Colin sauntered over to the corner of the room to pick up his custom-made Heavy Sword.
He had designed this bad boy himself. Berg had forged it from Hundred-Refined Steel, hammering it repeatedly until it weighed a hefty sixty-eight catties. With a blade wider than a dinner plate and a thick, brutal edge, it was a weapon born purely to turn muscles into steel.
Usually, picking it up gave Colin a reassuring sense of solidity—like he was holding onto the literal corner of a mountain. It was an extension of his will. A testament to his grind.
But the moment his fingers wrapped around the anti-slip leather grip, his left eyebrow shot up so high it nearly vanished into his hairline.
It wasn't just "light."
It felt entirely weightless.
The sixty-eight catties of lethal steel that usually required a coordinated effort from his core, back, and arms now felt like a dried-up twig. He actually had a sudden, ridiculous urge to test if he could snap it over his knee like kindling.
"Well," Colin muttered, "this is going to be weird."
He gave his wrist a casual, experimental flick.
***BIZZZZZZZZ—!***
A low, vibrating hum roared through the room like an offended dragon. Under that tiny, lazy flick, the massive blade blurred, vibrating at a frequency so absurdly high that the resulting shockwave sent a stack of animal-skin documents in the corner exploding into the air like confetti.
Colin's pupils shrunk to pinpricks. *Oops.*
He didn't hesitate. Carrying the weapon that now felt entirely alien, he pushed open the door and strode out into the massive backyard reserved exclusively for the Lord of the Castle.
The night was deep, and a chilly moon poured silver light across the frost-covered courtyard. Perfect setting for a dramatic training montage. Colin stepped into the center of the yard, spread his feet, and dropped into a basic swordsmanship stance.
He needed to tame this overflowing beast of a body before he accidentally punched a hole through his own castle.
He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, and took a single step forward to adjust his weight. A move he could do in his sleep.
*CRACK!*
A sharp, painful sound echoed in the silent yard.
Colin felt his right foot sink. He looked down. The heavy, premium bluestone pavement had shattered into a web of cracks, creating a literal crater around his boot.
He froze. *I didn't even push.*
But his newly jacked-up Constitution and Strength stats had other ideas. His leg muscles had subconsciously fired off a normal amount of effort, which, in his new body, translated to the force of a falling meteor.
Suddenly, Colin felt incredibly clumsy. It was the ultimate gamer dilemma: he had top-tier, god-mode stats, but his controller mapping was completely ruined. His brain knew how to be elegant, but his limbs were operating like an over-enthusiastic iron golem.
"Right. Absolute stillness it is," he sighed.
Closing his eyes, he stood perfectly still and began to reprogram his brain. He listened to the friction of his joints, the rushing torrent of his blood, and the terrifying elasticity of his muscles. He had to learn how to hold back.
When he opened his eyes, the panic was gone. The hyper-focus of a Swordmaster took over.
He slowly raised the sword. This time, he treated it like he was lifting an actual mountain, meticulously dialing back his strength by about 90% just to bring the blade level with his chest.
Then began the tedious—but necessary—practice.
Thrust. Slash. Parry. Cleave.
At first, it was a comedy of errors. He tried a quick thrust, but his speed was so violently fast that the *sonic boom* made his own ears ring, and the momentum nearly threw him flat on his face. He tried a casual horizontal slash, and the runaway wind pressure cleanly decapitated a nearby decorative tree. The cut was smooth as glass.
Unparalleled destruction? Yes.
Anime-level speed? Absolutely.
Control? Big fat zero.
If he fought the Countess and her freakish, ghost-like movement speed right now, he wouldn't hit her—he'd just overswing and leave himself wide open.
"Back to basics," he muttered.
Colin completely threw out his old muscle memory. He treated himself like a daydreaming squire holding a wooden sword for the first time. He broke a single downward cleave into a dozen micro-movements: dropping the shoulder a millimeter, adjusting the forearm, letting the fingers loosen just a fraction on the hilt.
Once. Twice. A hundred times.
Under the silver moonlight, the clumsy giant slowly transformed. His feet stopped shattering the floorboards and began to glide. The heavy sword stopped creating accidental hurricanes and became perfectly silent.
*Fwip.*
He thrust the sword forward. The tip stopped exactly one millimeter away from a falling snowflake. No wind. No noise. Perfect, absolute control.
A slow, dangerous grin spread across Colin's face. The Swordmaster was back in the driver's seat.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's see what this baby can do."
---
The courtyard exploded.
All that restraint vanished in a fraction of a second. Colin turned into a literal ghost, leaving a trail of silver afterimages echoing across the yard. The heavy sword wasn't a sword anymore; it was a cage of localized lightning.
The *whoosh* of the blade turned into a sharp *whistle*, which quickly escalated into a metallic, air-tearing *SCREECH*.
He was moving so fast the physical blade vanished, replaced by a swirling dome of silver light. He became a one-man blender. Shredded frost, sliced air, and silver sword shadows blasted into every corner of the courtyard, leaving deep, white gouges along the stone walls.
Yet, inside his self-made hurricane, Colin was completely serene.
Every casual swing carried enough juice to crack a fortress gate. Every dodge was instantaneous. Every parry was calculated to the micrometer. Strength, speed, and technique—three forces that usually fought each other—had finally shaken hands and blended into a beautiful, violent masterpiece.
Faster. He needed to go faster.
He needed this terrifying new power entirely hardwired into his DNA before the real storm arrived.