The sword felt... wrong.
Not heavy. Not awkward.
Too light.
Cael gripped it anyway.
Around him, sword trainees slowed their drills to watch. A few muttered bets. Most just waited to see the broom boy fall on his face.
Across from him, the gray-armored man stood still, arms crossed.
"Swing," he said.
Cael frowned. "No stance? No direction?"
The man didn't blink. "Show me what your hands remember."
Aether:"Recommendation: Apply broom stroke template. Adjust for blade length and center balance. No further input."
Cael exhaled slowly.
He widened his stance, shifted his heel slightly forward—just like the repetitive motion Aether had drilled into him. His hands lifted the sword the way they'd lifted the broom thousands of times.
Then he swung.
Once.
Clean. Quiet. Straight through the air.
No Edge glow. No dramatic shockwave.
But something snapped in the air.
The senior trainee watching from the side flinched. A hanging strip of cloth tied to a nearby rack tore clean in half, cut by the pressure alone.
Cael blinked.
He hadn't even been aiming that way.
"…Was that supposed to happen?" he asked.
Aether:"Edge Echo confirmed. Range extension achieved. Form synchronization: 13%."
The man across from him stared for a long second, then stepped forward.
He drew his sword.
Cael tensed.
But instead of attacking, the man tapped Cael's elbow, adjusted his grip, then stepped back.
"Again," he said.
Cael swung again. This time with intent.
The sword hummed.
The air trembled. Dust lifted. A shallow groove etched itself in the dirt between his feet.
The trainees who had been laughing earlier fell silent.
The man finally spoke.
"That movement… it's not from this camp."
Cael tilted his head. "It's from… sweeping?"
The man grunted. "Sweeping doesn't generate edge flow."
Aether:"Incorrect. Edge flow exists in all repeated motion tied to will and breath. This is the foundation of Blade Emergence."
"...Aether agrees with me," Cael said.
The man gave him a look. "Is Aether your imaginary friend or something?"
Cael shrugged. "Sort of."
Another pause.
Then the man said, "Name?"
"Cael."
The man extended a hand.
"Doran. Edge Knight. Semi-retired. I'm going to train you."
Cael blinked. "Wait, what? Why?"
Doran gave a sharp smile.
"Because I've never seen a kid swing a sword like he's been fighting for twenty years… after holding one for five minutes."
Cael looked at the blade in his hand.
It was still a beginner's sword. Still too light. Still not his.
But in his bones, something felt right.
Aether:"Progress Alert: You are developing an unnamed Form. When it reaches 30% synchronization, naming will be required."
Cael narrowed his eyes.
He didn't know if this path made sense.
But for once, it didn't feel like he was chasing shadows.
Doran didn't talk much.
He just handed Cael a wooden sword, gestured to a clearing behind the barracks, and began to move.
No instruction. No counting. Just motion.
Cael watched. The strikes were slow—almost lazy—but carried a weight that made his bones tense with every step. Each swing was measured, cutting the air like it owed him something.
After the fifth pass, Doran stopped.
"Copy it."
Cael blinked. "Just like that?"
"If you can't mimic, you can't learn."
He tried. The swing was too high, his footwork too shallow. His weight tilted forward.
Aether:"Incorrect arc. Hip rotation late. Edge generation: 2%."
Cael sighed and reset.
Then did it again.
And again.
And again.
Doran didn't say a word for an hour. Just watched.
When the sun hit its peak, Doran finally spoke.
"You don't know anything about Forms, do you?"
Cael wiped sweat from his neck. "I've heard the word thrown around."
Doran sat down on a flat stone, tossing him a canteen.
"In this world, swordsmanship isn't just technique. It's legacy. Every major kingdom, clan, or sect has a Form—a named style. Each one passed down, refined, adapted."
He pointed at Cael.
"But you? You're an unaligned."
Cael nodded slowly. "Because I have no school."
"Because your body's building one from scratch," Doran corrected. "That's dangerous."
Cael raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous how?"
"Because when you name your Form, the world watches. And if your Form spreads, you'll draw the attention of kingdoms, warbands, religious orders. They'll want to steal it, kill it, or claim it."
Cael exhaled. "So naming a sword style... is like declaring war?"
"In some places, yes."
Aether:"Correction: It is a political, spiritual, and military statement. Naming a Form without patronage is considered heresy in some provinces."
Cael groaned. "So even sword swings have red tape in this world?"
Doran gave a dry laugh. "Now you're getting it."
[Task Update: Bladeform Development]— Practice 100 swings of Doran's base form— Compare flow with existing motion pattern— Detect inefficiency and adjust
They trained until Cael's hands blistered. His arms burned. His legs screamed.
But something in the motion clicked.
Aether:"Edge Flow Calibration: 19%Hybridization in progress.Result: Unnamed Form (Prototype) evolving."
Cael didn't know what all that meant.
But for the first time since arriving in this broken, sword-obsessed world...
He didn't feel like he was just surviving anymore.
The wooden sword felt heavier today.
Not in weight—in meaning.
Cael had spent the past three days doing nothing but copying Doran's footwork, repeating motion drills, and absorbing Aether's passive-aggressive commentary.
Aether:"Stance stability improved. Spine alignment: 76%.Strike efficiency: 14%.""Muscle fatigue acceptable. Continue."
Every time he got something right, he got five more things wrong. And he was fine with that.
Pain meant he was moving forward.
He could feel the edges of something real now. Not magic. Not talent.Control.
Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated progress.
"Oi! Null-boy!"
The voice hit like a hammer. Cael paused mid-drill.
Blond Hair. Arrogant sneer. The same trainee who knocked the broom from his hands.
Rannick.
"Still playing swordsman, huh?" Rannick smirked. "You've got some guts swinging a blade in front of real trainees."
"I'm training," Cael said simply.
Rannick stepped closer, drawing his own practice sword—polished, reinforced, and too fancy for a beginner.
"You're wasting everyone's time," he said. "You don't belong here. Nulls belong in kitchens, not in spar grounds."
Around them, others were gathering. A circle was forming.
Rannick raised his sword. "Let's make it simple. Duel me. Prove you're worth breathing the same air as us."
Cael didn't move.
Aether:"Threat level: Moderate. Sword style: Linear burst form. Weakness: delayed recovery on heavy swings."
He looked at Doran, standing silently on the edge of the crowd. The old knight gave him a subtle nod.
Fine.
Cael stepped forward.
"I don't know your style," he said calmly. "I don't even know mine."
Rannick smirked. "All the easier for me."
The wooden blades clacked together in a flurry of sparks.
Rannick lunged forward with a practiced diagonal slash. Cael sidestepped—and slipped.
The crowd snorted.
But Cael didn't fall.
Instead, he flowed, low and tight, letting the miss drag Rannick forward just an inch too far.
Cael pivoted. One clean arc.
Crack.
Rannick's sword spun out of his hands.
Silence.
Rannick looked down at his empty fingers like they'd betrayed him.
Aether:"Form Deviation: Successful.Custom motion archived.Bladeflow milestone: 31%.Naming unlocked."
Cael stood tall, eyes locked on his opponent.
"I didn't dodge by mistake," he said quietly. "I learned that from sweeping floors."
Doran broke the silence with a low whistle.
"That wasn't mine," he murmured. "That form was yours."
"You're not allowed to name a form without guild sanction."
The voice came from the edge of the crowd, sharp as steel. A woman stepped forward, dressed in silver-trimmed leather and bearing the crest of the Form Registry Guild—a stylized blade etched into a law scroll.
She looked about Cael's age, but her tone carried authority far beyond it.
Cael blinked. "The what?"
Doran sighed beside him. "Every blade form must be registered with the Form Guild to be recognized. It's politics wrapped in tradition. You name a style, you declare ownership—and the world listens."
The crowd murmured.
The woman stepped closer. "Your unnamed technique just disarmed a licensed trainee in a formal spar. Under guild rules, that qualifies as a 'combat-declared form.' By tradition, it must be named—or disbanded."
"Disbanded?" Cael echoed.
"Renounce it. Swear it was accidental. That it will never be taught, spread, or used again."
He frowned.
"It wasn't accidental."
A pause.
Aether:"Statement confirmed. Form designation required.Suggestions available. Would you like to review?"
No, Cael thought. Not yet.
"Then name it," the guild woman said. "Now. Before this becomes a problem."
Cael looked at his hands.
He had no sect. No family sword line.No legacy.
Just pain, repetition, and a broom handle that once cut dust like air.
He raised his head.
"I don't have a name for it," he said honestly. "Not yet."
The woman's expression tightened. "Then until you do, any use of that technique violates registration code. Further use could be treated as weapon fraud."
"What if I just keep using it for myself?" Cael asked.
"That's worse," she said flatly. "Unregistered forms used in field combat are considered rogue styles. In wartime zones, they're treated as hostile threats."
Cael didn't flinch.
He didn't understand all the rules yet.But he knew one thing:
That sword strike earlier… it was his. Not borrowed. Not learned.
Just earned.
Aether:"Form Progress: 38%Suggested interim codename: Dustline SeveranceRisk Level: Low if kept unspoken. Moderate if spread.Note: Authority challenge inevitable."
"Then I'll keep it to myself," Cael said. "For now."
The woman studied him. Then, with a curt nod, she turned away.
"You have one month. Register it or renounce it. If it's seen in public after that… the Guild will act."
Doran clapped him on the shoulder once she left.
"Congratulations, Cael. You just accidentally declared a private war against a government branch."
"…Is that bad?"
Doran smirked. "Only if they realize you're worth fighting."