Talent and Grit
My whole body ached.
It was that special brand of agony—the brutal muscle soreness that hits the day after you push yourself past every limit.
Even getting out of bed felt like a trial by fire.
But still… skipping training simply wasn’t an option.
I forced myself up, staggering and swaying until I was on my feet.
Fortunately, I wasn’t late.
The beginning is always the hardest part. Once you keep at it, the body adapts.
Mine was still growing, still full of untapped potential, and I’d expected the early days of training to hurt like this.
“Ugh…”
That didn’t make the soreness vanish, of course. I limped into Father’s private training ground, groaning the whole way.
“You’re here.”
“…Yes.”
“The muscle pain is quite severe, isn’t it?”
“It is. But not so bad that I can’t train.”
“Good enough. Run.”
Father’s training was brutally simple.
Loosen the muscles. Run.
Then strength work on top of that.
Classic, no-nonsense conditioning to build a foundation of stamina.
Sword work could wait, he said. For the time being he would only drill my body.
I agreed completely, so I ran without a word of complaint.
Those days stretched on for about a month.
With every passing day my stamina climbed at a startling rate.
I could now sprint from dawn to dusk and barely feel winded.
“…Remarkable.”
Father’s eyes went wide as he watched me.
He said he had never seen anyone’s endurance grow this quickly.
Even I had to admit the speed was abnormal.
It seemed my talent wasn’t limited to the sword—my body itself was gifted far beyond the ordinary.
The more I thought about it, the more of a waste it felt, but what could I do? The original owner of this body had never cared.
From now on I would simply refine what was already there.
“Your stamina has reached a proper level. It’s time you took up the sword.”
“Yes.”
Finally.
I snatched up a blade with pure, unrestrained excitement.
Father looked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“Do you love the sword that much? Your whole bearing just changed.”
“Yes.”
There was no point trying to hide how thrilled I was.
And why should I? I loved the sword.
The moment I gripped it and swung, something close to rapture washed over me.
I wanted to live with a blade in my hand every hour of every day.
“If I’d known you felt this way, I would have started you years ago…”
“I don’t think it would have mattered back then. I simply wasn’t interested.”
That was the absolute truth. The original Bellatrix had cared about nothing of the sort.
Besides, the reason my eyes had lit up for the sword in the first place was the monstrous talent this body already possessed… so the regret was only natural.
“Haha. Fair enough. Then show me your sword.”
“You’re not going to teach me the basics first?”
“Basics? Did you really think I hadn’t noticed you training in the middle of the night?”
“You saw everything?”
“I did. You swung with impressive dedication.”
“How did it look?”
“My first thought was that teaching you the basics would be a waste of time.”
“But aren’t the fundamentals still important?”
“You spot every flaw the instant it appears and correct your own form. Do you truly believe you need anyone else’s help? And the stances you settled on were so perfect that even when I deliberately hunted for faults, I couldn’t find a single one.”
“…That good?”
“Exactly that good. So rather than drill basics, I want to watch your sword and decide where to begin refining it.”
“Understood.”
I steadied my breathing, settled my mind, and took the stance I had slowly polished over the past month.
The moment his daughter settled into her stance, Valentin felt a chill race down his spine.
The gap between this and the first time she had ever held a sword was already vast beyond reason.
If someone claimed this was the blade of a girl who had only been training for a single month, who would believe it?
Even if every famous knight on the continent were gathered in one place, they would all shake their heads and call it impossible.
The blade cut through empty air with clean, exhilarating precision.
Footwork and muscle control were both flawless.
Honestly, there was nothing left for him to teach.
He could strain his eyes searching for imperfections and still find none—how was he supposed to offer criticism?
“Hah…”
A gasp of pure admiration escaped him unbidden.
Judged purely on sword skill without mana, there was no one in the Berce knight order—save the captain himself—who could match her.
That was how complete Bellatrix’s technique already was.
And because she had tempered her body as well, power that had been missing at the start now rode every swing with heavy, solid weight.
If he set her against Ragnar in a pure physical spar right now, he doubted his son could even receive those blows.
No—he was certain Ragnar would fail.
He had no idea where to begin teaching something like this.
Valentin watched his daughter’s sword and wrestled with the problem until he reached a conclusion.
This place would not do.
His own skill was simply not enough; Bellatrix was too precious to waste on him.
A Stage 5 Blooming swordsman?
Former captain of the Imperial Knights?
None of that mattered.
Bellatrix’s potential would never stop at such a modest ceiling.
Late start? In the face of talent this violent, the age at which one began was almost irrelevant.
With gifts like hers, the moment she Bloomed her skill would explode into full bloom overnight.
Therefore the correct path was to send her to a master who stood above him.
At present, the only person on the continent who had reached Stage 6 Blooming.
Isolde Valeria.
Far beyond the northern frontier, walking the solitary road of the sword—the sole living holder of the title Sword Saint.
Yet to earn the Sword Saint’s approval, half-hearted resolve would never be enough.
So he would polish her stamina and fundamentals first, then send her north.
The plan had fully formed in his mind by the time Bellatrix’s blade finally stilled.
“How was it?”
To his daughter’s question, Valentin offered a single quiet verdict.
“Magnificent. There is nothing to criticize.”
“Then show me your sword, Father. I want to see it.”
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
He nodded at the request of the daughter he cherished.
Lightly he took up his own blade and settled into stance.
In that instant the world itself seemed to freeze.
Father’s presence was as sharp as a naked edge; it felt as though a single perfect sword simply floated in the air where he stood.
Then the blade moved, and every cell in my body shuddered with pure thrill.
The sword I had shown earlier looked like nothing at all beside this—absolute perfection.
Father had called my form flawless, yet the moment I saw his, that judgment evaporated completely.
The principles behind every motion etched themselves into my mind in a single heartbeat. At the same time I understood exactly what I still lacked.
How his feet shifted, how each muscle fired—everything burned itself into me.
And those movements began to sketch the ideal shape of a sword art tailored perfectly to my own body.
Even I found the talent absurd.
Exhilaration made my entire frame tremble.
Thrill. There was no other word for it.
Without realizing it I had already taken my stance and begun to swing.
What unfolded was Father’s sword art—yet softer, more fluid, and still lacking in raw power.
I still have a long way to go. The thought rose unbidden.
Even after Father’s demonstration ended, I kept swinging.
Yes. I truly loved the sword.
When I finally finished the full sequence, Father only stood there wearing a hollow, helpless smile.
“As I thought… your talent is something I dare not try to teach.”
“What?”
Where had that come from all of a sudden…?
“Go north. There you will find the only person who can make that talent of yours fully bloom.”
“The north…?”
“Yes. The Sword Saint, Isolde Valeria. You’ve heard the name, I assume?”
“…Yes.”
It was a name that existed in Bellatrix’s memories.
When Bellatrix had been seven, the current emperor had bestowed the title of Sword Saint upon her, and she had departed for the north to become the Empire’s shield against the threats beyond the border.
Isolde Valeria.
The sudden mention left me reeling.
“Why the Sword Saint all of a sudden…?”
“After watching you, I reached the conclusion that my own gifts are nowhere near enough to teach you. So go north. If you truly wish to see the end of the sword, travel there and ask the Sword Saint for her guidance.”
“Even if I go, will she accept me as a disciple?”
“I once rendered her a service. In return she made a promise—that one day she would grant a single request from House Berce. With that, she will accept you without hesitation.”
“I understand. Then when do I leave?”
“Three months. Take three months to prepare, and after that I will send you to the north where the Sword Saint resides.”
“…Yes.”
And just like that, my journey north was decided.
Talent is something that, from time to time… no, always… casually tramples a person’s hard work underfoot.
My present situation was no different.
“…Haah.”
Ragnar Berce—Bellatrix’s younger brother, and now my younger brother—let out a hollow sigh as he stared at me.
“What in the world…?”
His face was twisted into such a pitiful expression that I found myself at a loss for words.
Well, of course. Until now he had been showered with praise everywhere he went for overflowing talent. To suffer such a crushing defeat must have felt unreal.
And the opponent was his own sister, who a month ago had never once held a sword.
Before he could even feel resentment, the whole thing must have seemed like a bad dream.
“Sister… since when…?”
“About a month, I suppose?”
“Ha… a month…”
“How was it?”
At that, Ragnar’s expression crumpled as though the sky itself had fallen.
“This can’t be real…”
“Young Master, we understand exactly how you feel.”
Every knight who had watched the spar nodded in grim sympathy.
I almost felt guilty, as if I had done something unforgivable to my little brother.
But what could I do?
Overwhelming talent has a way of making people feel utterly wretched.