Chapter 19- Learning to change grip of the sword

The cheers still echoed in the stone coliseum long after the match ended. But Boselin, who had stood among the watching crowd, gave no applause. No nod. No glance. He simply turned — coat fluttering in the night wind — and walked away without a word.

The crowd, however, needed no validation.

"That boy… he didn't move fast — but made the other one move faster."

"He didn't fight with strength. He fought with Intelligence"

"Ravelinora? Wasn't that a peaceful nation? What kind of monsters are they hiding there?"

The name Lyriq Raveline had turned into whispers that spilled into taverns and torchlit alleys across Carcel.

Not because he won.

But how he won.

Where others swung with might, he struck with calculated absence.

Where others rushed forward, he let timing collapse into opportunity.

Some called it luck.

Others called it genius.

Meanwhile in the inn, Lyriq sat alone, his wooden sword laid across his knees like a silent judge.

He replayed the match in his mind.Not the crowd. Not the cheers.Just one thought:

"It was a gamble.

He rushed — I was right.

But what if he didn't?"

That question clanged louder than Gorsova's sword ever had.

He didn't feel pride.

He felt deficiency.

"I don't want to win because they make a mistake.I want to win even when they don't."

The door creaked open.

Boselin stepped in, eyes unreadable. He walked past Lyriq in silence. Then a single moment he placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Your second match… will not be like the first."

Then, he vanished upstairs.

Lyriq lowered his gaze.

"I know."

And so began the next phase.

In his room, under moonlight that painted shadows across the floor, Lyriq stood before a dull mirror. His wooden sword glinted faintly worn from drills, not war.

He began to move.

Not to strike.

But to study the nature of strikes.

A sword swing whether a stab or a slash traveled a path dictated by the initial grip and intention.You either committed… or hesitated.

You couldn't curve mid-air, unless you burned strength to kill momentum and by then, most swordsmen had already lost the frame.

But what if…

"What if I could change the grip mid-motion?Change the direction without stopping…Let the movement lie and strike from the lie?"

He began to train:

Gripping the sword from the base, slashing, then mid-swing switching to a reverse hold.

Pausing a thrust just an inch before impact — redirecting it sideways with fluid rewiring of his own muscle memory.

Stopping, not with force, but with deliberate imbalance that allowed transition.

Each swing was a problem.Each correction, a revelation.

He bled from his fingers. His forearms shook.But he smiled.

"When I swing — you see a stab.

When I stab — you feel a slash.You won't know until it's over."

He looked into the mirror.

The boy who had gambled was gone.

Now stood a young swordsman who was writing his own equations into the laws of swordplay.

"I'm not enough now.

But I will be. Augustis Volcaro… wherever you are… brace yourself.

Because one day — the throne of swordsmanship will have a new name."

He gripped the sword one final time, the wood creaking under his hands.

Far away, beyond the flickering lamplight and the sleeping windows, atop a quiet tower cloaked in silence —a woman in black leaned against the wall, her cloak fluttering like tattered smoke.

She watched the inn from a great distance, yet her eyes narrowed as though she stood beside the boy.

Her voice carried no echo.

But her words shimmered in the air like prophecy born in metaphor:

"The child of time…harbors time itself like a blade sheathed in silence.

And when it is drawn…the world won't burn — it will collapse inward."

She laughed softly.

"How curious… the most dangerous one is the one who doesn't know what he is yet."

And with a flutter of black cloth, she vanished — leaving only the cold night… and the turning of fate's unseen clock.