As Evan watched Lyria disappear into the trees, he exhaled and sat against a nearby trunk, wiping the sweat from his brow.
[Ding!]
Piko:
"Hey, Evan. Want to learn a real sword skill? Not some basic swing, but something with bite. It'll be rough, though."
Evan blinked, then smirked.
"Rough?" he murmured, chuckling softly. "The blade doesn't ask if you're ready. It cuts whether you're weak or strong."
There was a pause… then:
Piko:
"Heh. A sword that trembles fears its wielder more than the enemy."
Evan laughed. "That's from Way of the Cold Blade, volume three!"
Piko:
"You're not the only sword nerd here, y'know."
They both laughed, Evan clutching his side from both pain and amusement.
"I've always dreamed of saying cool stuff like that in battle," Evan grinned. "Swinging the blade and shouting something like— 'The wind doesn't hesitate… and neither do I!'"
Piko:
"Okay, okay—calm down, future anime protagonist. Focus first. Train later. Quotes last."
Still grinning, Evan leaned back and stared at the forest canopy.
"But hey," he said more softly, "Thanks, Piko. For being here."
Piko:
"Just don't die. I'm investing a lot in you, future sword freak."
As the laughter faded and the forest grew quiet again, another crisp notification echoed in Evan's mind.
[Piko Quest Issued!]
Task:
Perform 100 Perfect Thrusts
Perform 100 Sword Swings (from multiple angles)
Reward: Advanced Sword Skills
Note: Precision is key. Sloppy effort won't count.
Piko:
"Let's see if you're ready for something more. Do this, and I'll show you a proper technique—not just muscle swinging, but control, accuracy, and flow. Real swordsmanship."
Evan's eyes widened. "A hundred thrusts and a hundred swings?! That's insane…"
But after a breath, his lips curved into a grin. "The sword doesn't bend to excuses—it sharpens on discipline," he whispered, quoting one of his favorite lines.
Piko:
"Look at you quoting again. Fine, prove it."
Without wasting time, Evan planted his feet and began the thrust drills. One after another, he focused on keeping the tip straight, his footwork balanced. Sweat rolled down his cheeks by the time he hit 30. His arms began to tremble at 50.
When he reached 67, his breath grew ragged, and his form broke slightly.
"Damn… my arm won't… move like before," he muttered, lowering the wooden sword, hands shaking.
The sky had already turned orange, fading into violet. Crickets began to chirp. Evan looked up and exhaled deeply.
"…I'll finish this tomorrow."
He turned and walked back toward the manor, wobbling slightly.
When he arrived, Mara met him by the gate, lantern in hand. Her expression softened when she saw how exhausted he was.
"You're pushing yourself too much again," she said with a worried smile.
Evan forced a small grin. "I'll finish what I started. I promise."
She simply nodded and helped guide him inside.
The next morning sunlight streamed softly into the dining hall. Evan sat at the table, sleeves rolled up, arms resting limply beside his plate. His hands trembled slightly as he tried to lift the spoon.
"C'mon…" he muttered, focusing hard. His hand moved—awkwardly—and the spoon clattered back into the bowl with a clink.
He pouted and shook his hand loose like it was made of jelly. "Even my fingers are sore…"
Piko:
"That's what happens when you try to go full sword god in one day. Your muscles hate you now."
"Thanks, very encouraging," Evan grumbled.
Across from him, Mara watched silently, then chuckled softly behind her hand. "You look like a baby bird trying to feed itself for the first time."
"Hey… I'm a warrior in the making!" Evan said with a mock scowl.
Mara giggled again, standing up. "Alright, brave warrior. Let me help."
She pulled her chair closer, took the spoon, and gently fed him a bite. Evan tried to act tough, but the blush rising to his cheeks betrayed him.
"Mom…"
"What? Can't I feed my son who's training like a madman?" she said with a playful pout. "Besides, it's nice. You've grown so serious lately… let me have this moment."
Evan smiled quietly as she fed him another spoonful. For a while, there was just warmth between them—the smell of food, the quiet clatter of utensils, and the soft laughter of a mother and her determined child.
Piko:
"…Honestly? I think I'm getting cavities from watching this."
Evan rolled his eyes, chuckling. "Shut up, Piko."
Kingdom of Siethruith.
A land crowned in splendor and shadow. It stood as a realm of ancient bloodlines, refined customs, and unspoken laws—where strength was beauty, and weakness a curse. Behind every polished smile, whispers of power drifted like smoke through stone halls.
At its heart gleamed the capital: Caer Selyra.
A city of marble towers and moonlit courtyards, where spellbound lanterns lit narrow alleys and nobles dueled behind rose gardens. Beneath its elegance, the roots of forgotten magic still pulsed, feeding ambition in secret.
But far beyond the gilded streets and perfumed politics rose something older. Wilder. The Skyfract Range.
A wall of jagged stone where the heavens once cracked, or so the bards sang. The peaks shimmered like shattered blades, haunted by wind and legend. Some claimed gods died there. Others believed they simply watched, still and waiting.
And there—standing at the edge of a wind-swept cliff in the Skyfract Range—was a man whose presence silenced even the screaming wind.
His hair, silver as moonlight, danced with the current. A long coat billowed behind him, marked by the crest of House Valencrest. And in his hand, resting gently at his side, gleamed a blade—too elegant for war, too deadly for ceremony.
Lord Alaric Valencrest.
His gaze swept across the horizon, piercing beyond the mountains, beyond the capital, beyond even the present.
"…It begins," he muttered.
And the wind stilled.
Standing atop the jagged cliffs of the Skyfract Range, Lord Alaric Valencrest looked down at the land below.
His coat flared in the cold wind. His sword, still sheathed, rested calmly at his hip. But his eyes—sharp, silver, unblinking—had already sensed it.
A disturbance.
From the valley below, a tide of shadows surged forward. Grotesque figures—monsters—raced across the fields like a swarm of darkness. Fangs, claws, and malformed limbs blurred together into chaos. They were heading straight for the kingdom.
For Caer Selyra.
Alaric did not flinch.
He stepped forward, the stone beneath his boots cracking faintly under his presence. Then, with a slow breath, he reached for his sword.
Shhh—k!
A single motion.
He drew the blade and slashed upward—effortless, precise. The tip of the sword pointed toward the sky, trailing a faint shimmer of energy in its wake.
Then—
BOOM.
A shockwave burst forth. A blinding arc of energy tore across the mountain, descending on the swarm below.
The slash landed.
The front lines of the monsters froze mid-charge.
Then, silently… they split in half—cleanly, brutally—before collapsing to the ground.
The rest of the swarm stopped. The survivors backed away, fear flickering in their glowing eyes.
Alaric exhaled and lowered his sword, his voice like thunder beneath calm skies.
"Know this," he said coldly. "So long as I still draw breath… this kingdom will not fall."
He turned and walked away, the wind rising in his wake.
One hour before afternoon, deep inside the peaceful Valencrest Forest, Evan steadied his breath and focused his mind. Gripping the wooden sword tightly, he began counting each thrust with deliberate care.
"Ninety-five."
His arm shot forward, the wooden sword slicing through the air, muscles burning but steady.
"Ninety-six."
His shoulders ached now, sweat dribbling down his temple as he forced himself to maintain proper form.
"Ninety-seven."
His legs wobbled slightly, but he adjusted his stance, planting his feet firmly in the soft earth.
"Ninety-eight."
A sharp sting bit into his forearms; the repetitive motion wore at his strength, but his resolve hardened.
"Ninety-nine."
His breath came faster, chest rising and falling as exhaustion crept in, but he refused to falter.
"One hundred."
With a final powerful thrust, he pushed through the pain, his hand trembling as he lowered the wooden sword.
His body was drenched in sweat, every fiber screaming for rest, yet a flicker of triumph lit his eyes. This wasn't just practice—it was the beginning of something greater.
Evan's body trembled from the effort, sweat soaking his clothes. Just as he was about to collapse, a calm voice echoed inside his mind.
Piko: "You're doing great, Evan. Take a moment to catch your breath. Rest now—then when you're ready, do 100 swings with different arms and from various angles. It'll help you build strength and versatility."
She added, "Remember this—'A sword is not just a weapon; it's an extension of the soul. Master it, and you master yourself.' Keep that in your heart."
Evan's tired eyes brightened with renewed determination. He nodded silently, ready to push himself further.
After resting for an hour, Evan wiped the sweat from his brow and switched the wooden sword to his left hand. He was determined to strengthen his weaker side.
He began swinging carefully, counting aloud to keep track.
"One… two… three…"
The cool forest air filled his lungs as he focused on maintaining proper form.
By the time he reached thirty-eight swings with his left arm, his muscles burned fiercely, and his movements grew slower and less precise. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and his grip wavered.
He gritted his teeth. "Almost there..."
But his arm trembled uncontrollably on the next swing, forcing him to pause.
Taking a deep breath, Evan shifted the sword back to his right hand, recalling that he had already completed sixty-two swings earlier with that arm.
He resumed counting from sixty-three.
"Sixty-three… sixty-four…"
Though his right arm was less fatigued, the relentless practice weighed heavily on him. Yet, he pushed forward, determined to reach a total of one hundred swings.