I Only Summon Villainesses - Chapter 174: The Art of Swordsmanship

Chapter 174: The Art of Swordsmanship

It was the same routine each time — Yuan’s legs trembling uncontrollably, her consciousness giving out before her body could manage the dosage of pleasure I delivered. After the fourth or fifth time watching her eyes roll back mid-gasp, I figured I should probably take a step back from ramming her like she’d personally wronged me.

Not that I knew how to reduce my cock size. [Perfect Fit] handled that automatically, adjusting to whatever configuration worked best for her insides.

’Convenient. Also slightly unsettling if I think about it too hard.’

I chose not to think about it too hard.

Still, I was hoping the attribute would reveal more about itself as it leveled up. Maybe at a certain threshold it would offer some manual controls. One could dream.

On days when Yuan — as she insisted I call her — wasn’t moaning and trembling or passing out entirely, she taught me about the sword.

The teachings weren’t what I expected.

I’d imagined dramatic demonstrations. Maybe some wise proverbs about the blade being an extension of the soul, or whatever mystical nonsense martial arts masters always spouted in the cultivation novels I’d skimmed through back on Earth. Flowing robes, mountain backdrop, profound silences pregnant with meaning.

What I got instead was Lady Yuan making me stand in a horse stance until my thighs burned and my entire lower body screamed for mercy.

“The sword is not in the arm,” she’d said on the first day, circling me like a pale ghost while I trembled in position. Her bare feet made no sound on the floor. “The sword is in the root. Your legs are your root. If your root is weak, your sword is a branch in the wind — it will go wherever your enemy wishes it to go.”

’So basically, leg day. Every day is leg day.’

I lasted four minutes before my legs gave out. She made me start again.

By the third day of this torture — and it was torture, my quads had lodged formal complaints with whatever passed for a union in my nervous system — she finally introduced what she called the fundamentals. Seven essential movements that formed the foundation of her clan’s swordsmanship.

Ci—the thrust. Linear force delivered from the tip, driven by hip rotation.

Pi—the split. A downward chop using the upper third of the blade.

Dian—the point. A fingertip-like jab, precision over power.

Mo—the wipe. Circular lateral cuts for when your opponent expected something direct.

Beng—the drop. An overhead counter, collapsing force into descent.

Tiao—the upward stab. Rising into the unguarded spaces.

Lan—the obstruction. Not a block but a redirect, using their force against them.

“These are the seven bones of the sword,” Yuan explained, demonstrating each with her katana while I watched from my horse stance. Her movements were water and steel at once — fluid, controlled, and inevitable. The blade caught light and scattered it. “Every technique, no matter how elaborate, is built from these bones. I was not able to successfully master them as my father hoped, but I am confident this will be easy for Lord Cade.”

She paused. Her expression remained serene.

“Mastering them also means you’ve mastered the skeleton. The flesh comes later.”

’Her faith in me is not encouraging at all.’

It wasn’t surprising that the characters she named, despite the distinctive difference of Ealdrim’s language, sounded so familiar. The Moon Clan apparently had esoteric philosophy about swordsmanship too — something called the Six Harmonies. Three internal, three external. The kind of thing a Chinese swordmaster would have cooked up while meditating on a misty mountain.

I’d watched enough cultivation dramas to recognize the framework.

’Those protagonists need to focus on cultivation and leave romance alone. Please. Someone tell them.’

Internal harmonies: Mind, spirit essence, and power must align. You think the strike, your energy follows the thought, and your body delivers what both commanded.

External harmonies: Hands follow the eyes. Eyes follow the intent. Feet follow the waist.

When all six harmonies worked together, you became what Yuan called a “unified blade.” Your body, mind, and sword operated as a single instrument.

’Unified blade. Got it. Currently I’m more like… scattered cutlery.’

The breathing was perhaps the most practical thing she taught me. Every movement synchronized with inhalation or exhalation. Exhale on the strike — it tightened the core and added power. Inhale on the recovery — it created space to observe and react.

“You breathe wrong,” she told me on the fifth day, pressing her hand against my diaphragm while I held my stance. Her touch was clinical, professional. Her palm was cool against my skin.

And it was astounding how she could retain flawless focus while touching me so low.

“Your breath lives in your chest. It must live here.” She pressed lower, against my abdomen. “Breathe from the root. The same root your legs stand on.”

Abdominal breathing. Another thing I had to relearn from scratch.

I focused on the sensation of her hand, using it as a guide. Drew air down into my belly instead of letting it stop at my ribs. My diaphragm expanded. The breath felt deeper, heavier, more grounded.

’Huh. That actually does feel different.’

Interestingly, her method didn’t conflict with Kassie’s breath techniques — if anything, they complemented each other. The fact that Yuan and Kassie, from two vastly different eras, both emphasized the same fundamentals was proof enough that I needed to master this.

And with it, Movement Enhancement began benefiting from the refinement. So did my essence circulation. I could feel my flow more vividly than before — not just as energy moving through channels, but as something with texture, with weight.

No dramatic breakthrough. No sudden leap in power. But something subtler: precision. Instead of clumsily pouring essence into my attributes like water from a bucket, I could gauge the exact amount needed for the desired result. Especially useful with [Sanctified Immolation] and [Emperor’s Presence], both of which could be wasteful when deployed carelessly.

But the lesson that stuck with me most wasn’t about technique at all.

“The sword is not a weapon,” Yuan said one evening, after she’d collapsed from orgasm and I’d collapsed from exhaustion, and she’d settled next to me with her blade across her lap. “It is a conversation.”

I gave her a skeptical look. “A conversation with who? The guy I’m trying to stab?”

“Yes.” No smile. Completely serious. “Every exchange of blades is a dialogue. He speaks—you answer. You speak — he answers. The winner is not the one with the louder voice. The winner is the one who listens better.”

’Listen to the sword. Great. Now I’m supposed to be a good listener and strong.’

I thought about that for a moment.

’Kassie never really emphasized on listening. She just said hit things until they stop moving.’

But I understood what Yuan meant. Kind of.

When Kassie trained me, she beat lessons into my body through repetition and pain. I learned because my muscles remembered what happened when I made mistakes.

Yuan’s approach was different. She taught me to read the space between movements. The moment before a strike when the body committed but the blade hadn’t arrived yet. The weight shift that revealed intention before action.

“In my clan,” she said, “we call this ting jin — listening force. Not with your ears. With your body. With your sword. You feel what your opponent will do before they do it.”

’Maybe that’s just enhanced hearing?’

Or not. I didn’t know. But on the days when my horse stance held longer, when my breath synced properly with my cuts, when the seven bones started to feel less like choreography and more like language—

On those days, I understood why Yuan and her grandfather, Mr. Reincarnator himself, saw swordsmanship as an art.

It wasn’t about killing. It was about understanding.

And then using that understanding to kill more efficiently.

’Okay, maybe it’s still mostly about the killing part. But poetically.’

That man must have been one hell of a psychopath. Going around grooming a harem of women and then killing people poetically.