Engraved Sword Techniques
Ludenberg Lavante opened his eyes. The red, nightmarish scenes that had filled his vision moments ago vanished, replaced by a serene, still landscape that brought a sense of calm. But the peace lasted only a moment. As he tried to rise, every motion from the dream began to engrave itself vividly in his mind.
It wasn't just the forms of the movements. The sword's trajectory, the direction of the blade, the way to move the body more efficiently to amplify the power transmitted to the sword—all of it. These were techniques impossible to gain merely by swinging a blade in a training yard. They could only be mastered by leaping into the battlefield, slashing countless foes, and staining one's body with their blood.
Yet what flowed into his mind wasn't limited to the dream-self's actions. The sensation of cleaving an enemy. The feel of crushing an opponent's skull with his hand. Even the sensation of killing seeped into Ludenberg.
"What... is this?"
Ludenberg felt his hands trembling. At the same time, sensations he hadn't noticed in the dream overwhelmed him. The acrid stench of blood piercing his nostrils. The foul reek of erosion beast flesh. The brief calm after waking shattered. He couldn't even tell if he was still in the dream's battlefield or back in his dormitory.
A wave of nausea surged, threatening to make him vomit. He took deep breaths to steady his mind and body.
"Haa..."
Only after a long while of calming himself could Ludenberg slowly recall what had engraved itself in his mind with greater stability. Once the inescapable horror faded, awe remained.
The information etched into his mind was enough to instantly elevate his stagnant skills. He wanted to swing his sword right now.
Ludenberg headed straight to the vast training yard behind the Knight Faculty dormitory. Not a soul was in sight. Few students had been eager to sweat there since enrollment day.
He warmed up and drew a training sword from the weapon rack. For now, he'd try replicating the swordsmanship from the dream.
He assumed his stance and focused. Lately, he'd felt his growth hitting a wall. His naturally robust body had grown even tougher—cuts from blades left scarcely a mark. His refined technique was impeccably clean, lacking flashiness but revealing no openings.
But that was it. His skills hadn't advanced further in a year. He'd thirsted for progress, yet no one had shown him the way. Most Solemnute Adem family or secret sword arts required divine power to wield.
But the overwhelming prowess of his dream-self had pointed out a path.
He couldn't replicate its full might exactly. Yet with the motions engraved in his mind, persistent refinement would bring growth—that much was clear.
Ludenberg raised his sword and mimicked the strike from the dream. The blade whistled through the air in a straight thrust. It was swift and fierce enough for any manual or painting.
But he wasn't satisfied. The version in his mind was far more ferocious, precise, and faster.
"That's not it. The swordsmanship from the dream wasn't like this."
Words slipped out unbidden as he immersed himself. The connections between techniques were jerky too. What he executed was a halting mess, barely worthy of the name swordsmanship.
Why?
The blade angle, grip, power loading—all matched. Yet the results differed vastly. What was the reason?
Ludenberg paused and pondered. Soon, he realized the difference between the dream swordsmanship and his own.
The reason was disappointingly simple: insufficient power and speed. His body couldn't keep up with the techniques.
The engraved swordsmanship was still beyond his current physique.
So what to do? Simple: train the body harder. He couldn't tamper with such arts with his meager strength.
Still, Ludenberg felt no disappointment. He'd gained something. The dream revealed fluid, mighty swordsmanship, awakening him to the infinite possibilities of the blade.
Instead of obsessing, he infused the insights from today into the imperial swordsmanship—the foundation of his style. Minor shifts: reallocating power from body to blade, twisting the direction, adding rotation.
Though subtle, Ludenberg's talent let him perfectly integrate them into imperial swordsmanship.
The result? His strikes carried extraordinary force. His stagnant technique improved miraculously.
This wasn't the textbook-stable imperial swordsmanship. It was sharper, wilder, more destructive. Similar in form, but its lethality dwarfed the original.
Intoxicated by his growth, Ludenberg swung relentlessly in the training yard, pouring in desperate ambition to climb higher. He didn't notice the figure watching secretly from the shadowed corner.
Ashytara had come to the training yard to swing her sword and forget Ludenberg's cold attitude that day. But a prior occupant: Ludenberg.
She nearly left, but couldn't tear her eyes from his desperately intense training.
He executed seemingly clumsy yet incomprehensible techniques, shook his head, then shifted to imperial swordsmanship.
Ashytara tilted her head. It was the imperial swordsmanship she knew. But... different.
She couldn't pinpoint how, but one feeling struck: even she, awakened to Solem's flames, couldn't withstand it directly.
She knew instantly: Ludenberg had pulled ahead. And she couldn't easily follow those footsteps.
Even without divine power, no first-year could handle that swordsmanship.
I should be happy for him...
Yet sorrow welled. Five years ago, she'd have rushed over, congratulated him: "Another achievement. You're amazing as always." Heard his thanks, encouragement that she could match with effort. Ended smiling at each other.
But his coldness that afternoon halted her. She stood rooted in the dark corner until he finished and left.
The next day, Ludenberg headed to the lecture hall. First class at Solemnute Adem.
He confirmed his assigned room and entered. About fifty students chatted, awaiting the professor. They fell silent as one when he entered.
The awkward quiet didn't last. The door opened, revealing a stern-faced professor.
"Welcome. I am Hainkel Hereis. I'll guide you first-year Knight Faculty students this semester. I'd explain more, but time is short. Follow me."
Hainkel led them to the training yard. There, three professors and roughly 150 other first-years waited.
The eldest-looking professor spoke.
"We will now verify the skills of Knight Faculty first-years."
Tension rippled at "skill verification." These hot-blooded students, geniuses from across the empire, saw it as a chance to gauge their standing. Solemnute Adem thrived on competition.
Even among elites, gaps existed. This test would make them aware and shape the curriculum.
Static dummies or empty swings weren't enough. How did they react to moving opponents? That was key.
"Verification uses real swords and armor. Minor breaks are fine. No life-threatening attacks. Understood?"
"Yes!"
Satisfied with the resounding reply, the professors called names. Called students sparred in turn.
Ludenberg watched those before him. Something felt off.
What is it?
They used imperial swordsmanship like him. Yet theirs seemed sloppy—ripe for dissection.
Their forms followed the manual impeccably, clean and precise. Professors even looked approving.
Still, to Ludenberg, they were amateurish. Because of the dream swordsman's art?
Despite no divine power, he felt he could beat them easily. But he quelled arrogance. Divine power was no joke—it brought superhuman speed, durability, wild variables.
Instead, he steeled his resolve. Five years for this? To prove himself here. No room for sloppiness.
As he waited, vigilant against any foe, Hainkel called:
"Ludenberg Lavante. Gawin Greta."
Ludenberg's expression hardened coldly.
Gawin Greta. Unforgettable. One of those who'd betrayed and mocked him five years ago.
Grinding his teeth, Ludenberg vowed inwardly: He'd ensure the bastard didn't leave unscathed today.