Chapter 42 — The Thousand Cuts of Winter
The Burrow stood silent beneath a grey November sky, frost tracing its windows like veins. In the orchard, Ron Weasley shifted uneasily on the cold ground, two bokken balanced across his lap. One was straight, simple, for offence. The other, Arthur had carefully carved in reverse for defence, its blunt edge forward.
Ron raised them and crossed them before his chest, feeling the unfamiliar weight. Left hand offence. Right hand defence. He stepped forward, but his movement was clumsy, feet too heavy in the frost. His strikes dragged behind, his stance uneven. He stumbled, breath coming ragged.
I'm too slow. Too stiff. He clenched his jaw, repeating the forms again and again.
For two days he pushed himself at dawn and dusk, sweat freezing on his brow. Ginny watched sometimes from behind the posts, biting her lip. "You look like a troll stomping around," she whispered once, giggling before running off.
Ron ignored her teasing, though it stung. His footwork lagged, his swings lacked rhythm. Each time he tested Batto or a cut, his body betrayed him. On the second night, he stared up at the rafters of his room, bokken leaning nearby, and muttered, "I can't get there like this… not fast enough."
He turned to the only thing he knew would carry him forward. The System.
On the third morning, Ron sat cross-legged, the orchard mist curling around him. He whispered the words, feeling the hum of magic within him as he invoked the System.
[Input: Two-Katana Swordsmanship]
Practice time: 00yrs:10hrs:10min:00s
Tier: Beginner
Status: Accepted
New practice time: 100 years
Accept changes: Y/N
Ron swallowed hard and pressed, "Y."
The world seemed to lurch. Knowledge rushed in like a tidal wave, forms and counters, the rhythm of breath in battle, the angle of a reverse blade to parry. His body shivered violently, mind struggling to catch up.
And so it went for twelve days.
Each dawn, a new panel appeared, his confidence rising as the numbers mounted.
[Input: Two-Katana Swordsmanship]
Practice time: 1200 years
Tier: Master (Grandmaster)
Status : work in progress
By the start of December, his hands moved as though they had wielded blades for centuries. His cuts flowed like rivers, his defence curved like wind around stone. Yet when he pressed himself too far, his body faltered, legs trembling beneath the weight of knowledge. He knew it—the System had granted him the understanding of a grandmaster, but his nine-year-old frame could only reach Master-tier execution.
Arthur watched from the doorway one icy morning, arms folded. "Merlin's beard," he murmured. Ron's blades sang in the air, fluid, graceful, sharp. "He looks like—like a duelist born."
Molly's hands twisted in her apron, her expression pale. "He shouldn't move like that, Arthur. He's a boy, not a—" she choked, unable to finish. "What will it turn him into?"
Arthur sighed, conflicted. "Better this than reckless magic, Molly. He's found something to discipline him. But… yes. It's frightening."
That night, they penned a letter to Dumbledore, voices lowered so Ron wouldn't overhear. Our Ron has changed too quickly, too deeply. He moves with skill beyond his age. We are afraid, Albus. Afraid of what this could mean.
Meanwhile, Ron pressed beyond swordsmanship. In the orchard, he closed his eyes, bokken crossed. His mind turned to a memory not of this world but from the stories he had devoured—the Body-Flicker technique of shinobi, a blur of speed beyond sight.
Chakra is the key there, he thought. But what if I use magic instead?
He drew in his breath, feeling the faint, elusive current of magic that stirred when he meditated. He willed it into his legs, into motion. Then—he moved.
The world blurred, but only for a step. He stumbled forward, nearly face-first into the frost. His body was too slow, the flow of magic too wild.
Still, he tried again. And again.
Ginny caught him once, tumbling into the grass with a grunt. "What was that?" she asked, eyes sparkling.
"An experiment," Ron muttered, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "A way to be faster than anyone. To dodge before they cast. To strike before they think."
Ginny tilted her head. "Mum's going to go spare when she hears."
"She already thinks swords are barbaric," Ron said with a smirk. "Might as well add 'mysterious magic footwork' to the list."
By the start of December, the System reflected his stubborn persistence:
[Input: Magic body-flicker]
Practice time: 00yrs:35hrs:40min:00s
Tier: Novice
It was barely a flicker, but it was there—his first foothold in controlling the magic inside him.
Molly noticed too, in the stillness after supper, when Ron would sit cross-legged, breathing deep, palms resting on his knees. "Meditation," he called it. To her, it looked eerie, as if the boy she knew was already slipping into something larger, more dangerous.
Far away, in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, Dumbledore read Arthur and Molly's letter twice, then a third time, before setting it down beside a half-eaten sherbet lemon.
Ronald Weasley. A boy of nine, moving like a master of blades, whispering forms no wizard of this age should know. Albus folded his hands, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles.
He is… unpredictable. Not like Tom, not like Harry. Knowledge-driven, yes. But not vain. He slips outside the threads I weave. My saviour—my carefully chosen piece for the board—is Potter. Yet this boy… this boy is carving his own path with steel.
For the first time in decades, Dumbledore admitted to himself: he did not understand.
The fire popped in the grate. Outside, snow began to fall. And the Headmaster, for all his wisdom, could not see where Ronald Bilius Weasley's path would lead.