The Sword's Reluctant Pride
Arian felt like she might just die from how adorable her son looked, glaring at Fenris with puffed-up cheeks.
It wasn't common for her precocious boy to make such an expression, but even setting aside her doting love for him, the sparring match he'd shown earlier was anything but ordinary.
Arian herself had awakened to spirit arts early and never learned the sword, but that didn't mean she had no eye for blades.
As a direct descendant of the Alastors, she'd watched her kin and countless knights wield their swords since childhood. Her husband was utterly mad for the blade, after all.
'Kyle's sword talent must come from the Alastor and Aslan blood.'
The Alastors, hailed as the continent's supreme martial house, worshipped martial prowess to an absurd degree, living up to their fame. Martial arts could be debated endlessly, but if you asked for a simple measure of martial talent, it was raw power.
Having martial talent meant possessing clear potential to grow strong. Being young meant ample time and room to mature.
Today, Kyle had proven his immense value before the family head. There were no cousins younger than him, and surely none more talented.
"…"
What brought Arian both joy and worry was that her son's gifts went beyond mere martial talent.
His affinity for spirits.
It wasn't something you could gain by desire or nurture through effort.
The world had fields where grit and hard work could compensate for lacking talent, but spirit arts weren't one of them. Without the gift, you couldn't even begin.
It had been 500 years since the founder, Ruin Alastor, ended the continent's dark age with a single sword. From him, the Alastor name had dominated Vigrid, absorbing countless bloodlines over those five centuries.
The sole condition to blend into Alastor blood was talent. Sword talent ranked highest, but it didn't have to be swords—or even martial at all. Five centuries had tempted the house to seek even magical gifts.
Of course, the Alastors weren't a magical house and didn't aspire to be. They'd pursued various talents to broaden martial foundations and elevate their ideals, with the sword forever at the core.
In those 500 years of history,
as far as Arian knew, spirit affinity had never mixed into Alastor blood. Not once.
Unlike magic, which had popularized since the dark age, spirit arts remained rare even now.
Mana mastery let effort somewhat substitute for magical talent, but not for spirits. If you weren't born with it, the door stayed shut.
Thus, spirit arts were insular; spirit users stuck to their own. No matter how exalted the Alastor name, they held an elitist mindset and shunned mixing blood.
Arian bit her lower lip, recalling her childhood. A talent never before in the house, utterly unlike her surroundings. Her father had blessed her gift, but as a girl, she'd felt like an outsider, drifting apart.
She'd faced jealousy and scorn. She alone, born direct Alastor blood, shunned sword and weapon.
So Arian worried: would this inherited talent twist her son's future?
One talent meant one path. But Kyle had spirit affinity rivaling his martial genius. Arian would support whatever he chose with all her heart, but the family's stance was another matter.
"Father…"
"Grandfather."
As Arian moved to call Julius, Kyle spoke first. He flinched and glanced at her, but she shook her head.
"Speak first, dear."
"Yes. Grandfather, can I take this later?"
Kyle withdrew his hand from Fenris and asked. Kartan felt a dizzy spell. Requesting Fenris was absurd enough; actually granting it, more so.
Now he was refusing—but not entirely, just postponing.
"Family head… even so, Fenris is…"
Kartan ventured cautiously. Fenris wasn't the founder's own blade, but his first trophy. It had stayed by his side until ascension's eve—a symbol of the founder, no exaggeration.
That's why it adorned the throne room's dais, directly under the portrait, in such a bold position.
Kartan acknowledged Kyle's talent, but Fenris carried too much weight for a child.
"You wanted it so badly. Don't want it now?"
Julius ignored Kartan, fixing on Kyle.
"It's too big for me to use right now."
"You knew that from the first glance."
"Well… there's another reason, actually."
Damn old man. Gotta dig at my pride like that? Kyle swallowed curses, mustering a childlike face.
"Fenris says it doesn't want me yet."
This crushed the Sword Ghost's pride. Rejected by his own sword from 500 years ago!
Spirit, goblin, whatever—that wolf pup. He could grab Fenris without communing, size be damned; he'd grow into it eventually.
Yeah.
Eventually.
'No point taking what I can't use now. I'll claim it when it truly acknowledges me.'
Kyle clenched his fist. If he lacked spirit affinity and couldn't see the mutt, fine. But ignoring it after seeing would wound his pride.
"Rejected by the sword. That's bizarre."
Julius chuckled, gazing at the grounded Fenris. He neither saw nor sensed the wolf Kyle had.
"Confident you'll earn it later?"
"Of course."
"Fenris was the Sword Ghost's blade 500 years ago. Last, it served our founder. Only two masters ever. Kyle, you think you're worthy of third?"
Was Ruin really its master? Kyle wondered innocently, but as a trophy, interpretation allowed it.
"Yes."
Doubt aside, Julius's question needed no thought. Who else but Kyle could claim Fenris?
"Bold answer, good. So when do you think?"
"Gotta see going forward."
"That's not bold."
"I don't know yet either."
Kartan's face shifted colors at the grandsonly banter. Even grown sons choked in talks with Father; this young cousin held firm, unyielding.
"I'll give you ten years."
"What if longer?"
"No confidence?"
"I have it, but no need to rush."
"Hm. True. Haste ruins even sure things."
Julius glanced at Lucia. Talented yet defeated by impatience. Still awaiting dismissal, she bowed silently in the corner.
"Then take it when you feel ready."
"Won't go back on your word?"
"Would the Alastor head lie on this?"
"Then can I come whenever I want to play with Fenris?"
Kyle's eyes sparkled. Kartan's jaw dropped at "play"; Lucia's head snapped up; Arian's eyes widened.
"…"
Julius's face changed too. He stared blankly, then composed himself with a nod.
"Yes. Come whenever you want and play with Fenris."
"F-Family head, this is the Sword Apex Hall…"
"Quiet."
Horrified, Kartan spoke; Julius silenced him with a chill glare. Kartan's mouth snapped shut.
"Can I play with you too, Grandfather?"
Kyle's body was a five-year-old's, but not his soul. He knew exactly how his words would land.
Sword Tower's pinnacle in Gladiheim: pureblood residence. Sword Apex Hall, the heart—throne and founder's portrait. Even heir Kartan seemed barred without leave.
Now Kyle had free access—and was closing distance to the fearsome head. Ripples among kin, inevitable.
He deemed it necessary.
Arian returned after six years married away, son in tow.
Succession unclear; many would eye them warily. Arian had long faced house exclusion.
Kyle ignored stares by nature, but wouldn't let it drag Arian down.
'Getting chummy with everyone? Too tiring.'
Easiest battlefield win: behead the enemy general.
Here, that was Julius. Metaphor only—no patricide planned. Befriend him, ignore the rest.
"Play… with me?"
"Yes."
Julius's composure cracked again. Mouth agape, he stared, then smirked and nodded.
"If you're worth playing with, why not."
"Yay!"
Kyle beamed boyishly. He wouldn't force unwanted bonds, even for Arian.
But today's Julius seemed decent. Not as grandfather or Arian's father—just man to man.
'Keeps his word, strong, proud.'
500 years ago, he'd have fought him on sight.
"Lucia."
Julius called; Lucia hesitated, stunned by the exchange. But she rallied to attention.
"Yes, family head."
"Escort Kyle and show him the Sword Tower."
"Understood."
"Kartan, Arian—stay."
"Yes… family head."
"Yes."
Lucia grabbed the wooden sword and headed for the doors. Kyle followed, bowing brightly to Julius.
"See you later, Grandfather!"
No formal farewell; they'd meet often, no need for distance.
Silence blanketed the emptied hall. Its usual mood. Kartan, throat tight, eyed Julius.
"One kid leaves, and the air shifts."
Julius slumped into the throne, muttering. Kartan forced an awkward smile.
"Must be… your dignity, sir."
"Even now, you won't call me Father?"
"As eldest, I lead by rule…"
"Since when did house rules bar calling Father 'Father'?"
Kartan coughed dryly at the jab; Arian chuckled softly.
"Don't you think you're too strict, Father?"
"Arian. At least when you were here, this place had a human touch."
"I just remember boring lectures till adulthood."
"Mostly your fault."
"Yes, mostly. Not all."
Arian smiled bitterly, reminiscing. Jealousy, scorn, isolation—true, but she'd drifted too. Julius never called her gift "wrong."
"Like Kyle…?"
"Silly question. Did I show anything but delight in your son today?"
Julius pondered.
"A bit cheeky. But seeing him, blood tells. Spirit gift too."
"…"
"Good it's not spirit-only."
"Makes me feel guilty. Sorry, Father—for the spirit-skewed daughter."
"Still that habit at your age? Bad for your son—fix it."
Julius's tone chilled; Arian flinched, shoulders hunching.
"Kidding, kidding."
"Even jokes— not before Kyle."
"Got it…"
"Live on Sword Tower floor four from now."
"Pardon?"
"Why question?"
Julius looked baffled.
"Your son—no, grandson—said he'd visit often to play. Expect you or another to drag him each time?"
"Well… our mansion's cozy…"
"Absurd. Even if true, so what? Move the whole damn thing."
Six years blurred the tower's layout. Arian wryly shook her head.
"No issue."
"Then, more on my grandson."
Julius grinned, stroking his chin.
"How to raise that cheeky little guy."