Chapter 13: Foundation Building

Two years passed faster than Sigurd expected. By the time his seventh birthday came and went, the five-year-old who had once struggled to remain inside his own Soul Sea for a full minute had changed considerably.

He had formed his first Embryonic Vis Core exactly one month after awakening his Martial Soul, officially stepping into the Awakened Martial Rank, and had since nurtured that Core until it reached the Nascent Stage. He could have pushed harder.

The Star Devouring Leviathan made gathering and refining Vis frighteningly efficient once he learned how to control its Devouring mechanism, and there had been more than one occasion when Sigurd believed he could accelerate his advancement without damaging himself.

Osric refused every time.

The instructor drilled the same warning into him until Sigurd could practically repeat it in his sleep: speed impressed spectators, but foundations decided how far a martial practitioner could actually climb.

A weak foundation might survive the lower ranks, yet every flaw became harder to repair as more power was built upon it. Sigurd had already been given more potential than he properly understood.

There was no reason to cripple it because he was impatient at seven years old.

So he listened. Mostly. Over those two years he strengthened his body, refined his control over Vis, stabilized his Core and became increasingly familiar with the presence sleeping inside his Soul Sea.

He also chose the weapon that would become the center of his martial path: the sword. There had been no revelation behind the decision, no prophecy, no mysterious pull from destiny.

Sigurd simply liked swords. His previous life had taught him to use firearms, knives and whatever else a mission required, but there was something about a sword that appealed to him once he held one properly.

Osric had called it the king of weapons, not because every swordsman defeated every spearman, axeman or archer, but because swords were among the most widespread weapons in Eden.

They were easy enough to pick up and brutally difficult to master. Sigurd liked that contradiction.

For two years Osric denied him flashy Martial Techniques and forced him to repeat the fundamentals instead: stance, grip, footwork, cuts, thrusts, guards, parries and transitions, thousands upon thousands of times until Basic Swordsmanship finally reached the Minor Completion Stage.

-----------

The eastern training grounds were alive that morning.

Sunlight fell across the broad field and flashed from weapon racks positioned along its edges, while the reinforced stone beneath the central sparring circle bore shallow scars from years of practice.

Several guards trained farther away, but the largest circle had been cleared for two figures moving across it at a pace that would have been impossible for ordinary children to follow.

Sigurd was no longer the small boy who had stood before Osric during his first cultivation lessons.

At seven, he had grown taller and leaner, his body slender but visibly conditioned by daily training. Black hair emerged at the roots before fading into the distinctive ash-white inherited from Zierghardt blood, falling around a face that had begun losing some of its childhood roundness.

His iron-grey eyes remained the most striking feature. They followed Osric with uncomfortable concentration as both hands tightened around the hilt of a blunted longsword.

Sigurd stepped forward and cut diagonally toward Osric’s shoulder. Osric held his own training sword in one hand, his left arm resting casually behind his back, and turned the strike aside with barely enough movement to produce a sharp clang.

Sigurd immediately converted the rejected cut into a horizontal sweep. Osric leaned away, let the blade pass a finger’s breadth from his coat, then tapped Sigurd’s front knee with the flat of his sword.

"Too stiff. If that knee locks when someone heavier meets your blade, you lose your balance before you lose the exchange."

Sigurd bent it without answering and attacked again. A thrust came toward Osric’s chest, was knocked outward, then became an upward cut as Sigurd shifted his rear foot and recovered his center.

Osric parried that one too, but this time the contact sounded heavier. "Better. Don’t chase my sword. I’m not the target."

The correction registered immediately. Sigurd stopped watching the weapon and focused on Osric’s shoulders, hips and feet instead.

He advanced with three compact steps, opened with a feint toward the ribs and redirected toward the neck when Osric moved to intercept. Osric’s sword appeared there first. Steel cracked against steel, and the vibration ran down Sigurd’s arms.

He twisted his wrists, disengaged and stepped to Osric’s outside before cutting at the instructor’s exposed flank. For the first time that morning, Osric moved both feet. It was only half a step, but Sigurd noticed.

He followed aggressively, sword descending from above, and Osric caught the blow near his guard before sliding his blade along Sigurd’s. A light tap struck Llewellyn’s right wrist.

"Grip," Osric corrected, and Sigurd loosened his lower fingers.

Another tap touched his shoulder as he turned. "You’re raising it."

Sigurd dropped the shoulder, changed angle and thrust again.

Osric’s expression remained almost bored, yet his eyes were measuring everything. He gave Sigurd no unnecessary praise and no time to enjoy a successful adjustment.

Every mistake received an immediate answer. When Sigurd overextended a cut, the flat of Osric’s blade touched his ribs.

When his rear heel lifted too early, Osric tapped the ankle. When he tried to compensate by becoming overly cautious, Osric increased the pressure and forced him backward with three deceptively simple strikes.

Sigurd blocked the first, parried the second and barely slipped the third, feeling air brush his cheek as the sword passed.

He answered with a low cut, rotated through his hips and brought the blade upward toward Osric’s forearm. Osric redirected it, but Sigurd had already stepped closer.

Their guards collided. Sigurd tried using his shoulder to create space, forgetting for half a second that the man opposite him had decades of physical development.

Osric shifted his weight, and Sigurd abruptly found the world moving sideways. He recovered before falling, boots scraping across stone as he slid several meters, and immediately raised his sword again.

Sweat ran along his temple, but irritation never reached his face. Osric had spent two years teaching him that frustration during an exchange was simply another opening for an opponent.

Sigurd inhaled once, settled his stance and charged back in. This time he didn’t attempt to overpower the instructor. He changed rhythm instead, mixing short cuts with sudden pauses, testing reactions and trying to create an opening through timing.

Osric’s sword continued meeting his with infuriating precision, but the taps correcting his mistakes became less frequent as the exchange continued.

From the shaded observation stand beside the training field, Sylvia watched the duel with a cup of tea held between both hands.

Aunt Mira sat beside her while four maids stood several steps behind them, supposedly present to attend their mistress and very obviously more interested in the sparring session.

Two guards had also found reasons to remain close enough to watch. Sylvia pretended not to notice any of them until one maid whispered,

"Young Master Sigurd is already at the Nascent Stage, isn’t he? He’s only seven."

Another immediately answered under her breath, "He formed his first Core one month after his awakening. Everyone knew he was talented after what happened at the Hall, but one month is ridiculous. They said only the First Pillar was faster in the last hundred years."

A third maid leaned closer, eyes never leaving the training circle. "And Instructor Osric has been holding his cultivation back. Imagine where the Young Master would be if he were allowed to advance whenever he wanted."

The oldest maid among them quickly frowned. "Don’t say foolish things. He’s not being held back. He’s building his foundation."

That correction lasted approximately two seconds before she added with considerably less professionalism, "But yes, the Young Master is exceptionally talented. At this rate, perhaps we’ll see him become a Pillar sooner than anyone expects."

Sylvia lifted her tea to hide the enormous smile spreading across her face, failed completely, and turned toward Mira with a look so unbearably proud that no words were necessary.

Mira stared at her sister for a moment before rolling her eyes. "Don’t look at me like you personally constructed his Martial Soul."

"I gave birth to him. I believe I’m entitled to some credit." Sylvia said with a smug look on her face.

"You were unconscious for part of it." Aunt Mira rolled her eyes helplessly.

"I was still there." Sylvia argued back with a snort.

Mira snorted, but the amusement in her face softened when she looked back toward Sigurd. Pride was there too, even if she had considerably more dignity about displaying it.

On the field, Sigurd ducked beneath Osric’s blade and answered with a thrust that forced the instructor to turn his torso rather than simply parry.

Sylvia’s smile widened again before something seemed to occur to her. "I heard the third son of the Eisenwald Great Branch formed his Core last year."

Mira nodded. "He did. So did the other notable children from the Seven Great Branch Houses. Most of the Vassal House children who awakened during Sigurd’s ceremony have formed theirs as well, although not all at the same stage."

"So essentially everyone from his awakening year has entered the Awakened Martial Rank." Sylvia muttered under her breath.

"More or less. Some of the branch children have already started training proper Martial Techniques." Mira glanced sideways at Sylvia, knowing exactly where her thoughts were going. "Before you start worrying, Osric isn’t delaying him. The Young Master spent two years perfecting fundamentals because Osric believes his foundation matters more than collecting techniques at seven. I agree with him."

Sylvia didn’t answer immediately. She watched her son move across the training circle, ash-white hair damp with sweat and sticking against his forehead.

She knew Mira was right. Sigurd had already advanced faster than almost every child of his generation, and comparing the number of techniques children possessed was exactly the sort of nonsense ambitious parents used to ruin talented offspring.

Still, she was his mother. Rationality had limits when other people’s children were involved.

On the field, Sigurd suddenly accelerated. Vis moved through his body, not enough to constitute a Martial Technique but enough to sharpen the physical foundation he had spent two years building.

His sword struck Osric’s once, twice, then a third time as he changed angles between each collision.

Osric parried all three. Sigurd stepped inside, reversed his grip for an instant to recover the blade faster, then drove forward with a thrust aimed directly at Osric’s chest.

The instructor’s eyes sharpened.

His sword swept across.

CLANG!

The impact cracked through the training grounds. Sparks scattered from the blunted blades, and a short gust rolled outward from the collision.

Sigurd’s arms buckled. His boots left the ground, and he was driven backward several meters before landing hard and sliding another step across the stone.

He stabilized himself instead of falling, sword still raised, chest rising and falling heavily. Osric stood where he had been, one hand holding his weapon and the other still behind his back.

His breathing hadn’t changed.

For several seconds neither moved. Then Osric lowered his sword. The usual severity in his face remained, but it could no longer conceal the excitement in his eyes.

Two years ago, Sigurd had possessed experience without the body or martial foundation to properly express it. Now the pieces were beginning to connect.

His stance no longer collapsed under pressure.

His transitions had become instinctive, his corrections immediate, and the Basic Swordsmanship Osric had forced him to repeat until exhaustion had finally stopped looking like a collection of separate movements.

Osric nodded once, then again, a broad smile slowly breaking through his beard. "Good. Very good. Your foundation is finally where I want it. From tomorrow onward, we stop spending every lesson on the basics."

He rested the training sword against his shoulder while Sigurd’s tired eyes immediately sharpened.

"I think your swordsmanship is solid enough now."

Osric’s grin widened.

"It’s time you started learning real Martial Techniques."