Grip of the Blade and Will of the Sword
While the students received wooden swords from Kyle and took their positions, Barton approached carrying a box from the corner of the training ground. He set it down beside Maness, who was standing awkwardly, and gestured for him to climb up.
“...Should I get on?”
“You need to be visible to everyone, even those in the back.”
Maness had a vague idea why he'd been singled out. Like Professor Zentina, most Snowrobe professors wouldn't leave a promising sprout alone. They had a hunger to nurture talent in their own field. That drive was one of the forces propelling Snowrobe forward.
It was clearly an attempt to teach him directly and spark his interest in swordsmanship as much as possible.
From atop the box, Maness could take in the entire Class 1 at a glance. Most faces soured at the sight of the delinquent representing them, but there was nothing they could do about it. If they didn't like it, they should have caught the professor's eye themselves.
“Looks like everyone's got their swords. Let's begin. First up, the proper grip. Maness, hold the wooden sword however feels right to you.”
At the professor's prompting, Maness extended his right hand, which already gripped the wooden sword. In the original story, the protagonist was Kyle, so sword descriptions popped up frequently—including the grip, a regular feature.
Maness kept his right arm steady and brought his left hand above the hilt, fingers facing palm-up. He wrapped them slowly from the pinky around the top of the blade guard, pressing firmly against the handle. Once his thumb completed the grip, his elbow naturally spread into a comfortable stance.
With the left hand done, he adjusted the right—the one already holding the sword—so it sat about two fingers' width from the left. He gripped softly at the bottom of what would be the guard, just like before.
Left hand for power. Right for direction. Enough space between them to maintain balance and absorb impact without collapsing the stance.
As he finished the grip, Maness felt his body's balance align naturally. It was like a straight line from the crown of his head to his toes, rigid as the wooden sword itself.
“Hm...”
Barton, watching intently, stroked his chin with interest.
“Have you studied grips separately before?”
“Just picked it up in passing.”
“That's awfully polished for something picked up on the fly.”
In that moment, Maness caught the sharp glint in the professor's eyes. The fierce gaze of a predator who wouldn't let prey slip away.
“You might have a real talent for the sword, after all.”
“...It's just mimicry from watching.”
“Mimicking what you see is the hard part.”
Barton circled him, scrutinizing the stance, adjusting the unrefined elbow angle and foot positioning. He stepped back for a full view, then nodded in satisfaction.
“Pay attention. Grip it just like the student who demonstrated. It'll feel awkward at first, but try to match it as closely as you can.”
At the professor's shout, the students assumed their stances. Barton handed corrections over to Kyle and dove into the groups himself.
“You think spreading your fingers like that transmits power properly?”
“N-no, sir!”
“Is your hand so starved for affection? Clamp them tight like this, or you'll block the opponent's sword and send your wrist flying off with it!”
“Got it!”
Unlike Kyle's gentle guidance for his peers, the professor's instruction was brutally intense. It felt less like a magic academy class and more like knight trainee drills.
Amid the roaring professor and flinching students, Maness glanced down at his own grip.
Guess I mimicked it decently.
Even accounting for the original story's text, it was just words on a page. Knowledge mattered, sure, but his body adapted to the grip with uncanny familiarity. Like he'd been wielding a sword for over a decade, muscle memory kicking in automatically.
The original Maness must have trained with a blade. His father, Robert Pictri the trading magnate, had learned it for self-defense, and his honed physique proved it—not the kind from mere manual labor.
Lost in thought, Maness noticed Barton returning from zipping between groups. Most students looked utterly deflated from the barrage.
“You're holding a deadly weapon right now. It can hurt others, so your mindset has to match that weight. You there, idiot.”
“Y-yes?”
Morras stammered at the sudden callout.
“What do you need to harm someone with a sword?”
“Uh...”
Morras rolled his eyes, scheming for a flashy answer to impress.
“Swordsmanship superior to anyone else's!”
“Then you'll never die to some back-alley thug's knife.”
Morras froze, taking too long even to process it.
“What you need to harm with a sword is the will to slash and stab your foe. No matter your skill, without resolve, you couldn't catch a single rabbit.”
Thud.
Barton lightly tapped the box with his wooden sword to punctuate. Maness, jolted by the vibration, turned to him.
“So, what do you need to protect someone with a sword?”
Maness knew exactly what he wanted to hear. It fit the context perfectly.
“The will to use the sword for protection.”
“Precisely.”
Barton slung his wooden sword over his shoulder and paced before the group.
“Protecting something with a sword demands more than just the will to harm. It's about wielding that lethal tool in your hands solely to defend. Whether it's a person, an object, or the beliefs upholding you.”
Crack.
Barton's wooden sword flicked Morras's aside in an instant. Even that light motion crumbled Morras's stance.
“This mindset is essential even without formal training. Magic's the same. Will you use water magic to quench thirst or drown a village? It depends on your resolve. And that upright spirit springs from the upright stance you're holding.”
Crack. Crack. Crack.
Barton passed through the ranks, disrupting stances with single taps. Every student lost form on impact.
“Now, pair up and review the stance we learned. From that posture, find the unshakeable core within.”
At his command, students eyed each other warily, unsure how to proceed. Barton knew exactly how to handle it.
“What's the holdup? Move it!”
*
“Hah!”
A clumsy swing cut through the air with a shout. As the wooden sword completed its arc, faint muscle ache rippled through Maness's arm. Lighter than a real blade, but swinging it over twenty times was still grueling.
“You're improving fast, though.”
“...Spare me the lip service.”
“What? I'm as honest as they come.”
Maness rolled his eyes at Kyle's grin, exasperated. Talking more would just drag him deeper.
“Nailing the stance on day one is impressive enough.”
“If I pulled off that impressive feat, can't I get a break?”
“Professor Barton asked me to help. Gotta lead by example in aiding classmates' growth.”
It sounded teasing, but Barton had indeed left Kyle in charge before departing. This had been the routine ever since.
“Then go guide some others?”
“It's better if they figure it out helping each other than me spoon-feeding.”
“Don't you see the ones dying to chat you up?”
Kyle breezed past the hint to buzz off.
“They can come here.”
“...With me around? Fat chance.”
“Truth is, I wanna rest too. Lunch'll be sword talk pandemonium anyway.”
Using me as a shield, huh.
Maness ignored the shameless guy and swung again.
Whoosh.
Mimicking the professor's strong downward cut from overhead as best he could. It whistled fiercely, but fell short of the demo.
“You're really into it? Thought you had zero interest in swords.”
“Gotta try anything with potential.”
“Weren't you gunning for trading heir?”
“Future's unpredictable.”
Maness parried the barrage of questions with curt replies until—
“But you've got magic talent, right?”
His sword halted mid-swing with a clack.
Maness scowled at Kyle.
He'd never shown any sign that would make Kyle think he had magic aptitude. Conien might have mentioned the mountainside, but given his personality, he'd keep quiet.
Kyle shrugged at the wary glare.
“No need for the scary death stare.”
“How do you know I have magic talent?”
“That mountainside explosion yesterday afternoon? Your doing.”
Did Conien spill after all?
But Kyle doused the suspicion.
“Only you, Iris, and Conien from Class 1 went that far up.”
“Remember hallway brawl with Her Highness? Boltman did that one...”
“Don't underestimate me.”
The words sliced sharp as a spirit blade. Calm and kind in tone, yet edged—a paradoxical voice.
“Boltman's no mage for that level. And you think I missed the shock on his face?”
“...Freak.”
Recognition was nice, but from Kyle? Trouble.
The current emperor, Ropelt XI, wallowed in the peace his ancestor Ropelt I built, living decadently. Kyle backed the reform-minded First Prince. Tangling with him spelled doom.
As the original protagonist, Kyle walked the righteous path. No impurities allowed. Maness had to fade quietly into history's backdrop.
“So what if I do? What's it to you?”
“Talented sprouts should help each other. Who knows? Might save each other's asses later.”
A man fated to bite evil. Kyle had the pull to keep talent close.
To resist that gravity, Maness fortified the walls around his heart.
“Even if it would, not interested.”
“Harsh. Won't bonding with classmates bring good karma?”
“You'd know from what I've done so far.”
Kyle chuckled dryly at the brazen admission of his notoriety, nodding.
“Fair point.”
Maness hammered the wedge home and refocused on his sword, shoving the clingy guy from his mind. Straighten stance, raise hand overhead, slash down...!
“Your form's slipping a bit.”
“...Go help someone else?”
*
Knock knock.
The crisp knock echoed through the staff lounge.
Metaph, right? No class, so probably here. No morning magic lessons assigned today.
Per Barton's info, Maness headed straight to Letos Hall's first floor after class. Illusion magic talent—what it meant, he needed to grasp first.
“Come in.”
The familiar voice drifted through—leisurely, sly. Just what you'd expect from a veiled figure. With permission, Maness turned the knob.
Inside, a squinting man set down his teacup, greeting his student with his signature smile.
“Knew you'd come, Student Maness.”