The Final Step to Sword Ki
“Hah!”
“Slow! Too damn slow!”
Clack! Clack clack!
The frantic patter of footsteps mingled with the sharp cracks of wooden swords clashing in rapid succession. The two practice blades moved like predators stalking prey, swift and lethal, guarding their wielder's life from every assault. Tracking their blinding speed with the naked eye was no easy feat for any ordinary person. All that remained was the dull thwack-thwack echoing through the air, hinting at the frenzy unfolding.
Kelcia, who had been drilling Leon and Sasha, found her gaze stolen by the dazzling display. Strike, parry, thrust, repel—every motion flowed as naturally as water, yet it was ferocious and unrelenting.
He's definitely grown.
Yoahim had progressed swiftly even in spars with her. He learned fast, adapted what he picked up with a sharp mind, and had the talent to teach himself without guidance. Terriot, the elder dark elf clashing blades with him now, wasn't truly his master. Though wielding a wooden sword, he attacked with the ferocity of live combat. And that was precisely what forged Yoahim's growth.
Repetitive drills were vital, but they couldn't teach everything. Terriot's swift, brutal swordplay had one clear purpose: to kill. Facing it head-on, Yoahim's skills were sharpening at a blistering pace.
As expected of the Apostle...
Kelcia's eyes welled up as she watched Yoahim press on without pause. Though she could no longer teach him herself, she vowed in that moment to cheer him from afar. And as if drawing strength from her silent support—which he couldn't hear—Yoahim swung his blade with renewed vigor.
Shit, I'm gonna die at this rate!
Gritting his teeth, he poured everything into it.
It had been three weeks since he started daily spars with Terriot at the same time each day. Not a single session missed. The relentless routine had undeniably elevated his prowess.
Sparring with Terriot felt worlds apart from bouts with Kelcia or Haellagos's knights. It was ruthlessly combat-oriented—practically real battle. Terriot's razor-sharp, menacing strikes threatened Yoahim's life at every turn.
This damn old bastard! I told him not to actually kill me, but he swings like he wants me dead every fucking day!
Three weeks wasn't short—21 days. Two hours daily tallied 42 hours total, nearly two full days of nonstop combat. In that time, Terriot had gone for Yoahim's throat dozens of times. He claimed no intent to kill, yet he never let up, driven by unshakeable confidence: Yoahim wouldn't die.
Why the hell is he so damn sure on his own!
From Yoahim's view, it was a nightmare certainty. He'd survived those crises, sure, but it was no cakewalk. He'd felt death's grip more than once, chills running down his spine, cold sweat beading. Survival was half luck, half skill. Yet through that desperate thrashing to live, Yoahim sensed himself ascending to higher realms.
But that's that, and this is this.
Growing stronger mattered, but dying rendered it pointless. Gnashing his teeth again, Yoahim deflected Terriot's blade and transitioned to a counter. Terriot toyed with him, stepping back just out of reach.
And this geezer's stronger than he lets on.
Yoahim knew Terriot hadn't shown his full power in their first clash. Still, when proper spars began, even he was stunned. The veteran's seasoned technique overwhelmed Yoahim's fundamentals. The first week was pure defense—stealing glances at Terriot's moves was impossible, let alone attacking.
By week two, patterns emerged; counters slipped in occasionally. Yoahim thought he'd caught up somewhat, but that was arrogance. Terriot unveiled new tricks whenever Yoahim adapted—ramping speed, striking from blind angles. Yoahim tumbled through the dirt countless times to survive, caked in dust, sweat stinging his eyes, yet locked in on every motion.
And now, week three. Day 21.
“Opening!”
“Cocky brat!”
Yoahim's swordplay nipped at Terriot's heels, closing in tight. Terriot couldn't pull out fresh moves anymore; Yoahim's growth outpaced his reserves. Two hours a day left no room to drill new techniques. So Yoahim kept training post-spar. Time was plentiful—no frontline duties like his lieutenants, no paperwork like Haellagos. Sword practice filled the void.
And Yoahim was a relentless grinder. Repetition bored him not; the thrill of progress fueled him. Blood magic needed work too, but with no clue where to start, visible gains in swordsmanship won out. He extended practice sessions.
Left thrust here. Then diagonal slash.
Now, Yoahim read Terriot's minutest cues, predicting sequences. Three weeks, 42 hours of frenzied clashes—inevitable.
Still not enough.
Objectively, he surpassed his time under Kelcia. As Terriot said, spars taught what drills couldn't. Dozens of near-real battles honed his instincts; mimicking the elder absorbed his cunning. He could now stand proud as Haellagos's adjutant.
Just one more step, and...
Not enough. Even perfect mimicry falls short by that one step.
That missing step. Yoahim knew it well. It always emerged at spars' end: the blade glowing deep green. Rippling mana honed the blunt wood to razor keenness.
Sword ki.
Staring at Terriot's ace, Yoahim swallowed hard.
Just one step away, but no matter what, I can't close it.
He sparred for swordsmanship, yes—but also to steal sword ki. Terriot had no intention of teaching, so Yoahim pried for it. The elder claimed he'd awakened it naturally, crossing death's line countless times as Haellagos's man. Sound logic—breakthroughs often bloomed in desperation. Hence the kill-or-be-killed pressure: to force awakening amid mortal peril.
It seemed effective at first. Over three weeks, Yoahim inched toward it steadily. But stalled one step shy.
Why?
Because the threat to my life feels gone now?
Terriot was strong—retired, yet battle-ready. But lethal to Yoahim? No. They were evenly matched now; no real danger. Yoahim trusted he'd never die, and with luck, could turn the tables.
Need a stronger foe?
More intense stimulus? Not just risking death, but certainty? Yoahim pondered deeply.
“Daydreaming, you punk!”
Whoosh!
The wooden sword sliced for his throat. Yoahim's body dodged before his mind caught up—close call, nearly decapitated. Gripping his hilt tight, he bit his lip.
No, that's not it. The approach is wrong.
Sword ki awakenings varied. Steady training, innate talent, dramatic crisis like Terriot's—all valid, just differing fits.
I've trained steadily. Got talent. Crossed death's line plenty.
Direction was right; else he'd never reach this point. Time for a new path.
Yoahim focused, steadying his mind. His battle-hardened body auto-piloted against Terriot—good for five minutes at least. In that window, he brainstormed.
Sword ki is mana shaped as a blade.
Everyone had mana, however scant—even swordmasters unused to magic. But it differed from spells. If identical, all mages would be swordmasters.
The divide? Mana consumption.
Spells burn mana like fire. Sword ki is raw, glowing mana.
Spells depleted mana post-cast: ignite, hurl, crush foe, dissipate. Sword ki clung undiminished, clash after clash. Otherwise, non-mages would exhaust instantly.
Aim between spell and sword ki.
Standard paths failed? Forge his own. One talent short? Blend two.
Yoahim channeled mana slowly into his hilt. Infusing objects was easy; shaping blades, hard. Mages failed at sword ki for lacking sword familiarity.
Yoahim had both—sword and magic, drilled obsessively.
It's possible.
His eyes ignored Terriot, fixed on the invisible blade. He gathered mana, sculpting form.
Like casting spells.
Recalling Tolstone's mages: dissecting spells, recombining fragments for new magic. He shattered known spells into pieces, selecting blade-shaping bits.
Rudimentary shape formed—brittle as a twig. Not enough.
Fill the gaps.
Memories from Jeron's lessons: spell diagrams, geometries. He patched the blade's voids with arcane knowledge. Dots to lines, lines to planes, planes to solids. Mana flooded the hollows.
The perforated edge solidified into flawless steel.
“I told you no daydreaming!”
Terriot's shout fell on deaf ears. Yoahim faced a crisis beyond life-or-death. Prep complete: blade perfected, mana honed.
All that remained: unleash.
“...You.”
Ching!
A metallic ring unimaginable from wood on wood. Terriot staggered back several steps blocking the counter. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at Yoahim.
Battle-hardened instincts screamed the truth before his eyes did.
“Freakish monster...”
In just three weeks? Terriot's voice dripped resignation. Yoahim glanced down—at his hand, precisely, his wooden sword. It shimmered with faint purple light.