When Cael opened his eyes, he expected fire, brimstone, or at least a chorus of trumpets.
Instead, he got an awkward silence and a very stressed-looking goddess.
She looked like she'd just spilled tea on a divine blueprint.
"Oh," she blinked, floating midair. "You're… you're early."
Cael sat up on the weightless platform of light. His cloak, once embroidered with mana runes, now looked faded and inert."Is this the Demon Lord's realm?" he asked, half-wary, half-curious.
The goddess scratched her head."Right. So... funny story. You weren't supposed to come here."
He blinked. "I was literally casting a continent-splitting spell when I got yoinked into a circle of light. I'm pretty sure someone did this on purpose."
She winced."See, we were trying to summon a hero for a completely different world. One full of swords, monsters, old-school honor codes—you know, that gritty bronze-age aesthetic. But, um... the spell was still warm from the last transfer and... well, it grabbed you."
"You grabbed me," Cael said flatly.
"Semantics."
He looked down at his hands.No elemental aura. No mana thread.Dead silence in his spiritual veins.
"...There's no magic here," he whispered.
"Nope," she confirmed, chipper and unapologetic. "None at all. Even the Demon Lord uses a sword. Very thematic."
Cael inhaled deeply, processing it like a man told his career now involves farming turnips with a spoon.
"So," he said carefully. "You ripped me out of my world mid-battle, dumped me into a realm where I'm completely useless, and you're telling me that's it?"
The goddess raised a finger. "I wouldn't say useless."
His eyes narrowed.
"I said I wouldn't say that. But... okay, fair, you've got a point."
He sighed and leaned back. "Fine. Can I go back?"
She bit her lip. "Nope. Dimensional seal. Big cosmic no-no. You're here for good."
Cael didn't move for a moment. Then, with the resigned dignity of a man accepting that gravity works and life is cruel, he exhaled.
"Well then," he said, "how exactly am I supposed to survive in a world that thinks flint and steel is advanced tech?"
The goddess brightened. "Glad you asked! Because I can offer you a small compensation."
He arched an eyebrow. "Define small."
"You'll get… a guide." She clapped her hands.
A faint blue glyph appeared before him—circular, runic, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Initializing: AETHERCombat Insight Assistant: Online
A soft, neutral voice rang in his mind.
"Swordpath Assistant Aether activated. User status: untrained. Baseline assessment: fragile, arrogant, out of depth. Beginning calibration."
Cael blinked. "...Is it supposed to be that rude?"
The goddess shrugged. "It's honest. Also, it's the only thing I'm allowed to give. It won't fight for you, cast spells, or give you shortcuts. It just watches. Learns. Helps you learn. Think of it like… a ghost squire with better grammar."
He stared at the glowing ring as it sank into his chest.
"Calibration complete. First task: survive entry into hostile world. Please brace for landing."
"Wait, wha—"
The platform vanished.
The goddess waved with a sheepish grin.
"Good luck, Cael! And hey—try not to die in the first hour!"
The first thing Cael felt was dirt. Coarse, dry, and very... unsummoner-like.
He groaned, sat up, and immediately noticed two things:
His back ached like he'd been slammed into the ground by a pissed-off god.
He was surrounded by swordsmen.
"Hey! Are you the new test candidate?" one of them barked. A thick-necked man in blackened mail stood over him, waving a wooden blade.
Cael blinked. "...What?"
"You're late for registration!" the man shouted, then turned to the scribe nearby. "Put him in the Air Test."
The what?
Ten minutes later, Cael stood shirtless in an arena, holding a dulled sword that vibrated with faint tension. Dozens of trainees watched from the bleachers. The instructor—who hadn't introduced himself—was lecturing the group.
"Most of you will fail. That's normal. The Air Test doesn't lie. When you swing, if your Edge responds, you qualify for basic training. If not..." He smirked. "Back to mucking stables or hauling gear."
Cael raised his hand. "Sorry, what's Edge?"
A pause.
Someone coughed. A few snickered.
The instructor looked at him like a pile of manure just asked a question.
"Edge is the sword's breath. The spirit. The manifestation of intent through motion. If you don't know that, why the hell are you here?"
Because a cosmic filing error dumped me into this world. But Cael didn't say that.
He simply nodded, stepped forward, and gripped the blade.
It felt heavy. Clunky. Alien.
Aether:"Grip misaligned. Stance incorrect. Elbow angle off by sixteen degrees. Recommendation: Watch others first."
"No time for that," Cael muttered.
He inhaled, swung—
—and absolutely nothing happened.
No wind. No ripple. No aura.
The sword hit air like a wet noodle and flopped downward.
Silence.
The instructor stared. Then sighed.
"Zero resonance. No Edge." He turned to the scribe. "Put him down as Null."
"Null?" Cael asked.
"It means," the man said coldly, "you have no sword potential. Not even the sword reacts to you. You're better off as a porter."
Five minutes later...
Cael stood outside the training field holding a broom.
A literal broom.
"I trained under six elemental spirits," he muttered. "I once held back a lava storm with a fire weave and a hairpin. And now... I'm sweeping."
Aether:"Assessment: You lack compatibility with sword-based aura systems. Suggestion: Begin with foundational edge simulation through repetitive motion. Sweeping qualifies."
He froze. "Wait… are you saying sweeping is training?"
"Correct. You have no Edge. You must build one."
He stared at the broom like it might kill him.
[New Task: Simulate Blade Flow Through Repetition]— Sweep precisely 10,000 strokes— Maintain shoulder alignment, breath control, footwork— Progress: 0 / 10,000
"…This is how I die, isn't it?" Cael muttered.
"Possibly," Aether replied.
Cael swept.
For six hours.
Not because he wanted to, but because apparently, broom strokes counted as edge form training.
Aether:"Stroke 473. Posture improving. Elbow rotation still inconsistent."
Cael didn't reply. He was too busy grinding through dust and sweat, imagining the blade in his hands instead of the straw broom. Not out of pride.
Out of spite.
He'd been a master of elemental convergence back home. An Archmage whose name echoed in spell-tomes.
Here?
He was Null.
A nobody.
A porter. A cleaner.
A joke.
"Hey! Broom boy!"
Cael paused, mid-swing.
A group of trainees had wandered over, wearing beginner-grade chest plates and cocky grins. Their leader—blond, muscular, with a sword that gleamed like it'd never been swung—snorted.
"You aiming to polish the ground into a sword?"
The others laughed.
Cael didn't answer.
Aether:"Recommendation: Continue. Disengagement maintains task focus. Provocation irrelevant."
He exhaled, lowered his stance again, and swept.
The blond trainee's smile faded.
"Oi. I'm talking to you."
No answer.
He stepped forward—and in a flash, slapped the broom from Cael's hands.
Cael blinked, looking down at his empty fingers.
Aether:"Warning: Agitation detected. Target approaching conflict threshold."
The trainee leaned in.
"Listen, Null. We've got enough garbage around here. Quit pretending to be a swordsman and go clean latrines where you belong."
Cael's fist clenched.
But he didn't throw it.
He just reached down, picked up the broom, and resumed his task.
[Task Progress: 984 / 10,000]
Form rhythm stabilizing. Aura threading: 3% sync. Swordflow seed initiated.
The trainee blinked.
"…What?"
The broom didn't swish like before.
It hissed. Cut. Split the dust like a perfect edge.
One stroke. Then another. Then ten in rhythm.
The laughter died.
A distant observer, watching from the training hall's shadowed balcony, narrowed his eyes.
"Instructor?""Yes?""Who's that kid down there with the broom?""…Null.""That was not a Null swing."
Cael exhaled slowly, sweat pouring down his neck. He didn't even notice the silence around him.
Aether:"Note: Edge presence detected. Progress no longer theoretical."
[Task Progress: 1,004 / 10,000]Form Evolution Imminent.
The next morning, Cael's back ached like he'd been hit with a log. Twice.
He stared at the broom resting in the corner of the bunkroom like it was a rival duelist.
Aether:"You completed 1,246 strokes yesterday. Impressive. But statistically insignificant."
Cael groaned. "You're as uplifting as a funeral hymn."
"Correction: Your back pain indicates proper lower-body form was utilized. That's called progress."
He pulled on the thin tunic issued to all camp laborers and stepped outside.
The training yard was already alive with noise—metal clashing, boots pounding, and over-eager sword trainees yelling battle cries like they were in an opera.
No one paid attention to the guy hauling water buckets and sweeping dust.
Except for one.
High above the yard, behind a shaded pillar, stood a man in dull gray armor with no insignia.
He watched Cael move.
He watched the broom sweep with blade rhythm—subtle, but there.
And his expression darkened.
Back in the yard, Cael resumed his routine. Right foot forward. Sweep low. Pull back. Reset.
It was mind-numbing.
Aether:"Task Progress: 2,081 / 10,000Edge Threading Efficiency: 8%Margin of Instability: Decreasing."
Then—
Clack.
The broom snapped.
He stared at the handle. The bristles had cleanly torn off, sheared at a perfect diagonal. Not from stress.
From a blade's edge forming mid-swing.
Aether:"Edge Echo achieved. You produced a trace aura projection. Highly inefficient, but viable."
Cael blinked. "That… that wasn't a real sword."
"Irrelevant. Motion creates intent. Intent breeds Edge. Tool does not matter."
A voice cut in from behind.
"Where did you learn to sweep like that?"
Cael turned.
A grizzled man with a crooked jaw, calloused hands, and a gaze sharp as tempered steel stood there. His armor was battered, plain, and clearly seen more war than ceremony.
"Uh… just picked it up," Cael said awkwardly.
The man looked down at the broken broom head still humming with residual edge.Then up again.
"You ever held a blade?"
Cael rubbed the back of his neck. "Yesterday. I failed the... what was it called? Air test?"
A few trainees snorted nearby. "That's the Null. Failed harder than anyone I've seen in years."
The man didn't laugh.
Instead, he stepped forward and tossed something toward Cael.
A training sword.
It hit the dirt between them.
"Pick it up," the man said.
"…Why?"
"Because I want to see what a Null with Edge looks like."