Chương 61: DIARY ENTRY: SWORDS

<Diary Entry Another month has bled into the last, a monotonous cycle of training new training all in the name of this 'Rite Of Passage'. Each dawn is a fresh canvas for my misery, painted over with the thin veneer of a polite, eager young noble. My inner self, that quiet, insistent voice has gotten louder and louder, just wants to return to the warm, dark oblivion I briefly inhabited before I was ripped back into this infuriatingly structured existence. All this training is a waste of time... But I smile.

I always smile. I'm no longer alone with Aina. Jamie is a new character that has appeared on the scene. She's Roric's daughter loud, boisterous, and carries herself with the reckless energy of a wild stallion and Aina's anthitesis. Jamie's boundless energy and Aina's relentless scrutiny have formed a kind of gravitational pull around me, two opposing forces dragging me in different directions.

Jamie clings with an almost desperate enthusiasm, never allowing more than a moment of distance before she inserts herself between me and anyone else. Aina, by contrast, hovers with cold precision, her attention always dissecting, analyzing, and quietly judging. I have learned to stay pleasantly detached from their silent rivalry; it is easier to feign obliviousness than to risk choosing a side. Today, however, all of that tension briefly faded into the background.

After having us read as much as we could on swordsmanship, he decided to give a rare demonstration himself—a masterclass, he called it. It was less an instructional session and more a revelation of what true mastery looks like. He spoke beforehand about the four great sword styles, each tied to the major Trait Classes, but the words barely prepared me for what followed. I initially thought swordmanship wouldn't help me achieve my goal but after some reading i realized that it was another route to take.

Father, a Saint, stepped into the yard carrying the calm weight of someone who has long surpassed what ordinary warriors can dream of. Opposite him stood Sir Eddie Gable, the quiet shadow clad in silver who often accompanies him as a gaurd, Commander of our gaurd and a Saint himself, a rank which already was a testament to how dangerous he is despite his soft-spoken demeanor and orderly manner.

Only today did I learn that he is a Grandmaster of the 'Phantom Blade Style'—an art built entirely around deception, misdirection, and movement that borders on the impossible. The duel itself lasted less than a minute, yet it left the entire training yard scarred and humming with the residual energy of their brief clash. Sir Eddie moved first. His form dissolved into a blur of silver, his blade splitting into a shifting mirage of weapons that struck from multiple directions at once.

It was disorienting to watch; his movements confounded the eye, slipping between presence and illusion. The Phantom Blade Style truly lived up to its name. His strikes sought openings that most fighters would never even notice, weaving feints within feints, never presenting a clear angle of intention. Father did not respond with equivalent speed or aggression. His defense appeared almost passive, built on minimal motion.

He shifted his weight only slightly, adjusting posture and angle by minute increments that redirected each incoming strike before it could fully form. It was the 'Stellar Aegis Style' in its purest expression—defense not by overpowering force, but by perfect structural alignment. Every deflected blow looked effortless, yet I know nothing could be further from the truth. The sheer level of attunement required for such a performance borders on the impossible. The tempo escalated.

Sir Eddie pressed harder, creating a sudden pattern of attacks that seemed to emerge from empty space. The air cracked around them as Flow saturated each strike. Then came the maneuver that I will never forget. Sir Eddie allowed his blade to slip from his grasp as part of an impossible rotation, only to catch it with his opposite hand in the same seamless motion—a maneuver that transformed the sword into a lethal continuation of his momentum.

The attack curved upward toward Father's neck, sharpened by both technique and the illusion of unpredictability. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. For a single heartbeat, Father seemed off-balance, caught mid-adjustment. Any lesser practitioner would have fallen. But in that frozen moment, instead of blocking, instead of countering, instead of stepping away, he simply vanished.

One moment he stood in Sir Eddie's path, and the next the blade cut through empty air. The disappearance was not a conventional dodge, nor any form of high-speed movement that I could perceive. It was something else entirely—something beyond the established limits of the Stellar Aegis Style. When he reappeared, it was several feet away, his training sword already returned to the rack as though the duel had been a trivial warm-up rather than a clash between two masters.

Only after they stopped did I notice the devastation left behind. The practice yard looked as though a miniature storm had been confined within its boundaries. Deep, jagged gouges marked the soil where blades had struck with amplified Flow. Cuts in the dirt formed intricate starbursts, each one a record of a deflection, a redirected strike, or an illusionary feint. The air still sizzled faintly with discharged energy, leaving behind a metallic tang and a faint ozone scent that clung to the back of my tongue.

Watching the two of them, I could not help but feel both inspired and humbled despite myself. The styles I read about—each step, each breath, each correction—seem like a different world entirely from what they displayed. Fascinating. I have come to understand that T he art of the blade isn't just physical skill but an extension of one's will and Flow, shaped into four great styles that mirror the four Trait Classes.

They are the orthodox techniques every swordsmaster in this world uses—outward techniques, designed to channel internal Flow through the blade to increase striking power, enhance speed utilize Resonants alongside their blade, or create defensive wards. The'Stellar Aegis Style', his own discipline, is the embodiment of Cosmic balance—defense, redirection, and the perfect counter-strike. The'Devouring Edge Style' is its opposite, all relentless aggression and crushing intent, forged for the Existential Class.

Then there is the'Phantom Blade Style', a style of illusions and misdirection, movements so deceptive they almost rewrite perception. Last is the ' Sunbreaker Style', the Soulfire path of explosive, unceasing offense meant to overwhelm everything in its way. These styles, while effective for mass combat and overwhelming aggression, teach the user to spend their spiritual energy. Father on the other hand developed a style during his days without a Trait in order to combat those with.

Its a set of techniques that makes on like water, shapeless yet capable of taking the form of whater containers its placed in or changing states to match the environment around it. Thus making it a perfect counter to the other orthodox styles a counter he was planning on passing down. Great, more work. But what struck me most was the hierarchy of mastery. We are all mere ' Beginners', barely grasping the fundamentals.

Above us lie the'Intermediate' practitioners, then the'Elite', true warriors who can fight with instinctive precision. Beyond them stand the 'Masters', who can teach and shape techniques freely, and then the'Grandmasters', legendary figures whose command over their style is absolute. At the peak is the nearly mythical ' Monarch', a swordsman so rare and so skilled that they bend the very rules of combat. Father himself is a 'Master' along with Sir Eddie. I also Learnt that mother is a 'Grandmaster'.

I still don't eleive someone as gentle as Elara Dukker is a Grandmaster of the 'Devouring Edge Style' but facts are facts. I wonder why Father hasn't tried to catch up to her though. I asked him but he just laughed and brsued it off and Sir Eddie said he's not authorised to tell me. I tried Roric but he refused and said Father would tell me at the right time. I wonder what all the fuss is about. Speaking of Mother, she returned from the Northern District, tired but serene as always.

But something in her presence felt different—a quiet, powerful shift that caught my attention. Her movements carried a new fullness, her aura expanded yet contained, as though she were holding something delicate and immense within herself. I noticed a subtle change in her figure as well, slight but unmistakable bulge in her stomach. Is she getting fat or... Nah, maybe I'm just over thinking it. I did shoot myself in the head so... I think I should go to bed >