Chapter 16: The Magic Swordsman

A strange tension hung over the training grounds. Outwardly, the fervor of practice was the same as yesterday, but an unspoken awareness bound everyone's attention to a single point: the young lords of the house they served.

"You must warm up properly. Otherwise, the risk of injury is high," Deo instructed.

"Ugh. Like this?" Chel whined, mimicking a stretch.

Deo had been tasked with overseeing the young lords' physical training. Still feigning injury, he was the only one available, and despite his temperament, his skill was undeniable, earning Deraga's trust. His assignment likely included keeping a close watch on Ian, with orders to eliminate him if necessary.

"Extend your arm further back, Young Master," Ian said, feigning helpfulness towards Chel.

"Ah, I can't! It hurts too much," Chel complained.

Ian played the part of the diligent attendant. With Deo present, every action would reach Deraga's ears. Creating suspicion would be foolish; feigning compliance was the wiser course.

"We'll start with basic stamina. No giving up midway. We'll run for about an hour, then I'll assess your sword stances," Deo announced.

Chel's nose wrinkled, his face a mask of misery. The sun would only grow hotter as time passed. Deo checked his timepiece, observing the two boys. If I push them hard enough, they'll quit this charade within days. It wasn't just the inconvenience; in the long run, neither boy should be anywhere near the training grounds. Ian was destined to be sold to the Cheonryeok tribe, and Chel, especially, posed a threat. As he grew older, he would become more involved in Baron Bratz's affairs. If he gained control of the private army, Deo's position would be jeopardized.

"Where are the knights, by the way?" Ian asked, casually stretching. He'd noticed yesterday that most trainees exuded a rough, unrefined air. None possessed the disciplined aura of a true knight. Well, Deo himself isn't a knight, so it's to be expected. Deo seemed to lack a title; the household staff addressed him by various names, none of which included "knight." Nor had Ian seen him wearing the family crest.

"Those noble fellows train separately in their own private grounds. This lot are just pickaxe-swingers turned sword-flailers," Deo sneered, tapping the ground with a stick. His teeth seemed unusually dark today. His flippant tone suggested he was looking for a fight.

"Very well. Different teachers for different students, I suppose," Ian replied, subtly implying that Deo was fit only for beginners. Deo, seemingly oblivious, merely picked at his ear and turned away.

"Now then, let's run."

No estate was without knights. They were the elite, and Bratz's estate was no exception. They were undoubtedly carrying out secret missions and acting as bodyguards. Given this is the border region, there can be at most ten of them. The Royal Palace limited the number of knights a noble could retain, as true knights were recognized for their proven skill and experience in monster hunts and wars. They were a force to be reckoned with, unlike the ragtag group of peasant-turned-soldiers here. They must be quite skilled, Ian mused. They were stationed on the border, facing the Cheonryeok tribe. And despite being here for nearly half a month, Ian hadn't sensed their presence once. They were truly Deraga's shadows.

"Keep running!" Deo barked.

"Huff... huff..." Chel panted, dragging his feet. This was only the second lap. Ian, breathing easily, overtook him.

Deo, trudging along, glanced at Ian. He even knows how to control his breathing. He wasn't necessarily strong, but he moved with an innate efficiency. Unlike Chel, who was falling further behind, Ian steadily kept pace with Deo.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the training grounds, two boys sparred with wooden swords.

"Raaagh!" Berick roared, a flurry of blows forcing his opponent back. The retreat wasn't due to overwhelming force, but simply the relentless onslaught. Berick's expression soured. "Damn it!" Something was off. Last night, he'd felt incredibly light, almost weightless. Now, he felt as if the effects of a drug he hadn't even taken had worn off. He desperately lunged, trying to recapture the fading sensation.

"Hey! Take it easy!" his sparring partner yelled, finally snapping. Their swords clashed, sending both flying. Berick stopped, catching his breath, while his partner spat in disgust.

"That's why I said I didn't want to do this!"

"You lost the bet this morning, Meyral."

No one wanted to spar with Berick. He never held back, treating every exchange like a life-or-death struggle. Several trainees had been injured by his intensity.

The other trainees chuckled, mocking Meyral, who cursed under his breath and retreated to the rest area. Berick, left alone, retrieved his fallen sword.

"Berick."

The voice was familiar now. He looked up at Ian with his crimson eyes. The sweat-drenched boy was smiling brightly.

"What?" Berick grunted.

"You're not telling me to get lost anymore."

"...When did I ever do that?"

"You must have really lost it that day. You don't even remember what you said."

Berick had realized earlier that the young lord who had offered him water was Ian. He'd overheard the gossip about the lord's sons coming to the training grounds.

Ian grinned, clapping Berick on the shoulder. "Well, it's alright. Everyone loses their mind under the scorching sun."

Berick didn't bother replying. Go ahead and mock me, he thought. What could a young lord possibly do to him anyway? He slowly dragged his sword towards the shade, Ian trailing behind him.

Berick frowned, turning back. "Young Master Chel will take a while to get here. I thought I'd walk slowly and rest."

Behind them, Deo was practically dragging Chel along. He'd collapse, Deo would haul him up, and he'd collapse again. It was a chaotic cycle.

"Want some?" Ian offered, pulling out some dried meat from his pocket. The servants had provided it to prevent the trainees from getting hungry. Winning someone over started with fulfilling their basic needs. The more fundamental the need, the more effective the gesture.

However...

"No, thanks," Berick refused without hesitation.

"Why not?"

"No reason to eat it."

This was unexpected. Even with Deraga's focus on expanding his forces, an orphaned soldier wouldn't be living lavishly. He'd be barely scraping by.

"Just leave me alone," Berick said, his speech oddly formal.

"Your speech is strange. If you're going to be respectful, do it properly."

"...," Berick remained silent, his resolve unwavering. He knew Ian was the second son, yet his behavior hadn't changed. He steadfastly rejected any kindness or goodwill.

Ian's initial annoyance quickly turned to realization. This is actually better. I need a tool, not a confidant. Someone indifferent to favors likely had their own strong convictions. If Ian could satisfy those, he could forge a clean, efficient contract.

Berick wrapped his right hand and wooden sword with bandages. Without hesitation, he opened the door to the rest area and called out, "Meyral. Come out."

"Did the heat fry your brain? Don't you dare call my name..."

"Our match isn't over."

Is he insane? Meyral scowled. A hulking figure, twice Berick's size, rose in his place.

"...You've been acting up since yesterday, haven't you?"

"Get lost. I have no business with you."

"Meyral has no business with you either!"

The man grabbed Berick's head and slammed it against the wall. It happened in a flash. Undeterred, Berick retaliated, swinging his wooden sword.

"I said get lost!"

Thwack! Thwack!

Ian chewed on his jerky, observing the scene. Berick's personality was definitely abnormal. He seemed utterly fearless in the face of violence, obsessed with strength and victory.

Thwack! Thwack!

Unfortunately, reality was harsher than his bravado. No matter how hard he fought, Berick couldn't overcome the sheer size difference.

"You crazy bastard! Stop it!"

Thwack! Thwack!

Crack!

The man kicked Berick in the gut like he was punting a ball.

Hmm. That looked like it hurt. Ian winced internally as Berick crumpled to the floor. The man brushed his hands off, chuckling.

"Keep messing around and you won't last long. Though I'd appreciate it if you died early. Hahaha!"

"Ugh..." Berick lay sprawled, gasping for air. Ian crouched beside him, his golden hair falling around Berick's face.

"Want me to teach him a lesson?" Ian whispered.

Berick closed his eyes. "...Get lost, damn it."

"Why? Don't you want to win? There are many ways to win."

Even as the second son, Ian's word could easily dispose of a mere trainee.

But Berick raised his middle finger. "That's meaningless."

Strength. That was his sole criteria for survival. When his family knelt and begged before his father's violence, when their home was painted red with a robber's blade, Berick could do nothing but watch.

Even without knowing the details, Ian understood. "I see. That's your meaning."

Just then, Chel collapsed in the distance. Deo looked flustered as the other trainees gathered around, trying to rouse him. Berick, eyes still closed, muttered, "I swear, if you talk to me one more time, I'll kill you."

"But you're in such a sorry state... tsk tsk."

"Damn it—"

Ian placed his hand over Berick's eyes. Crouched low, his face was hidden from the others. Besides, everyone's attention was on Chel.

"I have a rather interesting method, you see."

He felt Berick's gaze beneath his palm. A burning, fervent spirit. Those crimson eyes were no accident.

"That strength you crave. I can give it to you."

"You're talking nonsense. You're crazy."

"If I give you what you need, you must give me what I need in return."

His voice was serious. Berick's silence surprised Ian. He seemed unable to even offer a dismissive retort. Despite his brash words, he seemed to possess a thoughtful nature.

Bzzt.

Ian channeled his mana, a little more than yesterday, but still not enough for a full awakening. A Magic Swordsman's apprenticeship lasted at least a year, so he would need to invest a similar amount of time in Berick.

"...!"

Berick's fingers twitched. The pain that had consumed him washed away, replaced by a chilling coolness that sharpened his senses. His heart pounded in his ears as he bolted upright.

"Whoa there."

Startled, Ian withdrew his hand. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Then, Berick slowly turned his head. His senses were heightened, every nerve alive. He saw the man who had beaten him, arms crossed, watching the commotion around Chel.

"Tsk tsk. If he'd been like this from the start..."

"This is why Baron Bratz..."

The voices drifted into Berick's ears. His eyes gleaming, he sprang forward instinctively, like a predator unleashed. Discarding his wooden sword, he launched a fist.

Thwack!

"Aaargh!"

"...?"

The man turned, startled by the cry. He was met with Berick, a blur of motion, hair whipping around him despite the still air.

Only Ian knew it was the flow of mana.