Aaron stood at the edge of the Aetherwyn training field, a borrowed wooden sword in one hand and a sheepish smile on his face.
"I figured if I'm this bad at magic, I should at least try not to die if someone swings a sword at me," he muttered to himself.
Around him, the elite knights of House Aetherwyn stopped sparring one by one, glancing his way with a mixture of curiosity and veiled fear. After all, this was the heir—no, the heir who casually incinerated an ancient forest monster while stretching. Rumors still danced through the manor halls, even if everyone pretended they didn't believe them.
Aaron, of course, believed none of them.
The instructor standing before him was a grizzled man named Ser Dren Volmar—reputed to be one of the three sword saints of the continent. Though he had retired into House Aetherwyn's service, his presence still carried weight. Most of the knights whispered stories of him once cutting down a dragon with nothing but a kitchen knife and a bucket of water.
Ser Dren studied Aaron with the same expression one might give a ticking time bomb made of kittens and lightning.
"You want to… learn the sword," he said slowly.
Aaron nodded. "I'm not expecting much. Just enough to survive if someone throws a rock at me."
Ser Dren's eye twitched. "A rock."
"I have slow reflexes," Aaron added, entirely sincere.
The swordmaster exhaled sharply through his nose. "Very well. Let's begin with the basic form. Observe closely."
He drew his training blade, its polished wood worn smooth by time, and began a demonstration. The movements were fluid but precise, each step measured, each angle clean. It was the foundational stance—known as Silent Moon Flow—something even toddlers from knight families practiced for years.
Aaron nodded. "Okay, let me try."
He stepped forward, and mimicked the entire routine. Perfectly.
Not just "good for a first-timer" perfectly. Perfectly.
So perfectly that a breeze seemed to pass in rhythm with his movements, causing petals from a nearby flowering tree to swirl around him.
Ser Dren dropped his sword.
"What… was that?"
Aaron blinked. "Did I mess up?"
The knights watching from the side had gone dead silent.
Ser Dren picked up his blade slowly, clearing his throat. "No, no. You merely… have a certain instinct. Rare among mages. Very rare."
Aaron scratched his cheek. "I guess I just have good memory? I mean, anyone could copy that. Right?"
Nobody answered.
"Well, let's try the next form," Ser Dren said after a pause, visibly shaken but determined. "This one's more complex. Iron Wind Twelve Flow. Most knights take weeks to internalize it. Watch carefully."
Aaron did.
And then he performed it. Faster. Smoother. Cleaner.
A single leaf sliced in half mid-air as he finished the twelfth step, the blade's wooden edge never touching it.
"That's… impossible," Ser Dren whispered.
Aaron turned to him, panting slightly. "Whew. This is harder than it looks. My arms are already sore."
"I imagine they would be," Ser Dren muttered faintly, more to himself than to Aaron. "After all, it's been centuries since someone used the full Iron Wind with no mana reinforcement…"
"Huh?"
"Nothing."
Aaron leaned on the sword like a walking stick. "So, how am I doing for a beginner?"
"...Terrifying," Ser Dren whispered under his breath. "If he's a beginner, then I've been a drunken goat all my life."
---
Later that evening, Ser Dren called an emergency meeting with the estate's combat instructors.
"I watched him copy the Twelve Flow like he was tying his shoes," he said, pouring himself a drink.
The archer instructor, Lady Syra, stared. "That's not possible. You sure you didn't have a heatstroke again?"
Ser Dren slammed his cup down. "I thought so too! But then he moved like a sword had been an extension of his soul for decades! I saw a leaf split without touching it!"
"I heard he trained under the Eastern Blade Hermits," the axe trainer muttered.
"No, it's worse," Ser Dren replied. "He doesn't even know what that is."
They all went silent.
"Then how—"
"I think… he's the Incarnate Blade. Reborn in mortal form."
Gasps filled the room.
"That's just a legend!"
Ser Dren stood up, eyes wild. "Then explain him! I dare you!"
---
Meanwhile, Aaron sat in his room, arms limp, legs aching.
"Ugh," he groaned. "Sword training is hard. I must be really below average if I'm this sore from basic stances. I didn't even use mana! I'll probably never get it right."
He sighed, leaning back in bed and completely missing the new rumor spiraling through the manor:
"The heir has awakened the Blade Incarnate soul. He's hiding it for now."
---
The next morning, Aaron dragged himself back to the training field. He had barely slept. His arms hurt. His legs felt like noodles. But… he was determined.
If I don't work twice as hard, I'll never catch up. The fake protagonist is probably doing sword dances on top of volcanoes by now.
Ser Dren was already waiting for him—this time dressed in formal dueling robes, his face stern, his posture flawless.
"Today," he said gravely, "we spar."
Aaron froze. "Wait, I thought we were still doing basics."
"I must see it for myself," Ser Dren muttered.
The knights gathered to watch. Even some servants peeked from windows.
"Use the practice sword," the master instructed. "Strike me. Any way you like."
Aaron swallowed. "Okay… but don't blame me if I trip and hit myself."
He rushed forward with a standard overhead swing. Slow. Predictable.
But as he stepped, he slipped slightly on a rock—and twisted mid-swing to avoid falling.
The sword arced unexpectedly… and grazed the tip of Ser Dren's ear.
Silence.
Utter silence.
Ser Dren blinked.
"That was…" he said slowly, touching his ear.
"Oh gods, I'm so sorry," Aaron said, dropping the sword. "I slipped!"
"...A feint into a reverse diagonal spiral. You slipped into one of the forbidden death arcs of the Northern Flow."
Aaron froze. "...Huh?"
Ser Dren bowed deeply. "You are truly a master in disguise. Please forgive my insolence yesterday."
"Wait, wait—what?! No, I messed up! I literally slipped!"
The crowd began to murmur again.
"Did you see that move?"
"It was beautiful…"
"I couldn't even track it…"
Aaron looked around, panic rising. "No, guys, it was an accident! I have terrible balance!"
A maid in the corner whispered, "Even his clumsiness is divine."
---
By evening, Aaron had locked himself in his room again.
I messed up. Again. Now they're all looking at me weirdly. I bet they think I'm faking my incompetence…
He looked at his reflection in the mirror, then sighed and slumped over the desk.
I have to try even harder tomorrow. Maybe a new instructor. Or a different weapon. Something really basic.
He pulled out a book titled Basic Polearm Theory.
"That's more my level," he muttered.
Outside his door, servants whispered:
"Apparently, the young master is moving on to master-level spear forms next."
"He's going too fast for even Ser Dren to keep up!"
Aaron hummed to himself, unaware.
---
End of Chapter 13.