Chapter 17: Shock

[ Author’s Note: Quick clarification regarding the MC’s name: Viktor is his name from his previous life. After reincarnating, he was originally named Llewellyn Di Zierghardt, but I’ve decided to change his current-life name to Sigurd Di Zierghardt going forward.

So, to keep things simple:

Previous Life: Viktor

Current Life: Sigurd Di Zierghardt

Any mentions of Llewellyn in earlier Chapters refer to Sigurd. I’ll be updating those Chapters accordingly.]

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"Pfffttttt....!"

The mouthful of wine Osric had been enjoying sprayed across the edge of the training ground before he could stop himself.

He coughed violently, turned his head aside, and wiped his beard with the back of his hand while staring at the scene before him as though someone had struck him across the face.

He had arrived only a few minutes earlier, expecting to find Sigurd somewhere in the middle of the frustrating process every swordsman experienced when learning a new Martial Technique.

Perhaps the boy would have managed the circulation route by now. Perhaps he would even be close to producing a recognizable Severing Line.

Those had been Osric’s expectations when he entered the field with his flask in hand. Instead, he had watched the seven-year-old step toward a reinforced wooden dummy, move his sword through one clean diagonal arc, and send a thin layer of pale Vis flashing along the blade.

The upper portion of the dummy separated from its body and struck the ground with a heavy thud.

Sigurd didn’t notice him immediately. His attention remained fixed on the cut. He stepped back, adjusted his distance from the next dummy and settled into position again.

There was still a slight pause before activation, something an experienced opponent could exploit, and Osric could see that Sigurd was consciously controlling his Vis rather than allowing the technique to emerge instinctively. None of that mattered.

Those were exactly the limitations expected from Initial Understanding. What mattered was that the boy’s foot moved at the correct moment, his body transferred force without unnecessary tension, and his Vis followed the physical chain all the way into the weapon. There was waste, certainly, but not failure.

Sigurd stepped again.

The sword moved.

A pale line appeared along its edge, followed by the sharp crack of splitting wood.

"Stop!"

Osric’s voice crossed the training field with enough force that Sigurd halted before beginning another repetition. He lowered his sword and finally turned toward his instructor. Osric stood near the entrance with droplets of wine clinging to his beard and an expression that would have been amusing if Sigurd hadn’t learned that laughing at his instructor was rarely worth the consequences.

"Morning," Sigurd said.

Osric ignored the greeting. He strode across the field, stopped beside the ruined dummy and crouched to examine the cut.

His fingers ran across the exposed wood. Clean.

Not perfect, but clean. More importantly, the depth and angle were almost identical to the damage on the previous target. That eliminated luck. Osric straightened slowly and looked at the boy standing several paces away.

"Do that again."

Sigurd raised an eyebrow. "You just told me to stop."

"Don’t become clever with me this early in the morning. Another dummy. Now."

Sigurd shrugged and moved toward an untouched target. He settled his breathing, brought the training sword into position and focused. Osric watched more carefully this time, his attention moving from Sigurd’s feet to his waist, shoulder, sword arm and finally the blade.

Sigurd stepped forward. Vis left his Core and circulated through his body in synchronization with the strike.

The blade accelerated through the final portion of its arc.

CRACK!

Another section of wood fell.

Osric’s expression tightened. "Again."

Sigurd repeated the technique.

Another clean cut.

"Again."

By the fifth successful execution, Sigurd lowered his sword and looked at Osric with mild impatience. "How many times do you want me to demonstrate it?"

Osric didn’t answer immediately. He reached for his flask almost instinctively, seemed to remember what had happened to the previous mouthful, and slowly lowered it again.

His eyes returned to Sigurd. There was no mistaking what he had just witnessed. The technique wasn’t perfect. Sigurd still required deliberate concentration before every execution, his Vis expenditure was higher than necessary, and there were tiny inconsistencies between individual strikes.

But none of those flaws changed the conclusion.

Osric cleared his throat. "You’ve reached Initial Understanding?"

The question came out less steady than he intended. Sigurd noticed but chose not to comment. He rested the blunt sword against his shoulder and nodded.

"Yesterday evening."

Osric stared at him.

"Yesterday evening," he repeated.

"Yes."

"When exactly did you start practicing?"

"The morning you gave me the manual."

"I know when I gave you the damned manual." Osric rubbed a hand over his face before pointing at Sigurd. "I’m asking how long it took you."

Sigurd thought about it. He had received Severing Line, spent the first day understanding its structure and failing repeatedly, used the second day to stabilize the circulation, and continued refining it until the technique finally registered. "Three days."

Osric’s hand stopped against his face.

Three days.

He had given Sigurd seven days because the boy was talented enough that an unreasonable target seemed useful. Osric hadn’t actually expected him to reach Initial Understanding within that period.

If Sigurd came close after seven days, Osric planned to extend the deadline while pretending the boy had disappointed him.

Two weeks would have been exceptional. A month would still have been impressive for a seven-year-old learning his first Black-Rank Martial Technique.

Three days hadn’t entered the calculation.

Osric turned toward the collection of damaged targets because he suddenly didn’t want Sigurd seeing his expression.

The boy had formed his first Vis Core within a month of his Soul Revelation, already placing him among the most exceptional children House Zierghardt had produced in generations.

Even then, Osric had told himself that cultivation speed and martial comprehension were different talents. Some people possessed extraordinary affinity for Vis but struggled with techniques.

Others advanced slowly yet understood martial principles almost instinctively.

Apparently, Sigurd had decided that choosing between those advantages was unnecessary.

Osric’s gaze moved across the cuts again. The first few targets bore ugly scars from failed attempts. Some cuts were shallow, others crooked, and one had clearly been struck with far too much Vis.

Farther down the row, the damage became progressively cleaner until the final targets displayed the unmistakable result of Severing Line.

That progression told Osric almost as much as the successful technique itself. Sigurd hadn’t somehow performed it perfectly on his first attempt.

He had failed, identified mistakes, corrected them, failed differently, corrected those mistakes, and continued until the separate components finally connected.

That was worse.

Natural talent was troublesome enough. Talent combined with patience and the willingness to repeat fundamentals until they worked properly was the sort of thing instructors prayed for and rivals eventually learned to hate.

Osric remembered his own first Martial Technique.

He had been eleven years old and unbearably proud of himself. The technique had also been Black Rank, although considerably different from Severing Line, and he had trained until his palms blistered beneath the wrapping around his sword hilt.

When he finally reached Initial Understanding after three months, his father had slaughtered a goat for dinner and spent the evening telling anyone willing to listen that his son possessed excellent martial comprehension.

Three months.

Osric had carried that achievement proudly for years.

The seven-year-old standing behind him had just done the same thing in three days.

His old face suddenly felt warm.

"Three months," Osric muttered beneath his breath.

Sigurd heard him. "What?"

"Nothing." Osric shook his head.

"You said three months." Sigurd shot him a glance with a faint smile.

"I said nothing." Osric glared at him.

Sigurd stared at the back of his instructor’s head. "You definitely said three months."

Osric slowly turned around, his expression becoming dangerously calm. "Young Master, there are moments in a student’s education when wisdom means understanding which questions will improve his martial path and which questions will result in additional physical conditioning."

Sigurd considered that warning and wisely let the matter disappear.

Osric grunted in satisfaction, although the embarrassment remained. He had no intention of telling the little monster that Severing Line had taken him roughly one-ninetieth of the time he needed to understand his own first technique.

Still, embarrassment couldn’t suppress the excitement growing beneath it.

Osric had trained talented descendants before. House Zierghardt produced them regularly. Even the children from its vassal families would have been considered exceptional among ordinary martial households, and the Seven Great Branches competed constantly to produce monsters capable of strengthening their positions within the clan.

Talent alone wasn’t enough to surprise someone who had spent decades around Zierghardts.

Sigurd was beginning to feel different.

Forming his Core in one month could have been extraordinary Vis affinity. Awakening a Martial Soul powerful enough to produce a Heavenly Phenomenon could have been extraordinary fortune.

Reaching the Nascent Stage at seven could be attributed partly to resources and the advantages of being a direct descendant. But now martial comprehension had entered the equation as well.

Osric looked at the boy properly.

Sigurd’s training clothes were damp with sweat around the collar and back. His ash-white hair had been tied behind his head, though several strands had escaped and clung to his forehead. The training sword in his hand was ordinary. There was no arrogance in his posture after accomplishing something that would have had many instructors talking for weeks.

If anything, Sigurd seemed more interested in continuing practice than receiving praise.

The thought made Osric grin.

Things were going to become interesting around here.

House Zierghardt hadn’t remained one of Eden’s great martial families by producing only one exceptional descendant every generation. Competition was built into its bones.

The direct descendants, Great Branch heirs, and talented vassals would eventually be measured against one another whether they wanted it or not.

Sigurd’s generation already contained several children worth watching, particularly among the Seven Great Branches.

And now the Tenth Young Master was beginning to show his teeth.

"Where is my reward?"

Sigurd’s voice pulled Osric out of his thoughts.

He blinked. "What?"

"My reward." Sigurd lowered the sword and pointed toward him with it. "You said that if I reached Initial Understanding within a week, you’d give me a gift. I reached it in three days."

Osric’s lips twitched. For all the composure, frightening comprehension, and occasional habit of looking at adults as though evaluating their usefulness, Sigurd apparently had no intention of allowing a promised reward to disappear.

"You remember that part perfectly, don’t you?"

"I remember most things perfectly."

"Of course you do." Osric rubbed the bridge of his scarred nose and glanced toward his wine flask.

For a brief moment he looked as though he regretted making the promise. Then his expression changed.

The irritation disappeared, replaced by something Sigurd recognized immediately as dangerous amusement.

Osric secured the flask at his waist and walked toward him.

Sigurd watched him approach.

The grin on Osric’s face widened, that was never good.

Instead of explaining anything, Osric stopped directly in front of Sigurd and placed one heavy hand on his shoulder.

His grip was friendly enough, but Sigurd felt his body tense instinctively when the instructor leaned closer.

"You want your reward?"

Sigurd narrowed his eyes. "That was the agreement."

"Oh, you’ll get it." Osric’s grin widened until the scar across his nose shifted with it. "In fact, after seeing this, I think I know exactly what to give you."

Sigurd stared at him.

The bad feeling became considerably worse.