One year later
A full year has passed, just like that. Another damn year gone by. Everything seems to be going well… maybe too well. Tina's magic books gave me wings, and as for martial arts… well, I picked up a couple. Nothing flashy. Just enough to get by.
But my real problem? Actually, there are two. One stands above the rest: my swordsmanship. The other? I haven't been able to create a new Ki technique in months. It's like there's a wall I can't break through. Every idea collapses under its own weight. Still, the sword is the more frustrating of the two.
My sword training started strong. The first year felt meteoric: fluid stances, solid muscle memory, precise control. But now? I'm stuck. No matter how fast I move, how clean my strikes are, or how sharp my instincts become, I don't improve anymore.
At first, I thought it was just in my head. Maybe I'd hit a physical limit. After all, I'm not some chosen protagonist. I'm a nine-year-old kid who pieced together his own makeshift classes.
Day after day: same drills. Same stances. Same frustration. My swordplay is tight. Efficient. But it feels mechanical.
I hate this. Being stuck like this drives me mad. Like trying to fix something with a YouTube tutorial, only for it to freeze at the crucial moment or worse, cut to an unskippable ad while you're standing there with a wrench and existential dread.
There's one thing I know I'm missing: experience. And not just EXP on a stat sheet… I mean the real thing. Real fights. Real danger. Real consequences. I've trained like a lunatic, day in and day out, but the truth is, I've barely faced real combat.
And that's a problem. Or maybe not. Because deep down, I know I don't want to test myself in the wild until I'm truly ready. Not just trained, but prepared. Right now? I'm not weak, not really. I could probably take on a couple of goblins.
But what if something goes wrong? What if it's not just a fight, but a situation? I'd rather not meet Truck-kun before I turn eighteen.
I think about marching into the forest to take on a pack of those overgrown wolves, but I won't. It'd be reckless. I've put too much into this to die to a steroidal canine. If I have to go out, at least let it be something epic. A dragon, maybe. Something worth a story.
I've tried everything. I even channel Ki into my limbs mid-swing. It sharpens my form, adds explosive speed, like a blade crackling with lightning. But even that feels hollow. It boosts the motion, not the meaning behind it.
"Dammit," I mutter, chucking a pebble across the training field. It bounces off the old fence post with a pathetic clack. "What am I missing?"
Mana, Ki, life force, none of them have ever given me this much trouble. So why this wall? Maybe it's not meant for me to break. Maybe it's built to keep outsiders like me out. A message from the world itself: This far, no further. Or maybe it's a filter, meant to separate the fodder from the worthy.
"Talking to rocks again?" comes a familiar voice. I don't need to look. I know who it is. Tina.
She's grown taller. Still shorter than me, though. Mwahaha. Her chestnut hair is pulled into a messy braid. There's a smudge of ink on her cheek. She hugs her leather notebook like it's a spellbook straight out of legend.
She plops down beside me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Still stuck?" she asks. "Still stuck," I sigh.
One thing that has changed this year is how much closer I've gotten to Tina. Ever since she shared those magic books with me, I've started asking for her take on things more often than I'd like to admit. And you know what? She's helped. A lot. Probably because we've spent so much time studying together. Damn, I've been an only child in two lives. It's kind of nice having a little sister.
Even if she gives me the chills sometimes, it'll pass. I still have no clue what really drives that girl, what strange gears turn behind those bright eyes. But for now, I'm fine with not knowing.
No teasing this time. She flips open her notebook. Pages flutter in the breeze, diagrams of sword forms, footwork notes, even a few magical matrices. And, of course, doodles of me. One has me mid-swing, eyes wild. Another shows me glaring at a cracked training dummy with steam lines coming out of my head. One just has me from behind, staring out across the field.
"This one's your 'annoyed-but-focused' stance," she says, pointing.
I exhale. "It's… not wrong."
She tilts her head. "You're not doing the wrong things. You're just doing them the wrong way."
I frown. Ugh. I hate how right she sounds.
She raises an eyebrow. "Maybe the problem is that you still think of your sword as a tool. Not as an extension of yourself. Not something personal."
That hits me harder than any sparring session. I look at her. Really look.
"Maybe you're right," I admit with a small smile.
She smirks. "Say that louder. I want to document the moment."
"Don't push it." But I chuckle.
That evening, I'm drying my blade, peeling off my sweat-soaked tunic, when I hear footsteps behind me.
"Lucien," my mother says from the doorway, arms crossed. She's in her old apron, hair pinned back. She smells like sage and forge smoke.
"You've looked more serious lately," she says.
"Training," I answer.
Her eyes narrow. "Training… or chasing dreams again?"
I hesitate. "Both."
She steps forward and places her work-rough hands on my shoulders. "I worry about you, Lucien. Do you hate this life with us so much? You want to throw everything away chasing adventures and danger?"
She knows. She knows I'm leaving. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And the way she said it sounded too carefully chosen, like each word was picked to wrap guilt around me. And maybe it worked. Because the truth is, I do feel a little guilty about what's coming. About leaving.
"Mom, I really do love it here. I'm happy, honestly. I'm not chasing fame or fortune. I just want to see more of the world. Help where I can. Do something that matters." I say it softly, weaving just enough truth into the lie to make it believable.
She brushes my hair from my face and smiles, soft and tired. "Just promise me you'll do this for you. Not to prove anything. Not to replace anyone.
"Then she gives me a solid smack on the back. "And don't even think about running off before you're of age. I'll drag you back by the ears."
I nod. "Promise."
She hugs me tight. No words. Just warmth.
"I love you," she says softly. "You're my son, always. Not a hero. Never a replacement. Just you. Remember that."
I tense at the word, but say nothing. And something inside me, something sharp, finally goes quiet.
Gods, I hate these feelings. Ugh. Emotions suck.
After dinner, while Gilo rants about tax laws and Tina challenges Dad to an arm-wrestling rematch and gets annihilated, I slip away to the forge.
It's quiet. Still warm. The coals glow faintly, like a memory. I stand there a long while, staring at the anvil. At the steel. At the tools hanging neatly along the wall. Everything clean and organized.
Which is hilarious, considering Dad is a tornado at home.
Anyway. I've made my decision.
Tomorrow, I forge my sword. Not because I have to. But because now, I finally understand what I'm looking for.
It's not about mastery. It's about ownership. About choosing what kind of blade I want to wield in this world. Just me. Lucien.
Tomorrow, I light the forge. Not for an order. Not out of duty. But because I want to create something.
For the first time, I'll forge a sword from nothing. I'm honestly excited.
And if nothing happens after all this effort? If I don't get some kind of System message? I swear I'm uninstalling the System.
Honestly, with how buggy it's been, I wouldn't be surprised if I gained more power just by turning myself off and back on again.