Smooth Sailing
Leon spent the remainder of the evening wandering the imperial palace at a leisurely pace before turning in for the night.
Guests were free to roam the palace grounds, save for the restricted zones. Wherever one went, clusters of nobles gathered in threes and fives — little circles constantly dissolving and reforming. Naturally, plenty of people came looking for Leon as well: those who had failed to catch him at the banquet.
Evading them was trivial. Softening his presence and quickening his stride just a fraction was enough — enough for ordinary people, and enough even for martial artists. He barely needed to try. To Leon, they were like turtles straining to catch him. The moment he spread his senses, a map of the surrounding area unfurled in his mind, every corner laid bare.
There were, however, a handful of people even Leon could not shake off.
Footsteps approached.
"A pleasure to meet you."
A middle-aged man with a thin mustache appeared before Leon without warning. A rapier hung at his waist; his frame was lean and wiry.
"I am Renold, head of House Baltbin."
Renold Baltbin — patriarch of the Baltbin family, renowned for their swift-sword style. He was also the father of Goren Baltbin, who had once taught Leon the fundamentals of that very art.
"Hah— hah— Father!"
Goren came stumbling up behind Renold, gasping for breath.
"An honor, sir."
Leon shook Renold's hand.
"I hear my son is indebted to you," Renold said.
"Not at all. If anything, I'm the one who learned from Goren."
Renold shook his head.
"I wouldn't put it that way. I've heard the whole story. What you learned was nothing more than the barest foundation — nowhere near the value of a Tear of Melshakra."
Leon turned a long, flat look on Goren.
Still catching his breath, Goren's eyes flew wide like a thief whose feet had gone cold.
"Wh— hey! What was I supposed to do when you took that scrap of knowledge and ran with it on your own?!"
"I didn't say a word."
"…"
Renold spoke again.
"That you grasped the true meaning from so little is remarkable in itself. At first I doubted my own eyes. The Musun Realm at eighteen? I was so astonished I had to come see for myself."
As expected of the Baltbin patriarch — he had already discerned that Leon had reached Musun.
Goren, only now catching on, nearly jumped out of his skin.
"What? Musun?!"
"Keep your voice down."
"Yes, sir."
Leon answered with modest composure.
"It just… happened as I kept training."
Renold nodded.
"You're managing well enough on your own that I have little advice to offer. Your raw power is absurdly high for your age, too. I half want to ask how you managed it."
Renold had every right to be curious. Leon's already formidable reserves had surged yet again — the work of Cheonryeong and the Jamhonseongjonbeop. He could hardly advertise that, so he held his tongue.
"Perhaps you will even reach the true essence of the swift sword."
The true essence of the swift sword — that would mean Transcendent Instant, the final of the eight realms into which House Baltbin had divided their art.
"How many have reached that essence?" Leon asked.
"Even scouring our family history, the number is vanishingly small. In this age, there are none at all."
Which meant that even Renold himself still lingered at Leading Instant, the realm just short of Transcendent Instant.
"So of course my interest falls on someone with your potential. I don't believe only those of our blood can master the swift sword. Anyone will do — I simply wish to see a completed swift sword with my own eyes."
Having laid bare his longing, Renold suddenly drew his blade.
"In that spirit, allow me a small gift."
A handkerchief fluttered into the air. From roughly head height, it drifted slowly downward, tumbling and folding on the breeze.
There were moments when Leon slipped into Extreme Instant without meaning to. This was one of them.
Even so, he could not see the sword's form. He registered only the sensation of something impossibly fine slicing through empty space.
Dots began to appear on the handkerchief. Thread-thin holes, no wider than a needle's tip, multiplied without number. Dozens bloomed in an instant.
Then the handkerchief burst apart. Shredded scraps of cloth scattered in every direction.
It did not end there.
Each mote of fabric, no larger than dust, met an invisible sword tip and exploded. Cloth became thread; thread became powder.
Finally, a single light cut — not a thrust — traced the air. A thin wash of mana swept through the empty space.
One stroke. The dust that touched that energy vanished cleanly.
Less than a second after it had left Renold's hand, the handkerchief was erased from the world.
Only then did Leon drop out of Extreme Instant, his brain and eyes prickling with residual strain. He rubbed the corners of his eyes.
"I saw it well."
"Come visit our house sometime."
With that, Renold left without a backward glance — a man as swift as the sword he wielded. Goren waved awkwardly and hurried after him.
Leon stood still for a moment, replaying what he had just witnessed.
That was the sword of the Leading Instant Realm — the realm he himself would have to seize. He carved it into his mind's eye like a blade-scar cut into stone.
Time passed in much the same fashion.
Like Renold, several Master-class martial artists — mostly the heads of renowned martial houses — sought Leon out. He shook their hands and received a few words of well-wishing.
To reach the lofty heights of Mastery required a near-madness for the martial arts, and such people tended to have… eccentric temperaments. Or they had been eccentric from the start. And the heads of great houses rarely moved lightly.
That figures of that caliber would personally chase down a young man darting about the palace said something. Each of them came with a clear purpose and a clear idea of what they wanted.
"Hah! Looking at you, the Empire's future is bright indeed."
Those of upright character, come simply to encourage a promising young pillar of the next generation.
"Would you consider a betrothal with my daughter? She's just come of age, as it happens…"
Those moving for the benefit of their house.
"I find myself curious about your sword."
Those who cared for nothing so much as the martial path itself.
Among them was the head of House Deron — the family to which the Owl Knight Farsus belonged.
A man of formidable spirit, as befit a northerner, he left Leon with this:
"I just had a feeling — you'll find your way to Deron one of these days!"
Leon could not tell whether the man was joking or deadly serious. He let it slide.
The night grew deep, and it was nearly time to return to his rooms.
"Leon."
"Ah — Father. What is it—"
The moment he saw Rock's face, Leon's smile froze in place.
Rock wore the expression of a man who had only just realized something of tremendous importance, was seething with barely contained fury, and was holding it down by sheer force of will.
Something in Leon's conscience twinged. He licked his lips without thinking.
Rock spoke his name with crushing weight.
"Leon."
"Yes."
"Some time ago… you took the Heaven-Shattering Sword from our family's vault. Correct?"
"…Yes."
"Where is it now?"
Ah.
The corner of Leon's mouth twitched.
Until now he had gotten by with a similar black scabbard and a roughly matching hilt design. But earlier that day, he had drawn the blade and fought until it shattered — and the truth had come out. Honestly, it hadn't even crossed his mind at the time.
Of course it would have been discovered eventually. But according to the plan, it was not supposed to be today.
Telling Rock that the Heaven-Shattering Sword was currently melting in a Halito forge furnace would be… inflammatory, to put it mildly.
Leon's original plan had been to present a sleek, finished replacement and declare that this was the new third legendary sword of House Crusif. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, after all.
Damn it.
Leon spoke quickly, before Rock could detonate.
"Father. Just hear me out first."
Regrettably, Leon's powers of persuasion failed him that night.
A dim predawn hour, before the sun had even lifted its head.
Leon's eyes opened on their own. He had been lying on his side, and the lavish interior of the palace guest chamber filled his vision at once.
"Up we go."
He rose from the bed, drained a cup of water from the table, and settled into a cross-legged seat on the hard floor.
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. The clear air of early morning flooded his lungs.
He turned his awareness inward. Following the Crusif family's mana cultivation method, he circulated the ambient energy of the world he had absorbed and deposited it into his dantian.
Within Leon's dantian lay a reservoir of power absurd for his age. The energy he had just added was less than a speck against that ocean.
That did not make the practice meaningless, or a waste of time.
Cultivation of the heart method was something one did every single day, for a lifetime. There was no stopping. For a martial artist, the years spent refining one's method were themselves a form of accumulated inner strength.
When he finished the day's cultivation, dawn light seeped through the open curtains and tapped against his eyelids.
Feeling that wash of light, Leon turned his gaze still deeper — inward, to the soul.
A low, resonant hum filled him.
He ran his awareness over his own soul and the Cheonryeong nested within it. Like a blind man learning an elephant by touch, he familiarized himself piece by piece with the alien sensation of spiritual power, accepting it, making it his own.
The supreme soul technique: the Jamhonseongjonbeop.
Unpacked, it was a spiritual cultivation method that raised a soul possessing the latent capacity to hold Cheonryeong — a dormant soul — to a seat of true dignity.
He had already felt Cheonryeong's terrifying power well enough.
Simply awakening it — simply drawing out what lay within — elevated his overall grade. Strength, speed, stamina, endurance, explosive power, mana sensitivity, eyesight… every physical faculty that existed rose by a dramatic margin.
The mere residue of Cheonryeong's power circulating through him had been enough to toy with an upper-Expert martial artist like Urs Phan. The same force had let him overwhelm Owl Knights in raw strength and speed. Cheren's lavish praise had come from the same place.
In short: Leon could now produce Master-class output.
He still fell short of a true Master's sword, but he had at least matched their raw power. Calling him a quasi-Master would not be wrong.
And that was far from all. He had not yet glimpsed even a fragment of Cheonryeong's true face.
He had not fully conquered even the first stage of the Jamhonseongjonbeop. The boost to physical ability was merely Cheonryeong's most basic authority.
A realm advanced in lockstep with a newly unified body, mind, and spirit. Newly gained power. A newly mastered soul technique.
He had grown strong at a reckless pace — and there was still so much room left to grow.
One thing was certain: he now possessed the martial might to stand alone, anywhere on the continent.
At last, he had set one foot among the ranks of those who shaped the world by force of arms. With his own power alone, he could now leave a mark on the age.
Leon opened his eyes in silence.
Deep crimson irises burned with quiet intensity, defying the sunlight that poured in.