Chapter 13
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: Even Rolling in the Dirt, the Boy Smiled (1)
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It was anyone's guess why Ulrich Tideman, who had clearly stated that regressing thirty years into the past was his limit, had somehow gone all the way back 190 years.
But Blanc couldn't just sit around moping. After all, he had to accomplish not only his own goals but also everything Ulrich had failed to do upon his botched regression.
And to do that, he first needed to build up his skills.
Whoosh, whoosh.
"Your lower body can't shake like that! You need to root yourself to the ground like a sturdy tree!"
Sir Edwin, Bartolomeo Tolome's sworn knight, bellowed at Blanc as he swung his sword down.
Blanc remembered hearing about Edwin even in his previous life—a knight of exceptional skill who had loyally served the Tolome family for many years.
His heart had swelled with excitement at the chance to train under such a renowned knight.
But now...
'498, 499... 500!'
His chest was swelling for an entirely different reason.
"Five hundred! That's done!"
This old knight, who never held back even in front of Count Bartolomeo, treated Blanc like dirt with a look that screamed, Who do you think you are?
Blanc shot back a fierce glare of his own, matching Edwin's challenging eyes that seemed to say, Can you endure this? How about this?
It had been a full month now since he'd started rolling around in the dirt like this.
Though he was both the young master of a count's family and the head of a baron's house, Blanc hadn't uttered a single complaint. He followed every grueling order Edwin gave without fail.
Edwin watched Blanc pant through his training, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Take a short break, then..."
"A break?"
"You've done vertical slashes, so now horizontal ones. Five hundred horizontal slashes!"
'...Damn it!'
But knights worthy of the title were made of stern stuff, as expected.
Today, as always, Blanc's groans echoed across the training grounds.
The simple gray-white study.
"How's Blanc doing?"
Bartolomeo Tolome, patriarch of the Tolome family, was asking Edwin for an update on his grandson's swordsmanship lessons.
The boy had requested a master to teach him the basics.
Bartolomeo had been fully prepared to generously compensate a famed swordsmanship guild to hire one...
But then:
"If you'll permit it, my lord, I'd like to teach him myself."
"You?"
"Yes."
Blanc's first meeting with Edwin had left just as strong an impression on the knight as it had on Bartolomeo.
Edwin—Bartolomeo's most prized sword and comrade-in-arms from countless battlefields—had volunteered to instruct the boy personally.
For the stoic Count Bartolomeo, calling a knight his "favorite" was tantamount to declaring them peerless in skill. Within the Tolome family, Edwin ranked second only to the eldest son, Schmaier Tolome.
Now fifty-six, Sir Edwin had married young, but his sons lacked any talent for the blade, leaving him without a true heir to his swordsmanship.
Bartolomeo had assigned promising young nobles as his squires, but Edwin drove them so mercilessly—bordering on brutality—that they all fled.
The rumors had spread far and wide. No young noble boy dared become Edwin's squire anymore.
If this continued, he'd have no choice but to take a commoner apprentice.
"My grandson hasn't keeled over dead yet, has he?"
Bartolomeo chuckled good-naturedly, tossing out the joke. Edwin grinned back.
"I'll be turning sixty soon myself. I'm not as sharp as I used to be, my lord."
Of the eight squires Bartolomeo had assigned, five hadn't lasted a month, two hadn't made it half a year, and the last one barely scraped by for a year.
One of those who failed after half a year was Bartolomeo's own eldest grandson, Yonas Tolome.
Even now, Yonas broke out in cold sweats at the sight of Edwin.
After losing all eight squires, Edwin had resolved not to be quite so harsh with Blanc.
But then:
"Izrelin says that every time she visits, Blanc's either puking his guts out or passed out cold."
"Ahem..."
Edwin coughed awkwardly, trying to deflect.
In the Tolome family, where women were rare treasures, Nedrian—Bartolomeo's beloved youngest daughter—had been his favorite.
Now, that honor went to his youngest granddaughter, Izrelin Tolome.
The little girl roamed the estate with a pouch of sunflower seeds, serving as Bartolomeo's eyes and ears everywhere.
And lately, her favorite topic was her new cousin, Blanc. Edwin couldn't deny it even if he wanted to.
"He seems to carry a deep grudge in his heart. No matter how harshly I train him, he sticks it out with gritted teeth."
It was a tenacity rare in noble boys his age.
Of course, Blanc—having regressed and gotten a second chance—could grin and bear even the toughest drills. But neither man here knew that. They just pitied him, assuming it stemmed from his parents' deaths.
"So, after a month of lessons, what do you think? Still just basics? Speak up now if so. I need to hire a proper master to teach him advanced techniques."
"Ahem... Well, if you'll allow it, my lord, I'd like to..."
Bartolomeo's lips curved into a broad smile at Edwin's request to pass on his own swordsmanship.
Edwin wasn't of this generation's top tier, but in his prime, he'd been one of the Felix Kingdom's finest knights, countable on one hand.
Even now, a duel between peak-era Edwin and current Schmaier wouldn't end swiftly.
That's why Bartolomeo had pushed his grandson Yonas as Edwin's squire—but it had failed.
Edwin could've offered empty flattery to his lord and liege, the kingdom's count. Instead, he'd coldly critiqued Yonas: his heart, not his talent, was the issue.
Bartolomeo knew Edwin's unyielding character well, so hearing him express interest in teaching Blanc filled him with extra joy.
It meant Blanc's potential was the real deal.
What dazzling flowers might bloom from a boy of true talent meeting a legendary swordsman?
Blanc was Cardmus by name, but as good as Tolome blood. Bartolomeo couldn't help but smile.
"If there's anything you need to teach Blanc, just say the word. I'll support you fully."
"The training ground Baron Blanc uses is just dirt..."
"I'll have it paved with marble!"
Bartolomeo rushed to make it fact, lest Edwin change his mind. But such worries were needless.
"No, my lord. He actually said he prefers the dirt."
For the first time in ages, Bartolomeo saw a feral grin on his aged knight's face.
"Dirt's perfect for rolling, isn't it?"
Edwin flashed a toothy smile at Bartolomeo and held up the back of his hand.
A fresh, thin scar—like a fresh ink line—marked Edwin's hand.
After his brutal session with Edwin, Blanc collapsed like a corpse.
Someone approached the fallen boy.
"Tough day, huh? I even told Sir Edwin to go extra hard on you today."
Izrelin plopped down beside him, clutching her skirt. She cracked sunflower seeds and flicked the shells at Blanc.
"You went to see Wilhelm I's statue with that maid Emilia last time, right? I actually wanted to check out that café too."
"..."
Irritated by Blanc's silence—face buried in the dirt—Izrelin started tossing uncracked seeds at him.
"Are you even listening?! I said I wanted to go there too!"
He wasn't, of course.
Instead of heeding her whining, Blanc replayed his spar with Edwin.
In his past life, Anton Kingdom's Duke Gornas Valtazar had given him White Lightning, calling it the Aura Cultivation Method that suited him best.
"What makes it the best fit?"
"Speed and swiftness."
"Are you saying I have that kind of nature?"
Blanc had spent nearly twenty years as a rootless mercenary, swinging his blade wildly. Yet somehow, his true nature had shone through.
"Ideally, pair it with a matching sword style. But that's no easy task."
Gornas was too busy battling the void to teach an aging mercenary personally—and lacked the time anyway.
So he'd told Blanc:
"Don't forget. Speed and swiftness."
Blanc had planned to reject every master Bartolomeo hired until he found one that fit.
But now? No need.
Sir Edwin truly deserved the title "Knight of Swiftness."
Even at fifty-six, his footwork was light and spry. His thrusts knew no hesitation. His movements claimed space with the effortless grace of deep inner power.
Against that towering mountain of a man, Blanc unleashed every dirty trick from twenty years as a sellsword.
He kicked up dirt, hurled stones, rolled on the ground without a shred of pride to dodge, and when his sword path was blocked, lunged to bite Edwin's neck.
Edwin was taken aback by Blanc's savage, murderous frenzy to inflict any wound.
But what shocked him most was Blanc charging while scattering White Lightning aura.
It was sloppy, chaotic swordplay—but honed on a single point.
Watching Blanc move with white aura flaring, Edwin felt like a glittering white wolf was leaping at him.
After a desperate struggle, Blanc finally nicked Edwin's hand. The aged Knight of Swiftness stared at the wound and laughed heartily.
He even flipped the exhausted Blanc over and spoke to him, head planted in the dirt.
"Izrelin."
"Yeah?"
The girl had been nagging him to take her to the café.
"I'll never go to that café with you."
"Why?! Why, why?!"
Fuming at Blanc's ultimatum, Izrelin stomped the ground.
"I'll tell Grandpa! And Sir Edwin too! I'll tell him to make your training even harder! To torment you more!"
Tears welled in her eyes from sheer frustration.
"Yeah, go ahead."
Blanc groaned as he hauled his heavy body upright.
Caked in dirt, soaked in sweat, hair a mess—he was a wreck. But rising with the sun at his back, even little Izrelin felt an overwhelming aura about him.
"Go tell Sir Edwin to make it tougher."
Blanc coveted that swordsmanship, truly.
Edwin's blade, a perfect match for White Lightning.