The training yard was quiet in the late afternoon. The usual clang of practice steel and Bran's barked orders had faded; the men were eating, resting. Aric had slipped away with his iron sword and a determination that tugged at his chest like a knot.
The grass was patchy beneath his boots, the air sharp with the scent of oiled wood from the dummies lined up in their crooked row. He exhaled, raised his blade, and whispered to himself:
"Quickstep. Arcane Slash. Sword Thrust. Sword Slash."
He moved through them in sequence—light on his feet, blade cutting air, magic sparking faintly on the edge of his strikes. The forms flowed better now, practiced, ingrained. But as his last swing died out, he froze, frowning.
It still felt like parts of a puzzle scattered on the ground. The sword and the magic worked, but separately.
What if they didn't have to?
He tightened his grip on the sword, letting a trickle of mana slide toward the blade. The steel shimmered faintly, that same shimmer Arcane Slash always called forth. But instead of sending it bursting outward, he tried to hold it—to bind it to the blade while slashing normally.
The blade hummed once. Then fizzled with a puff of smoke.
Aric coughed, waving the smoke away.
[Ah, yes. The birth of a grand new technique: "Sword Burnt Fingers." Very deadly. Mainly to you.]
"Shut up," Aric muttered.
[Host, listen. Skills aren't just swinging harder and hoping the universe applauds. They're structured. Patterns. You need shape, control, rhythm. Not… uh, whatever you just did.]
Aric ignored the jibe, trying again. He slashed forward, pulling mana into the swing at the same time, trying to fuse the flow of his muscles with the surge of power. For an instant, the blade left a glowing trail. His heart leapt—
—then the glow sputtered and the sword clattered from his hand as mana backlash stung his palm.
"Damn it!" he hissed, shaking his fingers.
[Congratulations. You've discovered how to weaponize clumsiness. Very advanced.]
Aric glared at the empty air. "It almost worked."
[Almost. That word has killed more hopeful fools than swords ever will. But fine, I'll humor you. You're trying to invent a new skill, yes?]
"Yes." He bent to retrieve his sword, gripping it again, tighter this time. "Arcane Slash is powerful, but it eats mana. I need something lighter. Something I can use in between. A way to fight without draining myself dry."
[Hm. Ambitious. Suicidal, but ambitious.]
Aric steadied himself again. He pictured the Arcane Slash—its burst of energy, its raw, cutting flare. Then he pictured a normal Sword Slash, solid, reliable, his muscles moving without hesitation.
Two streams. One physical, one magical. Couldn't they flow together?
He drew in a breath, exhaled, and slashed. This time, he didn't force mana. He guided it, letting it slip down his arm like water, hoping it would cling to the blade as it cut.
For a heartbeat, the sword gleamed brighter. His chest thumped with hope.
Then it sputtered out. Nothing left but sweat on his brow and a faint ache in his hand.
[Progress: you've invented "Sword Glowstick." Impressive at children's parties. Less useful against, say, a wolf trying to chew your face off.]
Aric scowled, planting the tip of the sword in the dirt and leaning on it. "It's not impossible. I just need more control."
[Control comes from repetition. From weaving one motion a hundred ways until your body finds the path on its own. You're trying to sprint before you've learned to walk.]
Aric's jaw tightened. "I don't have time to crawl."
For once, the System didn't answer right away. The silence stretched, broken only by the wind across the yard. Finally, the voice returned, quieter.
[That fire of yours—fine. Keep it. Just don't burn yourself down chasing sparks. Skills take time. Patience. You'll get there. But not tonight.]
Aric lowered his head, chest still tight with frustration. He wanted it—needed it—to work. The memory of those wolves snapping at him, of the boar's tusks grazing past, still gnawed at him.
But his body was tired, his mana drained. Sweat dripped down his temple. He gritted his teeth, wiped his forehead, and sheathed his sword.
"Tomorrow," he said.
[Better answer: the day after tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that. But sure, let's pretend genius comes overnight.]
Aric allowed himself a thin smile. "You'll see. One day, I'll make it work."
[And on that day, I'll take full credit.]
He laughed softly, trudging back toward the manor as the sun dipped low, leaving the dummies standing silent behind him.