Dad (I Never Said That)

In the act of reminiscing, humans fall into two distinct categories: the optimists who sigh and remember Those were the good times, and the realists who grind their teeth over That time was fucking awful. In the merciless history of survival competition, it was undeniably the latter who held the advantage. After all, remembering the screams of the neighbor uncle who was eaten alive by a man-eating bear while trying to pick wild strawberries on the back mountain offered a far higher survival rate than simply recalling where those plump berries grew.

Though civilization had downgraded this magnificent survival instinct into a late-night function that kicked off the blankets with forced replays of dark history, it remained humanity’s primary equipped survival strategy. Thirin, however, had adopted the minor strategy instead. She was the type who giggled while savoring what she called her absolute legend moments. To put it more refinedly, Thirin was a kind of narcissist.

This self-love occasionally caused fatal problems in her survival strategy. The prime example was the incident right after arriving in this other world, where she infinitely affirmed the idiotic thought This is a dream and hurled herself off a cliff. Yet even after Thirin had smashed her body to pieces falling from that cliff, it could not change her fundamental nature. She was the kind of person who, whenever bored, endlessly replayed the highlight reels of her memories and marveled at them.

Right now, Thirin was hiding in the church, reflecting on the events of the past few days and snickering to herself. Perfect. Suggesting the trial by combat, systematically crushing Heres’ remnants one by one, and shattering the mercenary company’s morale—the entire sequence had unfolded under Thirin’s ice-cold, flawless, and meticulously calculated plan.

Of course, she hadn’t maintained perfect composure throughout. Yanking out Gordo’s hair had been pure ad-lib born from irritation, and stabbing the dual-wielder’s opposite wrist was the result of Thirin’s slightly psychopathic tendencies. Still, it was fine. Because the climax—the final words she had spat while collapsing with her heart pierced through in the duel against Bjorn—had been perfect.

The look on Bjorn’s face as if his entire world had crumbled. It had all been calculated acting on Thirin’s part! It was a somewhat clichéd trope, but in this barbaric fantasy land, the classics worked best. Even now, the memory sent shivers down her spine—it had been magnificent method acting. The Oscar is mine. That bear still has a long way to go.

Thirin smiled with deep satisfaction, convinced everything had flowed exactly according to her design and arrangement. Of course, that was not the truth. What Thirin had actually said was It hurts, and the pain had once again caused a short circuit between her brain and tongue, making her pronunciation slip. Thirin had a habit of conveniently distorting past events in her own favor.

Still, she couldn’t stay drunk on past glories forever. Thirin rose from her seat. To achieve Rebirth, there were many things she needed to examine. Just as she had predicted, Bjorn’s strange whirling slash had granted her some incredible technique.

“......”

But a technique was just a technique, and Thirin couldn’t understand a single word of what this meant. What the hell is supposed to be flowing? The system had started writing full-on poetry. Plum blossom fragrance forming waves? What kind of nonsense was that?

In her mind rose the image of Bjorn’s bizarre swordplay—that holographic show where a single blade split into dozens. Thirin had struggled to find the real edge among those dizzying afterimages. Flow. It flows. It passes by. It lets it flow.

But what did getting hit by a hologram sword have to do with letting things flow? Thirin set aside Bjorn’s cheat-like technique and focused only on the martial art itself.

“Letting it flow, huh……”

Was it about letting the sword’s trajectory flow to conceal the real strike? Or was it about letting the opponent’s attack flow past while receiving it?

“Hmm……”

It felt like she almost understood it. Her brain tingled. If she reached out right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now, she might be able to grasp it. Thirin stood up, swinging her arms experimentally, then froze. She didn’t have a sword. To properly use the martial art, she needed the proper tool. Using the wrong one—like a fist—might lead to the same tragedy as when she had snapped Heres’ neck and shattered her own wrist.

But she didn’t have a single blade on hand. That Roderick bastard had confiscated both Heres’ and Bjorn’s swords as evidence. Damn civil servant. Not a single ounce of flexibility.

Thirin muttered curses under her breath and was about to dash out when she stopped. It was the middle of the night. Knocking on the outpost door to demand a sword would be inappropriate. That cowardly security chief might foam at the mouth and faint again. She could ask old man Peter to retrieve one for her later, but right now her body was itching unbearably. This sensation of hovering at the threshold of enlightenment—Thirin didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

She stepped out of the church without hesitation. The time was a deep night where moonlight flowed down like liquid. Because rumors that the witch had risen from death might reach the mercenaries, Thirin had mainly operated at night. Even after the mercenary company ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠left, she continued the habit. As expected of a modern person, her sleep schedule had collapsed instantly. Well, at least it meant she didn’t run into any villagers, so that was something.

Regardless, Thirin entered the forest near the church.

“That one should work.”

She found a suitable tree and ripped off an entire branch. Thanks to her stats being pumped with 500% experience, she had strength to spare. She roughly stripped the leaves and twigs, intending to swing it, but changed her mind. Since she was doing this, she might as well do it properly.

“......”

Thirin sat down and quietly stared at the branch illuminated by moonlight. It was just a crude piece of wood. It was not a sword. But it could become one. Then what exactly was a sword?

“......”

Truthfully, such philosophical questions weren’t to Thirin’s taste. She had little interest in defining abstract concepts. She decided to simply follow where her hands led.

Thirin loosened her shoulders, pulled out the pocket knife she carried, and began trimming the wood.

“...Damn it.”

What emerged wasn’t a sword but something resembling either a club or a cane. She had failed to control her strength, and the blade kept slipping in the wrong directions. Of course it wouldn’t work on the first try. The only experience Thirin had wielding a knife against wood was sharpening pencils.

She broke off more branches and tried several times, but the results were the same. The blade either veered off course or dug in too deeply, ruining the wood’s grain.

“Fucking hell.”

Thirin irritably tossed the failure aside. Several ugly chunks of wood rolled across the ground beneath the moonlight.

“......”

While glaring at the wooden pieces in annoyance, Thirin closed her eyes.

“......It’s fine.”

It was fine. What did a few failures matter? The forest was full of trees, her strength overflowed, and no one was chasing her. Above all, Thirin possessed a will forged through experience.

She closed her eyes and murmured.

“One by one. Slowly. Without rushing.”

Just like when she had regained her ability to speak.

Thirin grabbed a fresh branch and began moving her hands again.

-Slice. Slice.

Bark peeled away. The crude branch gradually, clumsily, began taking on the shape of a sword.

“Hmm……”

It was strange. She was moving her hands the exact same way, yet the motions felt slightly smoother than before. The connection between her brain and hands felt more fluid.

“......”

Thirin suddenly had a silly thought. With the system’s buffs, it seemed she could become anything. Carve wood and she’d be a carpenter. Hammer iron and she’d be a blacksmith. Hold a chisel and she’d be a stonemason. If she just picked one thing and settled down, making a living wouldn’t be an issue.

Of course, Thirin had no intention of settling down. She needed to achieve Rebirth. She ignored the system and continued moving her hands.

-Slice. Slice.

Thirin’s movements didn’t look particularly sincere. It resembled an overeager child ruining the material, paying no mind to force control, as large wood chips fell away with dull thuds. Yet despite the seemingly indifferent and careless attitude, the result was different.

Moonlight flowed between the leaves, illuminating Thirin’s pure white hands and the stripped surface of the branch. The wood gradually took on the form of a sword.

“......”

Thirin felt as if she understood something. There was a saying that a sculptor does not carve stone, but rather pulls out what is already buried inside it. Not only sculptors—painters and other so-called artistic professionals all said similar things. The form already exists within the material.

Thirin felt she could vaguely grasp the meaning. The statement wasn’t an expression of lofty narcissism or self-praise, but a plain statement of fact. To put it crudely, it was the same as an ordinary person looking at clouds and finding the shapes of dogs or cats. Is the cloud a dog? Is the cloud a cat? A cloud is merely a cloud. But ordinary people can see dogs and cats within them. Because they are familiar. Because they can recognize those patterns in the clouds.

And artists are those who push their pattern recognition ability to the extreme. A painter draws lines millions of times. A sculptor shatters stone hundreds of thousands of times. It is less a creative act and more akin to the stereotyped behavior of a maddened beast endlessly circling the same spot. At the end of that psychopathic obsession, the artist’s brain forcibly constructs countless pattern recognition circuits on a level ordinary people cannot reach. They torture themselves until they can discover form even in lumps of stone or pieces of wood.

They say the form is already inside the material. The sculptor sees the fury of the Diamond Guardian within the rock. The painter sees a dragon drawn in a single stroke upon an empty canvas. They move their hands exactly as they see, entrusting themselves to the flow of the unconscious.

Then what did Thirin see right now?

“......”

Thirin’s hand movements changed. There was no need to forcibly create a shape. She simply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moved the knife as the wood guided her, as the sword hidden within desired. The blade’s tip flowed like water along the wood’s grain.

What was flow?

Thirin did not struggle to unravel the question. She carved the wood exactly as her hands flowed, like water flowing. -Slice, slice.

The twists in the branch, the knots, the scars engraved over long years—she did not try to straighten them, dig them out, or scrape them away. What did it matter if it was slightly twisted? As long as it didn’t lose balance. What did it matter if the length curved? As long as it didn’t forget its purpose.

How much time had passed?

Thirin finally stopped her hands and lifted the completed wooden sword. Beneath the moonlight, the wooden sword seemed to emit a faint glow.

“Hmm.”

Thirin gave it a swing. The sensation in her hand was rather good.

“Not bad.”

Satisfied, Thirin closed her eyes and recalled Bjorn’s sword strikes. A blade possessing dozens of illusions. The Illusion Sword. Just how had he created dozens of illusions with a single sword?

The martial arts granted by Heres and Gordo had been intuitive. The fast-stabbing blade had become Tip. The brutish hammering fist had been engraved into her body as Firm. But Bjorn’s sword was different. What should she define as the essence of that dizzying Illusion Sword? Flow. How could she reproduce that flow?

A vague, ungraspable concept.

“Huu……”

Thirin let out a small sigh. But she had to accomplish it. For the sake of Rebirth.

With eyes open, Thirin swung the wooden sword through the empty air. The blade drew a single line as it caught the moonlight. The white shining trajectory lingered on her retina for a moment before vanishing. Thirin swung the sword exactly as it flowed. Just as she had drawn the sword from the branch according to its flow, she simply stabbed, cut, flowed, and blocked wherever her hand led.

It was clumsy, but Thirin did not stop. The trajectories multiplied from one to two, from two to four. The afterimages of the wooden sword overlapped dizzyingly in the air. Like water paintings drawn on a stone slab, they bloomed and faded repeatedly across the curtain of night.

When she closed her eyes, it felt as if the countless sword afterimages reflected in the moonlight floated across her retina. But Thirin knew. They were all false images. The real sword was only one. This single wooden sword held in her hand.

Then where did those numerous afterimages come from? How had Bjorn created dozens of illusions with a single blade?

“......”

Thirin recalled once more the words of the great sculptor she had heard back in her hometown. He had said he saw an angel within the marble and had merely liberated the angel trapped inside the stone. But…

“...They were wrong.”

They were mistaken. The form was not inside the material. The form existed inside the sculptor.

Thirin looked at the failed pieces scattered beside her. The bumpy club. The stick gnawed through the middle as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠if it would snap. The wood twisted like a snake. And now, the smooth, balanced wooden sword held in her hand. The materials had been identical. They were all unremarkable branches taken from the same forest. Yet the results were different.

What had created this difference? It wasn’t that the branches themselves had refused or desired to become swords. It was because the one holding them—Thirin herself—had changed. Only when her immature touch became skilled through the system’s correction was a sword born instead of a club.

It was the same. A stone could become the shape of an angel, or it could become an unsightly piece of waste rock. It all depended on the one holding the chisel.

“....Aha.”

Now she understood. What mattered wasn’t the illusions themselves. What mattered were the countless possibilities that bloomed according to the one holding the sword and his will. And the only one who could draw forth such countless possibilities was herself.

Thirin smiled. Yes. That was why it was the Plum Blossom Sword Art. It was similar to how countless flowers bloom from a single branch, and how dozens of afterimages swirled every time Bjorn swung his sword once. The system hadn’t given her a completely random martial art after all.

Thirin chuckled and swung the sword. The wooden blade in her hand drew a soft trajectory beneath the moonlight. A sword path like the uncountable flow of plum blossoms scattered by the wind. The wooden sword moved faster than thought. No—it no longer even required thought. As her mind flowed, the sword split the curtain of night.

A single swing. But the trajectory did not end with one. Before the afterimage of the first strike could fade, the second and third sword lights overlapped and bloomed in the air. Using the sword as a brush and the moonlight as ink, she painted an entire landscape of plum blossoms across the void.

When she closed her eyes, the sword afterimages remaining on her retina formed the shape of a single plum blossom. Thirin felt something brush the tip of her nose. It was not a fragrance. Swinging a sword could not possibly produce scent. Yet Thirin could clearly feel it—the image of a single plum blossom that had finally bloomed after piercing through the bitter cold of a snow-covered mountain. The vision was so intense that her brain seemed to forcibly conjure a nonexistent sense. A cold yet pure, somehow distant plum blossom fragrance.

Thirin swung the sword. Plum blossoms of moonlight bloomed in splendid profusion.