Sparring (2)
Ian's counter came at a timing Marcel never saw coming.
Every muscle in Marcel's body went taut as he barely managed to turn the blow aside.
"Not bad."
For a beginner's luck, it had been a surprisingly sharp attack. Still, Ian's pathetic stance made it plain enough that the strike had been nothing more than a fluke.
I let my guard down.
Marcel forced himself to ignore the sting in his side and flashed Ian another provocative smile.
"I won't be going easy on you from here on out."
What he didn't realize was that his voice no longer carried the arrogance it had before. A faint thread of fluster and tension had crept in.
Sensing it, Ian grinned.
"You won't go easy on me? Now I'm getting nervous. Come at me properly, then, Marcel."
Ian shot back with a sly edge and reset his grip on the sword. A vein popped out on Marcel's forehead.
He's pissed.
Ian curled the corner of his mouth into a smirk.
"Here I come!"
Marcel charged with a shout, putting real force behind it. His attacks were unmistakably fast and sharp — nothing like the instinctive thrashing of Aberrations or monsters. This was the bladework of someone systematically trained to overpower and kill. That cold, clinical edge ran through Ian's whole body.
But… strangely enough, that makes him easier to dodge.
Ian couldn't explain why. He had never properly learned swordsmanship, and his only real combat experience was fighting monsters. Sure, he trained every day without fail — but without a proper teacher, that alone shouldn't have been enough to get this good.
And yet, somehow, Marcel's attack trajectories, his next moves, all of it stood out with the clarity of a slow-motion painting. It was a bizarre phenomenon that had started after his battles with the Aberrations. As if his very sense for combat had climbed a full tier.
Combat Sense (Lv.2)
When Ian slipped past a strike Marcel had poured his whole body into with nothing more than a single step, fury flooded the other man's voice.
"Th-This is—!"
Flustered, Marcel erupted in rage and unleashed a furious barrage. His blade sang through the air, coming at Ian from every direction. But Ian moved like flowing water — natural, flexible — either barely slipping each attack or deflecting it with the barest motion of his sword.
The expressions of the watching nobles began to shift. Faces that had been full of mockery and scorn now held surprise, interest, and even a touch of bewilderment.
Marcel was already gasping, sweat pouring off him like rain. His attacks grew rougher and more monotonous, the openings more and more obvious. The moment he paused to catch his breath—
Ian stopped.
…?
A strange, intense feeling flashed through his mind. Like a whisper of absolute certainty — that if he struck this way, his opponent would never be able to block it.
What the hell is this?
Am I seeing things? Or did an Aberration mess with my head?
…No. Doesn't feel like that.
A powerful urge seized him to test this unknown sensation. At the same time, a worry crept in — what if the feeling was wrong, or the attack turned out so strong it seriously injured his opponent?
Ian's face grew quite serious as he spoke.
"Marcel."
"Y-Yes…? Yes?"
At some point, Marcel's speech had shifted into polite formality. There was no longer any trace of contempt for Ian in his eyes. If anything, they held fear — and something close to awe.
Ian offered him earnest advice.
"From here on, you might want to focus purely on defense. Honestly… I don't really know how strong my next attack is going to be."
Progress toward acquiring 【Path of the Sword (Lv.1)】
13%
Ian's warning.
Marcel felt as though he had just been handed a death sentence. A bone-deep premonition that made every hair on his body stand on end. Instinctively, he reset his grip and settled into the Darkest family's orthodox basic sword form — a flawless defensive stance. It was the only choice left to him.
And in the next instant, Ian's assault began.
It was… unlike any swordsmanship Marcel had ever seen in his life. No standardized forms. No flashy techniques. And yet every single cut was terrifyingly sharp, utterly unpredictable, and above all, aimed with surgical precision at his weakest points. Instinctive. Primal. Like a starving predator hunting its prey.
Clang! Clash-clang! Kang!
Violent metal rang across the training grounds. Marcel desperately turned the blows aside, but every time their blades met, a jolt ran through his entire arm and his breath caught high in his throat. There was an unnaturally heavy force behind Ian's sword.
Th-This is… really that scrawny bastard son?
Marcel couldn't believe it. With every exchange, his astonishment at Ian's skill twisted into shock, then into something like reverence. Ian's form was still clumsy — but within that clumsiness lay a strange harmony and balance. And more than anything, those eyes. Cold, composed eyes that seemed to see straight through everything. They chilled Marcel to the bone.
After several more exchanges, Marcel's defense finally crumbled. Ian's blade smashed his sword aside and sent it spinning into the air. In the next breath, a cold edge stopped just short of his throat.
"…I— I concede."
Marcel sank weakly to his knees and admitted defeat in a trembling voice. Not a scrap of arrogance or mockery remained on his face.
Yerna watched Ian and Marcel's sparring with bated breath.
At first, when Marcel had been unilaterally thrashing Ian, she had genuinely felt sorry for him. To be humiliated that badly…
…But why am I worrying about that guy?
The thought struck her out of nowhere. Since when had she started caring this much about the bastard son?
Probably… because he had changed. The old Ian had been a thoroughly pathetic creature. Completely subordinate to the family, living like a thoughtless slave. Just looking at him had been so frustrating and irritating that sometimes she had genuinely wished he would simply vanish from her sight.
Because… Yerna still remembered, however faintly, the Ian from before he had broken.
In the hazy memories of early childhood, Ian had been… rather cool. The kind of kid you somehow wanted to follow. Someone who had seemed destined to shine brighter than anyone.
In the Ian sparring with Marcel now, she thought she could glimpse — just barely — that childhood self of his.
But Yerna knew. A person who had been properly broken once could never truly stand again. She herself had been crushed by Lionel in the past, driven to the brink of surrendering the family headship, and so she understood better than anyone what a broken heart felt like.
Which was why she had believed Ian could never rise again — and why she had found him all the more pitiful and tragic.
And then, in that very moment—
Shiiiiing—!
A clear, piercing ring of metal rolled across the training grounds. Yerna's head snapped up on reflex. There stood Ian, swinging his sword with eyes completely different from before.
The swordsmanship was still awkward and rough in places — but within it surged a fierce fighting spirit and vitality she had never seen in him.
…What? That guy… he's completely overwhelming Marcel right now?
The swaggering expression Marcel had worn only moments ago was gone without a trace. Now Ian's one-sided assault crashed down like a storm. Without realizing it, Yerna clenched both fists tight.
"That's it, Ian! Yes! Just smash him to pieces!"
She startled herself with the cheer that burst out unbidden. And then, among the murmuring nobles watching from the sidelines, voices began to join in one by one, cheering for Ian.
Yerna suddenly felt exhilarated. An unexplainable satisfaction welled up, and something warm kindled in a corner of her chest.
And at last—
Ian's final strike sent Marcel's sword flying into the air, and a cold blade came to rest at his throat.
Ian's victory.
"Wooooooo!"
Yerna let out a cheer before she could stop herself. And astonishingly, quite a number of nobles joined her shout, breaking into applause.
She watched Lionel's face turn the color of dirt, a thoroughly satisfied smile on her lips.
Perhaps… just perhaps… this bastard son might actually pull off something big. That absurd little spark of expectation was beginning to take root in her heart.