Change Is Coming (9)

The midday sun hung high over the Drexsic Manor's training grounds, its golden rays cutting through the clear sky. The air shimmered faintly from the heat, and the faint scent of dust and sweat lingered.

In the heart of the estate's vast courtyard, a lone figure stood. His form—lean yet steadily developing muscle—moved in rhythm with the wooden blade in his hand.

Vryne stood drenched in sweat, his shirt clinging tightly to his body. His amber hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, and each breath came out ragged and shallow. He had been at this for nearly two hours—an exhausting cycle of strikes, footwork, and positioning.

Yet it wasn't enough.

Vryne's wooden sword blurred through the air as he shifted into motion once again. His stance widened as he drove his foot forward, twisting his hips and pivoting his back leg to add momentum. The blade slashed diagonally—cutting through the air in a clean arc.

Sand and dust kicked up from the force.

He followed through with a sudden backstep, shifting his weight low before twisting again—this time, the blade sweeping upward from below, mimicking the motion of cutting through a foe's guard.

Pivot. Step. Slash. Twist. Backstep. Forward strike.

His muscles strained with every movement, but Vryne forced himself to maintain the flow. His footwork remained sharp — never flat, never sluggish. He adjusted his balance after each swing, planting his lead foot firmly as his back leg shifted in tandem.

His arms flexed with every motion, the wooden blade feeling heavier with each strike. Yet his gaze never wavered. He imagined an opponent — shifting angles, sidestepping invisible counters, and weaving between imagined thrusts.

The blade crashed down one final time — an overhead arc that split the air.

A powerful gust of wind followed the strike, scattering loose sand and debris across the courtyard.

Vryne staggered back, chest heaving and muscles burning. The wooden sword drooped loosely in his hand, the ache in his shoulders and forearms warning him that his body was nearing its limit.

"Not enough…" he muttered between heavy breaths. "Not nearly enough."

—

Vryne rested the wooden blade against his shoulder and wiped his sweat-drenched brow, pushing his damp amber hair back. His thoughts drifted back to what he remembered about the original Vryne from the novel.

Vryne El Drexsic wasn't particularly talented with the sword, nor did he possess remarkable strength or mana. But what made him unique was something far rarer—a rare, understated ability known as an Adapter.

Adapters — individuals born with an instinctive gift for understanding combat through effort and observation. While they weren't as powerful as naturally Gifted prodigies or those born with inherited Talents, Adapters were considered diamonds in the rough.

They thrived through failure, trial, and determination, refining themselves with each mistake or success. Their ability wasn't something flashy like overwhelming strength or enhanced reflexes — it was a quiet evolution. The more they practiced, the sharper their understanding became.

Vryne remembered the author once describing Adapters as:

"A sharpened blade, born dull but capable of cutting steel after enough polishing."

From what Vryne knew, the original Vryne trained diligently for four years and only managed to reach the Mid-Beginner stage of swordsmanship. His progress was slow—but his growth, once developed, would eventually snowball into something formidable.

"If I want to survive… adapting isn't enough."

Swordsmanship alone wouldn't save him. The future events he remembered from the novel were far too chaotic. Combat would come from every direction — close quarters, ranged attacks, and even unconventional methods.

He needed more than just a sword.

Vryne's gaze wandered to the far end of the training grounds, where two attendants were hauling cleaning supplies toward the garden. He raised a hand, calling out:

"You there!"

The two men froze. They exchanged nervous glances before awkwardly pointing at one another.

"Which one of us?" one stammered.

"Either is fine," Vryne replied dryly.

The pair glanced at one another again before one of them — a younger man with short brown hair and a nervous expression — handed the supplies to his companion and cautiously approached.

He bowed his head, his tone stiff and formal.

"Y-Yes, young master?"

Vryne took a moment to study the attendant. He was lean but looked decently fit — a man accustomed to manual labor. His uniform sleeves were rolled back slightly, revealing faint scars across his arms — likely from accidents during work.

"I need you to bring me some books," Vryne began. "One on spear training… another on bows… and…" He paused, contemplating the final request. "…and one on boxing."

The attendant's eyes widened, his brow furrowed in visible confusion.

"B-Boxing, my lord?" he stammered.

Vryne blinked. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

"N-No!" The attendant shook his head rapidly. "It's just… unusual."

Vryne tilted his head slightly. Unusual?

"Is there a reason why?" Vryne asked, crossing his arms.

The attendant swallowed. "I… I just mean… most nobles prefer formal combat arts — swordsmanship, archery, or mana techniques. Boxing is… well… commoner brawling."

Vryne frowned thoughtfully.

"Commoner brawling…" Yet that was exactly why he wanted it. Boxing wasn't about grace or elegance — it was about raw practicality. If he couldn't rely on technique alone, he'd use instinct and grit to survive.

The attendant shifted uncomfortably under Vryne's prolonged silence.

"Well?" Vryne asked.

"N-No problem at all!" The attendant hurriedly bowed. "I'll gather the books right away!"

He turned, moving quickly across the training grounds, his steps brisk and awkward.

Vryne exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck. "…Did I do something out of character?" he muttered to himself.

—

Unbeknownst to Vryne, the attendant's hurried footsteps didn't stop when he entered the manor. He moved deeper through the halls — past the library, past the servant quarters — before finally stopping outside a shadowed corner.

"…He asked for a book on boxing," the attendant muttered to the empty hallway.

Out of the darkness, a pair of crimson eyes gleamed faintly. A soft, amused hum followed.

"Well, isn't that interesting?" a smooth voice whispered.

"Should I report this to the Lord?" the attendant asked hesitantly.

"No…" the voice responded. "For now… just keep watching."

The attendant nodded shakily and hurried away.

From the shadows, the woman Ivor had assigned to spy on Vryne lingered in place, her cold gaze fixated on the direction the young heir had gone.

"Let's see where your ambitions lead you," she murmured.