"Motion correction: movement perfection increased by four percent."
The voice echoed quietly inside Lucien's skull — clear, neutral, and utterly precise.
"Motion correction: movement perfection increased by three percent."
Again.
"Motion correction: movement perfection increased by two percent."
On and on, in steady rhythm, like the whisper of a mechanical tutor overseeing his every motion.
Lucien's wooden blade cut through the air in fluid arcs, each swing smoother than the last. Sweat darkened his training tunic, and his breathing came measured and calm. Nine full repetitions of the Basic Swordsmanship Form — and the biochip's cold, mathematical appraisal floated through his mind.
> Perfection of basic swordsmanship: ninety-two percent.
Lucien lowered his blade slightly, blinking through the fine sheen of sweat. A strange, vibrant energy hummed in his limbs. The movement that had once felt stiff and disconnected now flowed like water — instinctive, precise, alive.
For three years, he had hacked at this same routine until his muscles screamed, yet he had never achieved such balance. Now, the very same form felt effortless.
When he swung, the wooden sword cut the air with a faint whistle — whshh! — sharp and clean. The faint wind stirred his hair, and for the first time in years, Lucien felt a spark of exhilaration rise in his chest.
He reset his stance and began again.
Across the training field, Instructor Julian was correcting a young noble's grip. He adjusted the boy's elbow with a curt gesture, muttered a sharp rebuke, and straightened. His eyes drifted lazily across the line of students — and then stopped.
There.
The instructor's brow furrowed.
The boy moving near the edge of the yard — Lucien Lanster, the same student he had silently written off earlier that morning — was no longer fumbling through his forms. His strikes had rhythm, his posture balance. His motions, once clumsy and uncertain, now unfolded with textbook precision.
Julian's expression shifted from mild disinterest to genuine focus.
Good stance. Clean pivot. Excellent follow-through.
He studied the boy closer, eyes narrowing. Lucien's form wasn't merely good — it was exceptional. Even among his best students, few could perform the sequence with such accuracy.
Julian felt a flicker of confusion. How had this dull, unremarkable boy suddenly turned into a model swordsman in less than an hour?
He stepped forward, boots crunching over the gravel.
Lucien did not notice. He was lost in the rhythm of practice — each swing accompanied by the soft voice in his head.
> "Motion correction: one hundred percent movement completeness, ninety-three percent perfection."
By the tenth repetition, the biochip's updates slowed. Each improvement came in smaller increments — one percent here, half a percent there. Lucien could feel the diminishing returns.
He knew the reason. The limit isn't in the form. It's in the body.
The analysis had already told him that his movements were near-perfect in technique. What held him back now was the weakness of his muscles — the same frail constitution that had chained him since childhood.
"Analyzing training results," the voice continued smoothly. "Estimated motion perfection: one hundred percent after one hundred twenty-eight repetitions. Estimated muscle strength increase after one thousand thirty-four repetitions."
Lucien nearly laughed at the precision. One thousand thirty-four times?
He barely had the stamina for twenty without his arms trembling.
But then the chip added, "Minor muscle strain detected: right forearm, lower region. Blood stagnation present in left shoulder and legs. Recommended rest: twelve hours."
The faint ache in his sword arm made itself known. He flexed his fingers and grimaced.
"Even a dozen swings and I'm already straining," he muttered under his breath. "Truly pathetic."
Still, the information was invaluable. The biochip didn't just correct him — it saw him, dissected every limitation, mapped every flaw. He finally understood what he needed to do.
No more drifting. No more excuses.
Lucien straightened, lifted his sword, and said quietly, Call up my current physical fitness data.
The translucent blue overlay shimmered in his vision.
Host: Lucien Lanster
Strength: 1.3
Speed: 1.4
Physique: 1.2
Will: 2.0
Average adult male: 1.0 baseline.
Lucien exhaled through his nose, lips twitching. "Three years of training… and I'm barely above a farmer."
Only his will stood out — double that of a normal man. Perhaps a relic of the stubbornness that had brought him through rebirth.
Still, far too low to reach the level of a true knight apprentice.
He was considering how to prioritize his next steps when a soft cough sounded beside him.
"Luciel, isn't it?"
Lucien turned, startled from his focus. Sir Julian stood there — tall, broad-shouldered, his weathered face shadowed beneath the morning sun. His gray eyes studied Lucien with an unreadable calm.
Lucien sheathed his wooden sword and bowed respectfully. "It's Lucien, sir. Lucien Lanster. Good morning, Instructor Julian."
The knight nodded slowly, repeating the name as if to commit it to memory. "Lucien Lanster… I see."
He paused, then gestured toward Lucien's weapon. "Perform that sword form again. From the beginning. Let me see it."
Lucien blinked, surprised by the request, but gave a simple nod. "Yes, sir."
He stepped back into stance.
The world narrowed — breath steady, grip firm, blade rising in smooth rhythm. The Basic Swordsmanship Form flowed from him like a quiet dance, every transition seamless, every movement crisp.
Julian watched closely, his eyes glinting with the faint light of astonishment. The precision was undeniable. The boy's technique was not just sound; it was refined. Even he, a veteran knight, might have to focus to match such textbook perfection.
When Lucien finished, lowering his sword with disciplined calm, Julian took a step closer. Without warning, the instructor's hand shot out like lightning, aiming to seize Lucien's weapon mid-swing.
Lucien reacted on instinct — the motion so fast he didn't think. The wooden sword twisted sharply, diverting from a downward cut into a diagonal parry that flicked toward Julian's wrist like a striking serpent.
But Julian was faster.
His hand caught the sword cleanly, fingers tightening around the blade's wooden edge. The impact jolted through Lucien's arms, and suddenly his sword refused to move. It was as though the weapon had rooted itself in the instructor's grip.
Julian's gaze hardened. "Is that all the strength you can muster?"
Lucien's teeth clenched as he pulled — once, twice — but the sword didn't budge. His arms trembled, muscles burning.
With a faint sigh, Julian released the blade. "You have precision," he said flatly, "but no power. The body is the foundation of a knight, boy. Without strength and endurance, perfect form is just theater."
He straightened, tone softening slightly. "Still… your technique is worth something. If you find yourself lost in practice, come to me. I'll answer what I can."
Then, with the effortless poise of one long used to disappointment, Julian turned and walked away.
Lucien watched him go, the man's cloak shifting in the sunlight. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a flicker of regret cross the instructor's face. Perhaps Julian had expected more — perhaps he'd thought he'd glimpsed a hidden gem, only to find it was plain stone.
A buried gold that turned out to be brass.
Lucien exhaled slowly, steadying his grip on the sword. The faint sting of failure threatened to creep in, but he pushed it down.
"Analyze target," he murmured silently.
The data shimmered to life again.
Target:Julian Ronnel
Strength: 7.3
Speed: 6.1
Physique: 6.0
Will: 3.0
Warning: Insufficient data. Possible estimation error ±0.5.
Lucien's eyes widened.
Those numbers confirmed what rumor had whispered — Julian was not merely a knight; he was a veteran combatant, a man who'd likely stood on battlefields.
A knight's average stats hovered around five times that of an ordinary human. Julian's exceeded that.
A true powerhouse.
The gap between them was a chasm. Lucien's own numbers felt almost laughable in comparison — a frail candle beside a blazing forge.
But rather than despair, something inside him hardened.
He wasn't discouraged. He was curious.
The biochip had given him the first real path forward — a way to quantify, to measure, to grow.
He looked down at his trembling hands, then at the training field awash in sunlight.
"One thousand and thirty-four repetitions," he whispered. "Let's start there."
He tightened his grip and lifted the sword again.
His arm screamed in protest, but the voice in his mind remained calm.
"Motion correction: movement perfection increased by zero-point-one percent."
A faint smile touched his lips.
So be it.
He swung again. And again.
Each motion burned deeper into muscle and memory. Each repetition was a step forward, no matter how small.
Around him, the academy's training grounds echoed with the sounds of youth — clashing wood, shouted orders, laughter. But within that noise, Lucien stood alone in his steady rhythm, every breath syncing with the whisper of his sword.
The world saw him as weak.
But in his heart, something fierce had begun to take shape — not the fire of talent, but the iron of will.
And will, he knew, could outlast flame.