped into its brilliance.
In reality…
While Phillia carried out her daily tasks and continued healing Romian, his eyes suddenly snapped open. His arm jerked upward, grasping at empty air.
"Young master!" she squeaked, equal parts startled and relieved.
"Huh?! So I wasn't dead… But what was that? Just unconsciousness? What a bizarre state to be in—existing in some void," Romian muttered, propping himself up and scanning the room to reorient himself.
He leaned against the headboard, offering Phillia a tired smirk.
"I've been away too long, haven't I?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Tears welled in Phillia's eyes, but she smiled warmly. "Perhaps," she replied softly.
The atmosphere was calm, sunlight streaming through the window on a mild, breezy day.
Romian gazed outside, his mind circling back to the mysterious swordsman. ''Why show me that skill? Of all things…''
"Young master?" Phillia interrupted. "Shouldn't you get up and see your parents? They've been worried sick."
She noticed Romian slipping back into his thoughts, detached from the moment.
,,Right. I need to ask her what cover story she used.'' He glanced at her, curiosity prickling.
Before he could speak, his parents burst into the room. They froze for a heartbeat, then rushed to hug him.
"Thank the stars you're awake!" His mother wept, her tone a mix of relief and reproach. "Never overexert your mana like that again! It could've been far worse!"
His father feigned nonchalance, leaning against the window with crossed arms.
"You're not the brightest candle on the cake, are you? Don't ever channel more mana than your body can handle. We already gave Phillia an earful for showing you combat techniques recklessly. That bloodstain wasn't small."
Phillia stared at the floor, cheeks burning. The scolding had lasted two grueling hours. Though his parents later apologized for their harshness, the ordeal had left her rattled. Teaching a novice like Romian advanced sword skills? Ludicrous.
Crushed under his mother's embrace, Romian chuckled awkwardly.
"H-hey! The blood wasn't for nothing. Those two rabbits died painfully. It hurt because they were sooo~ cute—"
He trailed off, realizing the room had gone deathly quiet. Phillia paled as if she'd seen a ghost, while his parents exchanged wary glances.
"Phillia… said it was a deer," his mother stated flatly, her gaze sharpening.
The air thickened with tension. Romian mentally facepalmed.A deer? Here? Their estate was miles from the forest, and the nearest mountain was a half-day's trek away. How in the hell would a deer wander onto manicured grounds?!
"Phillia!? Stick that deer somewhere else! How the hell does a deer even get here? What kind of half-baked lie is this?!" Romian screamed internally, stunned by the sheer absurdity of the cover story.
He glanced around, feigning forgetfulness.
"Oh, right! I was out for a few days, passed out—must've mixed up the memories, haha~" He rubbed the back of his head with an awkward grin, shooting Phillia a pointed look. She whistled innocently, avoiding eye contact.
His parents shrugged, accepting the flimsy explanation. Sometimes memories blur, their expressions seemed to say.
,,Phew—dodged that one'' Romian's relief was palpable.
A few days later…
As Romian resumed his rehabilitation and training, he swore off attempting that cursed skill again. No more risks, he told himself.
"Ugh—break time." He plopped down, staring at the distant village.
His mind churned, as always. Curiosity's going to kill him one day.
"What if I just… analyze the skill's foundational movements? Break it down, perfect each step? Hmm—no. Curiosity killed the Romian—or whatever." He stroked his chin, adopting a mock-philosopher's pose.
Ultimately, he deemed it too dangerous. One misstep could end him—or worse, waste this second chance at life.
He turned toward his home, a symbol of his new beginning. Here, he could become someone better—not the morally bankrupt wretch of his past. But he knew that past would eventually catch up, and he'd have to face it.
His break ended abruptly. He stood, dusted himself off, and resumed drilling the basics of swordsmanship.
He swung the sword vertically, back rigid, sweat dripping. Each motion was clumsy, the wooden blade thudding awkwardly against the air. The sounds grew sharper but lacked grace—a reminder he was still a novice. Progress was faint, his efforts raw and unrefined.
Romian had learned this from his father. While watching his father train, he'd sensed how each sword swing carried its own personality—the sounds crisp, sharp, and distinct. He'd only ever heard such precise vibrations from two people: his father and Phillia.
His own swings, however, produced discordant, muddled noises—like panicked flailing, uncertain and jarring. To Romian, it just sounded "a little off," but to any seasoned swordsman, it would've been ear-grating agony, enough to drive them into a depressive spiral.
His father and Phillia had overheard it once. They exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing, though suspicion lingered. Everything around Romian felt chaotic, wrong.
"Ugh—I should stop." Dripping sweat, Romian set the wooden sword aside and trudged back inside.
He wandered upstairs to the library, grabbed a book—The Fundamentals of Swordsmanship—and flopped into a chair, flipping to his last-read page.
"Hmm… Okay. 'Stand straight, steady breathing—check. Legs firm, stance balanced—check. Shoulders aligned with hips—check.' I'm doing all this, but it's useless. Maybe I just need patience. It's not like I've trained for long," he muttered, frustration seeping in.
Swordsmanship always left him uneasy. Even in kendo, he'd had raw talent, but the rigid, systematic drills clashed with his instincts. After being humiliated by a true prodigy, he'd quit.
"What if… this structured style isn't for me? Whatever. I'll stick with it a bit longer. No giving up like last time. I won't be that pathetic again." He forced a grin, half-convincing himself.
______________________________________________________
A few hours later...
Romian lay in bed.
He gazed outside—it was a gloomy night. The fog shrouded everything, rendering the world invisible except for the glowing moon, which stood as the sole source of light.
"What if I go out and visit the village? But I can't see anything… What if I get lost? Whatever. I should at least look around," Romian muttered a bit too loudly as he climbed out of bed and peered through the window.
He crept silently toward the door and opened it.
"Shrrikhh!"
The door let out a loud creak as it swung open.
"Damn it! This stupid door needs oiling or something. I hope no one heard that," Romian cursed inwardly, his heart plummeting into his boots.
Leaving the door slightly ajar, he tiptoed toward the staircase and descended quietly. His parents were upstairs, so the only obstacle left was Phillia—and that could be problematic. Her room wasn't far, and she might react if the front door opened.
Truthfully, Romian hadn't planned to go to the village. He still feared the people there. All he wanted was to find a quiet spot to train in peace.
He continued toward the front door—and then!
"Schriieeeek!"
The floorboards suddenly squealed deafeningly, loud enough to reach Phillia's room.
"Damn it! Why's the floor so loud now?! Has it always creaked? Why does everything betray me at night?!" Romian's face flushed pink and red, his heart no longer in his chest but hurled somewhere into the void.
Unsurprisingly, Phillia heard. She opened her door, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Damn it!"
Romian panicked and tried to summon magic to escape.
—Nothing happened. He felt nothing.
"Why isn't it working?! Maybe because it's my first time?" Romian stared in shock, scrambling for an explanation.
Phillia squinted at him.
"Romian—I mean, Young Master… What are you doing down here at this hour? Why are you trying to leave?" Her exhaustion made her forget formalities entirely.
"Did she just say my name?! Has she ever used it before? What even is she—our maid? Because of her clothes and politeness? Wait, where are her parents? I know nothing about her…" Romian spiraled into a monologue, realizing how little he knew of her.
Silence hung as they stared at each other. Romian scrambled for an excuse.
"I wanted to train? No, that's unbelievable at this hour. A walk? Maybe. Sleeping outside? No, that's insane! Ugh, I'll go with the first one." Sweat dripped down his neck, his hands twitching nervously.
"Uh… I wanted to train. I couldn't sleep and thought I'd go outside without disturbing anyone. Sorry for waking you," he said, forcing a soft, convincing tone.
Phillia eyed him strangely but, after stretching, played along with a faint smile.
"Why train alone when I can help?" She slipped on her training shoes.
"Wh— Did she just accept that?! Why am I so stupid?! I should've picked a better lie!" Romian seethed inwardly, furious at himself.
He stood frozen, like a lost child, forcing a smile.
"I-I'm glad to learn from someone more experienced," he stammered.
As they prepared, the moon blazed brilliantly, casting the grass in an ethereal blue-tinged glow. The light was bright enough to guide their vision, and soon Phillia began speaking.
"You know there are many sword types—greatswords, rapiers, shortswords, scimitars, and so on. I favor a rapier-like style but wield a longsword. You've seen my blade—1.6 meters of blade, 20 centimeters of hilt. With iron or similar metals, it'd be too heavy for precise strikes. But forged from Redevilium, it weighs only 550 to 600 grams. The length complements my style, though. I could use other swords, but this one unlocks my full potential." She demonstrated the weight distribution as Romian sat on the grass, listening.
Romian realized something.
Having the right sword matters, but without talent, it's pointless anyway.
"But fundamentals first. Let's correct your posture and movements," Phillia said, executing a few horizontal slashes. Her strikes were elegant yet fierce, cold yet impulsive.
"See? Your legs and waist must coordinate. Rotate your shoulders more, and steady your breath," she instructed, eyeing his stance.
"How do you know my mistakes? Do you spy on my training~? You stalker," Romian teased, covering a smirk.
"D-Don't change the subject! That racket could give anyone a migraine~," she shot back playfully. "Now, try again."
"Ugh, fine." He sighed. "Legs, waist, shoulders… rotate…"
He swung his sword, noticing slight improvement after a few attempts. But the refined movements drained his stamina faster—20 swings now felt like 60. Exhausted, he collapsed after 100.
"Why… Why am I so unlucky and hopeless?" Romian spiraled mentally. ,,Who trains with a sword at midnight? In this world, maybe some do—but I'm weak!''
His wooden practice sword was featherlight, yet his poor posture made each swing grueling. Phillia's corrections tripled the effort.
"I—I can't… anymore," he gasped, drenched in sweat, crumpling to the ground.
Lying on the grass, he stared at the stars. The dazzling moon and constellations—nothing like the light-polluted skies of a city. Phillia sat beside him, gazing up too.
"Isn't the sky beautiful? So many stars… They seem close but are millions of kilometers away. Planets, lives beyond ours… We're just one of many. Yet life is precious—we only get one. Everyone you meet has their own past, their own story. We make wrong choices, right ones… without them, life's monotony. The people we meet, befriend—it's fate. You and I here, under this sky… that's fate too." She smiled softly, a hint of melancholy in her voice.
Her smile was sincere, gentle—it warmed Romian's chest like an embrace. He wanted to retort with his usual pessimism but found himself speechless, captivated. His sky-blue eyes shimmered under the moon, glassy and vulnerable.
Then, unexpectedly, words spilled out—startling even him.
"You're right… The stars are extraordinary. But they pale next to your beauty."