A week later, I started my swordsmanship training on our family's private training grounds.
It was… alright?
Actually, no. It sucked. My arms hated me. My feet forgot how to function. My spine felt like it was going to fold in half.
But worse than the physical pain was the mental noise.
Because every second out there, every swing of that wooden blade, a voice whispered in the back of my skull—
What if they find out?
What if they see through you?
What if this is just another mask you're not allowed to take off?
Instructor Calden was, as promised, strict as hell. The guy looked like he chewed steel for breakfast and used broken dreams as seasoning. He barely blinked, never smiled, and had a voice like he gargled gravel every morning just to sound more intimidating.
Still… I'll give him credit. No bullshit. No fake encouragement. No soft lies.
Just truth.
Cold, sharp, and painfully real.
"Swordsmanship," he said, pacing across the dirt with his boots crunching like thunder, "is more than swinging a blade around like an idiot with a stick. We recognize five foundational styles—each born from a different kind of soul."
He stopped and planted his training blade into the ground with a solid thunk.
"Some styles feed off the body. Others draw from emotion, instinct... even belief. All have strengths. All can get you killed if you don't respect them."
And then he laid them out—one by one.
Dragon Style
"The most balanced. Elegant. Powerful. It's the style of knights, nobles, commanders. It values control—every move should dominate the battlefield, not react to it."
He didn't have to say it—but I knew.
This was the style they expected me to learn. The one that matched the name I was given, not the boy I used to be.
The noble's path. The legacy. The image.
The one I'd better not screw up.
Divine Style
"Faith is its weapon. Divine swordsmen channel holy energy—light, purity, clarity. Every strike is a prayer, every step a sermon."
He looked me dead in the eye.
"But... if your faith wavers, even for a second, the whole thing collapses. Divine Style punishes doubt."
Yeah, hard pass.
I'm built of nothing but doubt.
Demon Style
"This one's raw. Fueled by rage, fear, grief—any dark emotion you've got bottled up inside. The more you hurt, the harder you hit."
Something clenched in my chest when he said that.
Rage? Fear?
I had plenty of both. Too much, probably.
"It makes you stronger. Makes you feel unstoppable. But it eats away at your stamina—and your mind. Use it too long, and it'll start using you."
I looked away. My hands curled without meaning to.
I didn't want to relate to that one. But I did.
Human Style
"No tricks. No emotion. Just pure skill."
He gave a shrug, the closest thing to casual I'd seen from him.
"It's flexible. Clean. Efficient. The most... normal style. Doesn't shine in any one area, but it doesn't have a fatal flaw either."
A safe bet. Boring.
But safe isn't a bad word when you've spent your life being hunted by fists and fear.
Beast Style
"The wild one."
Calden actually smirked—just for a second. It was so out of place it made my stomach twist.
"Animalistic instinct. No form, no structure—just raw power and sudden strikes. Practitioners hit hard, fast, without warning. But if they lose control? They become more beast than swordsman."
I tried not to show how much I loved the sound of that.
Something primal. Free.
Unpredictable.
But also dangerous.
And dangerous is how people get hurt.
Then, as if that wasn't already too much to absorb, Calden added:
"And then… there are hybrids. Masters who combine two styles. Divine-Beast. Dragon-Demon. Human-Ghost, even—if such a thing exists."
He paused.
"But that's far beyond you. For now, we start with the basics."
I nodded slowly, trying to focus—trying to breathe past the knot in my chest.
Five paths. Five different philosophies. And somewhere in that chaos… I had to find mine.
Even though a part of me was still screaming You don't belong in any of them.
But I was going to find out.
Calden threw a wooden sword before my feet.
"Get it."
Not a question. Not a suggestion. Just a command, sharp as glass.
It felt heavier than it looked. The grip was rough. The weight awkward. Not impossible—but definitely not friendly.
Like everything else in this damn life.
He didn't wait for me to get a feel for it.
"Today, you'll start with the Dragon Style. Traditional. Clean. The kind of swordplay nobles are expected to know by age seven."
Cool. No pressure.
"Feet apart. Left foot forward. Stop looking at me like I slapped your dog."
I scrambled to position myself. My arms moved like they were filled with mud.
He circled me like a hawk watching a broken-winged chick.
"Dragon Style is about control," he said. "You dominate the space around you. You force your enemy to play by your rules. If you're reacting, you're already losing."
He stepped into position across from me and lifted his own training blade, one-handed, like it weighed nothing.
"You won't master it anytime soon. But if you can stop tripping over your own feet, we might make a swordsman out of you."
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Alright then. Let's see what happens when a barely five-year-old reincarnated nerd swings a sword for the first time.
I tightened my grip.
Tried to ignore how my fingers already felt like they were slipping.
Calden raised his blade slowly—demonstration, not threat.
"First form. Horizontal guard. Blade angled down. Elbow tucked. Left foot forward, right heel off the ground."
I mirrored him.
Kind of.
Not well.
"Now swing."
I swung.
Poorly.
It was more like a half-slap with a plank of wood than anything resembling an actual strike.
Calden didn't react. Didn't laugh. Didn't mock. He just nodded once, like he'd seen this a thousand times before and filed it under expected disaster.
"Again."
And again.
And again.
Until my arms screamed.
Until sweat blurred my vision.
Until I forgot how to feel anything but the burn in my muscles and the sting in my pride.
"Your blade has no weight," Calden said, finally. "You're throwing it like it's a toy."
"It's… kind of heavy," I muttered, voice cracking.
He stepped in.
Without a word, he adjusted my grip. Moved my wrist. Tilted my elbow. Shifted my feet.
"You're not fighting the sword," he said. "You're fighting your own bad habits. Stop that."
Bad habits?
You mean flinching when people raise their voice? You mean guarding my ribs out of instinct? You mean hiding behind silence because silence is safe?
Yeah. Got plenty of those.
I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded.
Didn't complain.
Didn't cry.
Just kept swinging.
Again.
And again.
Until Calden finally said:
"That's enough for today."
My arms felt like wet paper. I dropped the wooden sword as gently as I could and sat on the edge of the training bench.
He handed me a waterskin without a word.
"Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."
And then he walked away.
No praise.
No insult.
Just silence.
Swordsmanship, huh?
That was something.
Later that day, while I was dragging my half-dead body back to my room, I got intercepted.
My father.
He stopped me right in the middle of the corridor, arms behind his back, posture straight as ever.
I flinched internally. My legs were jelly, my shoulders felt like I'd been run over by a wagon, and my hands still stung from gripping that wooden sword all morning.
What now?
I just wanted to throw myself face-first into bed and not move until next week.
"How was your first training, kid?"
Wait… did he just call me kid?
Even weirder—he chuckled.
No, seriously. Dravon Selkareth, Lord of the House, a man who practically breathes stoicism, chuckled. It wasn't much, just a breath and a twitch of the mouth, but still.
That was new.
"Painful. Exhausting. Awful," I said honestly.
He smiled—barely. Just a twitch of the lip.
"Good," he said, still half-smiling. "Means Calden didn't go easy on you."
He started walking again, brushing past me like it was just a casual hallway chat. Just before he turned the corner, he added:
"Keep at it. The blade will shape you faster than comfort ever could."
And just like that, he was gone.
...
Okay, sure. Inspiring words, mysterious wisdom, noble dad stuff.
Cool.
But right now?
I just wanted to collapse.
By the time I made it back to my room, I felt like someone had replaced my arms with wet noodles.
I didn't even bother changing out of my training clothes. Just collapsed onto the bed like a corpse and let the mattress absorb what little soul I had left.
Sword training.
Day one.
It sucked. A lot.
Everything hurt. My fingers were still shaking, my legs were sore in places I didn't even know could be sore, and my pride had taken at least three direct hits.
But…
I didn't hate it.
There was something about it—about earning each movement, each adjustment, each breath of progress—that felt real. Like it was mine.
Unlike the magic.
That part of me still felt like a secret I wasn't supposed to have. A glitch. A risk. Something I stole from fate instead of something I was given.
But this?
Swinging a sword. Getting yelled at by a guy who probably eats nails for breakfast. Being told I'm trash, then told to do it again—better?
It felt honest.
And then there was my father.
Dravon. Stoic, intimidating, never-emotions-showing Dravon.
He chuckled today. Chuckled.
Called me "kid."
Didn't scold me. Didn't criticize me. Just… asked.
It caught me off guard.
Maybe I expected him to be colder. Or maybe I'd built up this image of him as some unapproachable wall.
But he didn't seem disappointed.
He actually seemed… proud?
Weird.
All of it was weird.
Swordsmanship, pain, awkward compliments from emotionally distant dads. Weird day.
But kind of a good one.
I closed my eyes, letting my body sink into the sheets.
Tomorrow's gonna hurt worse.
But for once, I don't hate the idea of waking up to it.