Proof of Qualification

'I won't talk to you. You're a loser.'

In the original story, Kaion Belkrad wasn't the type to just roll over and sleep after hearing something like that. Training or anguish, maybe—but not this. Fortunately, my guess had been spot on.

"Supreme Commander."

"The same motion, over and over."

The tip of his sword was still aimed at the half-collapsed training dummy. His right-hand sword pointed at the dummy's chest, while the left hovered below the waist, poised for the next strike. And his signature move: the third sword, strapped inside his wrist, trembled faintly.

What splendid rage. Young swordsmen usually turn that fury into fuel for growth, wreck their wrists, or exhaust everyone around them. Kaion looked like the sort who could pull off all three.

"Hmm..."

Fragments of the training dummy littered the stone floor of the Training Hall. The barrier stones embedded in the walls emitted a faint glow, illuminating fresh sword scars that gleamed shallowly beneath it. The dummy must have shattered and reformed countless times. Excellent traces of rigorous practice. At the same time, they were marks of someone meticulously hammering the same wall.

Diligence is a fine virtue. It just needed redirecting. Walls have no intention of becoming doors, yet swordsmen have this habit of pounding until their hands tear open.

Kaion turned toward me. He moved to bow immediately, but I raised a finger to stop him.

"Stay as you are."

Kaion froze. "Yes."

His voice was low, a bit hoarse. But it didn't waver.

I examined his hands. The skin on his palms was peeled back, blood seeping thinly along the leather-wrapped hilts. His shoulders hadn't slumped, though the tension felt a touch ragged. His eyes still burned with life.

Good. Not broken yet.

I stopped before the shattered dummy. Its neck was deeply caved in, the shoulder's metal layer peeled away like bark, and a thick crack ran through the center of its chest. Kaion's strikes had been strong enough. Good angles, good depth. Against a living foe, it would have been fatal—multiple times over. He'd hit every killing spot precisely.

But this was a captain-grade training dummy. Made of top-tier material that regenerated no matter how many times it was smashed... A very unfriendly opponent for swordsmen. Perfect for training, though.

I turned from the dummy to Kaion. "Excellent swordsmanship."

Kaion's eyes flickered—just a fraction. He hadn't expected praise. He'd been thinking he'd failed. And he had, in a way. Just not for the reasons he assumed.

I continued. "That's precisely the problem."

Kaion had no reply. Excellent. And problematic. People expect praise to follow praise. Unfortunately, I don't operate on such gentle logic.

"Your sword isn't slow."

He stared at me wordlessly.

"Nor weak."

Grip tightening on his hilt. Probably the question he'd hurled at himself most often.

When swordsmen hit a wall, they blame their bodies first. Usually, they're right—which keeps the training hall stocked with the right amount of blood and sweat.

But today, that wasn't Kaion's issue.

"Yet your sword only goes where your body leads."

Kaion's breath hitched short. That one cut deep. It was the exact wall he'd slammed into in the Valley Battlefield.

He'd wanted to charge the front. Swing to the rear. Flank from the side. Even check the open retreat path. The instant he chose one, the others slipped away. One body. Swords move only as far as the hands grip them. The stronger the swordsman, the later they accept it—convinced that just a bit more speed, one deeper step, and they could reach everywhere. And that belief usually kills people. Mostly those around them. That's the most annoying part.

"In the valley, where did you want to go?"

Kaion's gaze dropped. "The front."

"And the result?"

"...The rear collapsed."

I didn't nod. No need to praise or scold. What mattered now was position, not judgment. Verdicts were plentiful enough on paper. I had no desire to turn the battlefield into a courtroom. When swordsmen start logic battles mid-fight, the buildings around them lose first.

"You saw everything."

"Yes."

"Saw it all, and still didn't reach anywhere properly."

Drip. Blood from Kaion's hand smeared further down the hilt.

"Yes."

Kaion looked up.

"You spot where blood sprays first, where things crumble."

I pointed to the dummy's neck. "Neck."

Then the deep gash in the chest. "Chest."

Down to the low-sliced support strut. "Leg."

Kaion's eyes followed my finger.

"All perfect places to cleave."

I met his gaze again. "But endings happen elsewhere."

Kaion said nothing. He was listening. For a hothead like him to show this posture was more significant than it seemed. The strong ones let their bodies answer before their ears open. Kaion had answered by pounding the wall until his ears finally cleared. Not too late. A few fewer layers of peeled skin might've been ideal, but squad captains generally pay tuition with their own flesh. A fine tradition that saves on education costs. Though their aversion to the infirmary is a flaw.

I stepped toward the regenerating dummy. It was nearly restored: metal knitting together, chest filling out, shoulder defenses glowing faintly as they reformed. Places Kaion had smashed repeatedly. Yet it stood again. Unkilled. A perfect match for his strikes.

I tapped the center of its chest lightly with a fingertip.

Thock. A small echo rang from inside.

Kaion's eyes narrowed.

"Strike again."

Kaion hesitated briefly, then assumed position. This time, he didn't slow deliberately. He shed the clumsy caution that had bound him and returned to his true sword. You can't open doors imitating others. You have to err with your own. Only then do you see the mistakes. And handing over the erring to someone else? That's not training—it's proxy labor.

Kaion's body lowered. Three swords moved at different heights.

Thwack! Shoulder ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shook.

Clang! Side armor peeled.

Crunch! Lower strut buckled.

The final sword plunged into the chest.

Boom! Dummy half-collapsed.

Impact solid. Speed good. Flow unbroken. In real combat, the enemy would've died.

But the regeneration spell glowed anew. Cracks began sealing slowly.

Kaion didn't look at me right away. He already knew. It hadn't opened. No—more precisely, it hadn't ended.

I approached the crumbling dummy. "Dead?"

Kaion couldn't answer. Say yes, and it was rising. Say no, and the strike was lethal. Silence has its uses. Better than pointless excuses, at least.

Kaion finally muttered low. "...It's alive."

"Yes."

I slipped a fingertip into the split chest. Outwardly, just torn metal and regenerating light. But inside, where the spell's glow converged thinnest, a tiny nodule. Kaion's blades had grazed it repeatedly. Smashed, ripped, sliced around it. But never hit.

He saw visible vitals too well. And missed the unseen heart because of it.

Talent is annoyingly like that. Sees the obvious so clearly, it blinds to the hidden. If you don't mistake ignorance for knowledge, it's superb talent. If you insist the unseen doesn't exist, it's a superb disaster.

I placed my fingertip on the nodule. "The heart is here."

Kaion's eyes widened.

I pressed lightly, briefly.

Crack. A small sound. The regeneration light died.

The half-collapsed dummy stayed down. Metal froze mid-knit, chest crack solidified.

The Training Hall fell silent.

Kaion stared at the sight. The dummy he'd smashed endlessly. The one that rose endlessly. Stopped by my single fingertip.

From the perspective of someone who'd swung all night, it must've been infuriating. Even I'd feel a twinge.

I turned to Kaion. "Aim."

Voice low. "Aim for the heart."

Kaion's throat bobbed.

"Not just a person's chest."

I withdrew my hand from the fallen dummy. "The breath of the battlefield."

Kaion's gaze shifted from dummy to me.

"Sever it."

Kaion seemed to hold his breath. I knew what he was recalling. Every danger he'd seen there. And the intent behind them.

The Demon King's army hadn't aimed for one line's collapse. They'd lured Kaion to one spot. Made him vacate his own. Then tore elsewhere.

The battlefield's heart wasn't a monster's neck, an executive's chest, or the open retreat. It was his gaze. His body. The structure forcing his choices.

Now he saw it. His face finally looked human.

"Don't look where you want to go."

Kaion slowly raised his head.

"The biggest shake isn't always the answer."

I eyed his swords. Three blades. Ruthlessly aggressive setup. Swords orbiting his body.

"When your sword connects, look where the flow breaks."

Kaion asked low. "What if I can't reach it?"

Good. He finally asked. A swordsman's growth starts with the right question. Inefficient to sacrifice a few dummies and a palm for it—but fitting for sword squads. If efficiency ruled, they wouldn't pick up swords against the Demon King's army.

I regarded his three swords. "You don't have to walk the heart there yourself."

Kaion's eyes shook.

I said no more. No throwing. No sending. No one must leave, two must stay. That's not my answer to give. It must come from his sword.

Guidance leads to the door. Turning the knob for them leads to demands for keys. Can't have that. Open one fully, and even the Demon King might inquire about my curriculum. Horrifying.

Kaion stood still. Three swords in hand. Eyes on the dummy, but not really seeing it. Revisiting the valley. Seeing his body split across those four points. Body goes one way, others die. But if the body doesn't have to go...?

That thought slowly surfaced in him. I saw it.

Kaion's gaze dropped to his hands. Right sword. Left sword. Third at his back. Three blades. Until now, all circling his body. But if he doesn't walk...?

Can the sword reach without the body?

Kaion's fingertips twitched faintly. Hand on enlightenment's threshold.

I didn't hold my breath. A Supreme Commander tensing over a subordinate's training looks odd. This was... appropriate superior interest in growth. Not a spectator's curiosity.

Probably.

Kaion slowly raised one of the three. Unfamiliar motion. Tip aimed at the dummy's heart—the spot I'd indicated. He tried to see the unseen.

His breathing settled. Feet unmoving. Distance he'd normally close. Neck slashed, chest cleaved, shoulder ripped.

But not this time. He stayed put.

Right sword lowered. Left stayed at waist. Third faced forward.

Kaion's eyes deepened.

I knew in that instant: he'd grasped it. The answer I hadn't voiced. Wordlessly, he'd forged a path in his sword's structure.

One blade need only connect. Not the body.

Then.

Kaion's sword left his hand.

Quiet at first. Barely a whisper of release.

Next instant, a point ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠appeared in the Training Hall. Sword's path. Air parting. Straight to the dummy's heart.

The path formed first. Sound chased after.

Shrieeeek! Air tore.

Barrier stones flickered a beat late.

The sword didn't hit the dummy's shell. It passed through. Pierced thick defenses. Skewered the regeneration barrier. Dove unerring to the hidden core.

Fast. As if pinned there from the start, the world catching up.

Crunch! Heart pierced.

Light died. Sword didn't stop. Didn't embed in wall or floor.

Kaion's eyes widened.

Behind the dummy, it arced back. As if knowing its return path.

Clang! Return as swift.

Before Kaion could reach, it was there. He caught it instinctively.

Click! Back in hand.

The Training Hall's sounds seemed to halt.

Kaion stared at the sword in his grip. Returned.

I hadn't told it to. No demo. Not even something I could do.

Retrieval was this sword's property. Named.

Kaion's sword had opened.

Until moments ago, complete only in hand. Now, independent beyond.

Unyielding to the heart, piercing all on trajectory, then returning. Too refined for "throw." More like a javelin.

Kaion's lips parted faintly. Staring at his sword, he murmured low.

"... Lancea."

The spear that always pierces the heart.

Opened. Not crudely. Structure complete.

Something's off.

A bit... fast?

I calculated silently. Months to see the heart. Years to accept sword beyond hand. A decade minimum to opening.

The original plot had just shattered.

Calculations exist to be wrong, but this thorough a demolition might make the paper resentful.

Yet the next emotion wasn't just dismay. Satisfaction. Undeniably sharp.

I knew Kaion Belkrad. Or rather, his original trajectory.

In the flow I remembered, he was on the weaker side of captains. Rude to say of a 10th Squad captain. But sword squad captains specialize in defying standards. Among them, even strong swords rank "somewhat weak" if not utterly mad.

What a warm organization.

Anyway, that path's Kaion wasn't talentless. Responsible. Courageous. First into danger.

But in clutch moments, always a beat short. Sword fast, but missed battlefield hearts. Body leads, but leaving backup came late.

Ultimately, consumed in war as the "responsible but lacking captain." A crowd-pleaser: dutiful leader. Persistent despite flaws. Late-blooming blade. Beautiful.

And battlefields devour such beauty.

Originally, he'd realize late. Grow late. Know his limits late.

War doesn't wait for late growth.

But now, Kaion Belkrad had veered off that path. Not subtly bent—blatantly snapped. Undeniably.

I liked that. Immensely.

Sweeping battlefields myself is easy. Too easy, problematically. Draw my sword, and it's over. Certain result. Just reconfirms my strength.

But now? Different. Kaion changed.

A sword that would've lingered weakly now had a name. Lancea. Unfalling till the heart. Piercing all on path, returning post-strike.

The 10th Squad captain was no longer just fast. He pierced hearts.

This is how. I don't need to stand every field. Swing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠every sword.

When closed swords open. When the tardy arrive on time.

Someone doesn't die. Someone isn't just a number.

Quite the change.

"...Hup."

Kaion swallowed, regripping the returned sword. Eyes still confused. But the sword steady.

Ultra-aggressive ability. Fit Kaion Belkrad too perfectly. That perfection was the problem. One more thing to rein him in now. Celebration or workload increase? Briefly confusing. Sword squad good news is usually both.

I looked at Kaion. Face not yet fully accepting what he'd done. Returned sword. Fallen dummies. Hearts that wouldn't regen.

Standing amid it, steadying breath.

I spoke as calmly as possible. "You've opened it."

Kaion's eyes flew wide. "Me...?"

"Yes."

His hand clenched the sword harder. I added quickly. "But wielding it starts now."

Kaion bowed at once. "Understood."

Good. Not elated yet. Fine line. Grinning and firing once more here, and the barriers scream first. Barriers have a right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to live.

Probably.

I turned. Walked toward the Training Hall entrance.

Just now, I might've looked a touch cool.

"Heh."

A short laugh slipped. "...Supreme Commander?"

"Nothing."

Such laughs are... embarrassing.