The Will You Harbor in Your Sword -1-
Training sessions with Hanna had begun. One day. Two days. Three days. Until the day of our promised showdown drew near, I remained in the capital with her, and Hanna too showed up at our agreed spot every night to swing her sword.
Hanna kept up admirably. Perhaps because she was used to grueling workouts, she threw herself into the training without a hint of complaint, greeting each session—despite the doubled intensity of her daily routine—with a bright smile.
"Butler!"
Muscle soreness from yesterday clearly wasn't bothering her as she bounded over energetically, but her clumsy grimaces during stretches brought a smile to my face.
"Does it hurt?"
"N-no...! Not at all...!"
"Then we'll have to push even harder today."
"Eek! I was wrong!"
Knowing what drove her to work so hard made me feel even more attached. Her effort toward that goal was a sight to behold. If it had been half-hearted, I wouldn't have been motivated to teach her, but Hanna gave her all every moment. Even as a model student already, her underdog-like determination made me want to share even more with her.
"Butler?"
Standing in the center of the training ground late at night, Hanna tilted her head at me, still motionless. Her voice carried a hint of curiosity—Why are you just standing there zoning out?—and I jolted my shoulders in surprise.
"Ah, sorry. I missed that—got lost in some evening melancholy for a second."
"Pfft...! What kind of excuse is that?"
"Guess my puberty hit late."
"Puhaha! You're going through puberty, Butler?"
"Yeah, the stormy adolescence phase."
Hanna burst out laughing as she gripped her sword, sweat beading on her skin, and her smile at my every little quip had me grinning right back. My brief daze must have left her feeling awkward. Sorry about that. I tuned into the cool night air and focused on her question.
"Anyway, what did you need? Stuck on something?"
"Oh... yeah, I wanted to check if I'm doing it right, like you taught me."
"Got it."
I nodded and told her, "Let's take a look, then. See if you're on track."
"Yes...!"
Hanna raised her sword. Closing her eyes, she drew in a steady breath, and a hazy aura began to flicker from her hand like heat haze. A pale brown aura. It didn't feel sturdy or unyielding. Warm and vague. Less an intense drive to overpower someone, more a quiet contentment with the here and now, a desire to hold steady. No explosive power. No overwhelming pressure to crush foes in one blow. Frankly, nothing like that registered.
I crossed my arms and eyed her aura coolly, wondering if this weapon of hers could even reach Mikhail.
This isn't what I wanted.
I'd given her a tough assignment: craft her most powerful attack. A finishing move, you might call it. Those who make "nothingness" their trade need their own secret technique. Mikhail had his Flash, Ruin his Blast—so I'd asked her for something on that level.
The request was vague from the start, sure. Mikhail and Hanna were evenly matched in skill, but their paths diverged. He chased one-sided justice. She yearned for recognition. I didn't aim that grand myself, but swordsmen generally poured their aspirations into their blades. If I had to pin it down, it was the resolve to somehow defeat the enemy before you. No matter who they were, the emotion of slaying them—that was my will.
Most channel the drive to protect loved ones, but life's been good to me, so I preferred simpler motives over heavy emotions. Put badly, it could be killing intent; nicely, maybe... subjugation?
Aura ebbs and flows with a swordsman's emotions. Its handling shifts with what's poured into the blade's tip, surging or morphing based on that emotion's weight.
I stared at Hanna's aura. Then shook my head and said, "Hanna."
"Yes."
Deep in focus, she stared straight ahead at her sword tip. Beads of sweat on her forehead proved her sincerity, but I couldn't offer warm encouragement.
What I'd come to teach her in this short time wasn't sword minutiae or victory tips—it was aura manipulation and crafting her own finishing move. Aura was the weapon for rapid growth in a pinch, and the steady path for long-term progress as a swordsman. That's why I focused on it with her.
Uncrossing my arms, I told her, "You're wrong."
"Pardon...?"
"Everything, from one to ten. All wrong."
Her eyes trembled as she looked at me, clueless what I'd meant. Was it her grip? Her stance? Desperate to pinpoint the flaw, she gazed at me like a test-taker stumped by the answer.
I walked over, drawing Tyrving from my waist with a cold shing. A chill wind emanated from the blade—too heavy for mere night air, too sharp for a breeze—as it grazed her cheek.
I took a small breath and said, "Ordinary swordsmen carry a will."
"A will to kill the foe before them..."
A heavy whoosh rent the air, booming grandly. Hanna flinched, eyes wide at the sword's path, but I swung again without pause.
Whoosh.
"Others, to protect the precious..."
Fwoosh.
"I'm the former type. 'Killing this one will make my life easier.' That sort of feeling. Hmm... could be about protection too, since I'm included in that 'someone.'"
"So."
"What do you carry when you swing your sword, Hanna?"
"A will to protect? Or desperate hunger to win?"
Red aura gathered on the pitch-black blade. Cool and viscous with killing intent, it bathed the training ground in crimson. Not a vast quantity. No immense mana. Just enough to slash a line through the air—yet even with a light exhale, it dominated the space.
"What I saw in you? Nothing. Plenty of will to grow stronger, sure—but no direction. No why. Put harshly, it's undetectable."
"The academy's chronic disease."
I gave a small smile. "Happens when you fixate too much on good grades."
Hanna was probably rejecting this inwardly. It boiled down to swinging an empty sword. A denial of her desperation, her blade's fierce will. But something was missing—that was undeniable reality. Her aura showed it; her growth had stalled.
Tweaking trivia wouldn't spark miracles. Swords weren't kind. A weapon meant to harm people doesn't fuss over petty details—it's too vicious a friend for that.
So I smiled at her hardened expression. "You don't get what I mean, do you?"
"No..."
She told me she was sincere about the sword. "Butler, I'm always serious. I swing it to grow strong, to be someone I can be proud of. You might not see it, but I pour my desperation into every stroke—my passion burns hotter than anyone's. Saying my will is lacking..."
She gripped her sword tighter. "Frankly, I can't accept that."
I nodded at her honest reply. I got it. Passion for the sword—a fine emotion, solid footing for growth.
"Hmm..."
But not enough. Emotions end eventually. Goals reach conclusions.
"Watch closely."
I lightly gripped my sword. Its tip quivered in the breeze, pointed skyward. Amid the tousling wind, drifting leaves, this cozy moment—I swung gently.
[Slice.]
Everything was severed. Falling leaves. Blowing wind. Scattered dust—all split by the tiny blade's stroke, losing vitality. Like soil soaking emotionless rain, the sword's ripple spread faintly, slowly dyeing the night.
Hanna forgot to speak. No—she couldn't. What she'd seen was a sword surpassing her father, a realm forever out of reach upon first witnessing another's blade.
"This is..."
I smiled faintly. "Did you see it?"
"..."
"This is how you swing a sword."
"What did you... no, how did you do that?"
"A master has to manage at least this much."
Calling her name, I said, "Sometimes, you need to imbue it with the will to kill—or to protect. Swing solely for success, and it ends bland."
Of course.
"Not that my way's the absolute truth."
Like a broken doll, Hanna nodded. She couldn't grasp what she'd seen, or where Ricardo's limits lay.
Sheathing my drawn sword, I told her, "You can do it too, Hanna."
"...Me?"
"Yes."
With a confident smile. "I'll make sure of it."