"Every ordinary guard in this estate is expected to demonstrate competence in the first three arts to continue serving as an Einsworth knight. It's the bare minimum required to represent our family's name in combat. If a true blood of the family, a direct descendant of Duke Eamon himself, cannot achieve at least that much..."
He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was devastating. If I couldn't match the standard set for common guards, I had no business calling myself an Einsworth. I might as well be disowned.
'No pressure at all.'
Jack walked over to one of the weapon racks and selected a practice saber. The weapon looked deceptively simple, made of dense hardwood that had been treated and reinforced until it was nearly as hard as steel. He tested its balance with a few experimental swings, the blade whistling through the air, then turned back to me.
"The first art is called First Light," he said. "It is a quick-draw technique that emphasizes the transition from stillness to explosive violence in a single heartbeat. The philosophy is simple: the first strike decides the battle. Your opponent should be dead or disabled before they realize combat has begun."
He moved toward the weapon rack again and retrieved another practice saber, which he tossed to me. I caught it awkwardly, nearly dropping it.
"The second art is called Phantom Step," Jack continued, completely ignoring my fumble. "It is a movement technique that allows rapid repositioning while maintaining perfect offensive and defensive posture. Speed means nothing if you're out of position. Phantom Step ensures you're always exactly where you need to be."
He shifted his stance subtly, and suddenly he looked infinitely more dangerous. Like a coiled serpent ready to strike.
"The third art is called Heaven Splitter. It is a power technique designed to overwhelm any defense through sheer concentrated force. Where First Light emphasizes speed and Phantom Step emphasizes positioning, Heaven Splitter is about absolute destructive power delivered with surgical precision."
Jack looked at me, his blue eyes sharp and evaluating.
"These three arts form the foundation of the Flash God Technique. Everything else, all the advanced forms, every secret technique our family has developed over generations, builds upon these fundamentals. Master these three, and you'll have the groundwork necessary to eventually learn the higher arts."
He walked to the center of the courtyard, positioning himself about thirty feet from the nearest training dummy. The dummy was massive, constructed from layered hardwood reinforced with steel banding, standing at least seven feet tall and three feet wide. These weren't practice targets meant for beginners. These were designed to withstand techniques from Expert-ranked warriors.
"Watch carefully," Jack said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm going to demonstrate all three arts in sequence. Once. At approximately seventy percent power. If I went full strength, I'd damage the courtyard beyond repair, and the Duke would be displeased."
Seventy percent. He was holding back and still warning me about potential damage to reinforced stone.
Jack settled into a stance I recognized from the manual. The Einsworth ready position: feet shoulder-width apart, weight slightly more on the back foot, drawing hand resting loosely on the saber's hilt, off-hand hovering near the sheath. He looked relaxed, almost casual.
Then everything changed.
His presence intensified dramatically. The pressure that had been constant suddenly spiked, becoming almost physical. I felt it press against my skin like I'd walked too close to a furnace. The air around Jack seemed to shimmer slightly, and I realized he was circulating mana through his body in preparation.
My new Blade Sense skill activated automatically, and I could feel the practice saber in his hand despite the distance. More than that, I could sense something building in Jack himself, like storm clouds gathering before lightning strikes.
"First Light," Jack said quietly.
Then he moved.
I didn't see the draw. One instant, the practice saber was sheathed. The next instant, it had been drawn, swung in a perfect horizontal arc, and was extended fully to Jack's right side. The entire motion had happened faster than my eyes could process.
But I heard it.
CRACK.
The sound was like thunder breaking directly overhead, so loud and sharp that I flinched involuntarily. The shockwave from the draw created a visible distortion in the air, a ripple that expanded outward from Jack's position like a ring in water.
The training dummy thirty feet away, the one Jack hadn't even seemed to aim at, suddenly had a perfectly horizontal line carved across its midsection. The cut was so clean and precise it looked like it had been drawn with a ruler. A fraction of a second later, the top half of the dummy slid off the bottom half and crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.
'He didn't touch it. He was thirty feet away and he didn't touch it, but he cut it clean through.'
My mind struggled to comprehend what I'd just seen. The cutting pressure from his technique had traveled through the air itself, maintaining enough force to slice through reinforced wood like it was paper.
"Phantom Step," Jack said, and vanished.
He didn't turn invisible. I could still see him. But my eyes couldn't track the movement. One moment, he was in his original position. The next moment, he was fifteen feet to the left and ten feet closer to another training dummy. Then he was twenty feet to the right and forward again. Then behind me. Then in front of me. Then back to his original position.
Seven different positions in perhaps two seconds, moving so fast that afterimages lingered in my vision. And through it all, his saber never wavered. In each position, the blade was perfectly positioned to strike, perfectly angled to defend. There was no wasted motion, no moment of vulnerability.
The stone beneath where he'd stepped was cracked, small fractures spreading from each footprint. The force of his movement had been enough to damage reinforced stone just from the impact of his feet.
'That's Phantom Step. That's how you move faster than the enemy can react while maintaining perfect form.'
Jack came to a stop in his original position, facing the largest training dummy at the far end of the courtyard. This one was even more heavily reinforced than the others, with additional steel plating covering its center mass.
"Heaven Splitter," Jack said, and his presence doubled.
The pressure became crushing. The air itself seemed to groan under the weight of his intent. Mana surged through his body in a pattern I could sense but not understand, complex and intricate, gathering in his core before flowing out through channels that seemed to encompass his entire being.
Jack took a single step forward and thrust his practice saber toward the training dummy.
I saw the technique this time. Saw the way his entire body contributed to the strike. His back foot pushed off with enough force to crater the stone beneath it. His hips rotated, adding rotational power. His core engaged, transferring energy from his lower body to his upper body. His shoulder extended, his arm straightened, his wrist snapped forward at the last instant.
And the practice saber, that simple wooden training weapon, became something else entirely.
The air in front of the blade compressed so violently it became visible, a cone of distorted space that looked like glass catching light. The compression continued to build for a fraction of a second, building pressure, building force, building potential.
Then it released.
BOOM.
The sound wasn't a crack or a whistle. It was an explosion. A concussive blast that rattled my teeth and made my ears ring. The compressed air shot forward like a projectile, crossing the fifty feet to the training dummy in an instant.
The dummy exploded.
Not broke. Not shattered. Exploded. The reinforced wood and steel plating disintegrated into fragments that shot outward in a perfect sphere. The stone wall behind the dummy cracked like a spiderweb, deep fractures spreading twenty feet in every direction. The shockwave continued past the wall and slammed into the building beyond, rattling windows and shaking the structure.
Pieces of destroyed training dummy rained down across the courtyard, clattering against stone. Dust filled the air, making it hard to see clearly.
Jack lowered his practice saber, his breathing still completely normal, as though he'd done nothing more strenuous than take a walk.
The crater where the training dummy had stood was two feet deep and six feet across. The stone had been pulverized into powder.
I stood frozen, my mind completely blank, unable to process the destruction I'd just witnessed.
"That," Jack said calmly, as dust settled around him, "is what the first three arts look like when executed at Expert rank proficiency with seventy percent power."
Expert rank. He'd just demonstrated Expert-level technique while holding back, and it had been apocalyptic.
'What does Master rank look like? What does Grandmaster rank look like? What does the Duke look like when he fights?'
I couldn't even imagine. If this was holding back, if this was only Expert rank, then the true peak of the Flash God Technique must be capable of things that defied comprehension.
"And I performed those techniques while actively using mana circulation," Jack continued, walking back toward me through the settling dust. "The body mechanics alone are impressive, but without mana enhancement, the Flash God Technique is simply well-executed swordplay. With proper mana circulation, it becomes something that can split mountains and cleave the heavens themselves."
He stopped in front of me, and I saw something in his eyes I hadn't seen before. Pride. Not in himself, but in the technique. In the legacy of the Einsworth family.
"This is why our family stands as one of the two pillars of Aldoria," Jack said. "This is why other kingdoms fear us. This is why demons that invade our borders don't invade twice. The Flash God Technique, when mastered, allows a single warrior to change the course of battles. To strike with such speed and power that armies hesitate."
He gestured at the destruction around us. "And this is only the foundation. The first three arts. Imagine what the higher forms are capable of. Imagine what someone wielding the Einsworth Family Saber could accomplish with the complete twelve arts."
I looked at the saber hanging at my hip, feeling its weight with new understanding. This weapon was the key to unlocking the full potential of these techniques. With it, I could eventually learn to do what Jack had just demonstrated, and beyond.
'This is what I need to learn. This is what I need to master. Not just for survival, but to truly claim the Einsworth name.'
Jack seemed to sense my thoughts, or perhaps he'd just seen that particular expression on enough students' faces to recognize the moment understanding dawned.
"Your training," he said, his tone becoming more formal, more instructional, "will consist of three components. Understand this now: all three are mandatory. Failure in any component means failure overall."
He held up one finger.
"First: Theory. I will explain the mechanics of each art in excruciating detail. The biomechanics, the mana circulation patterns, the precise timing and angles required for proper execution. You need to understand not just how to perform the techniques, but why they work the way they do. Understanding creates adaptability."
A second finger.
"Second: Practical repetition. You will drill the arts endlessly. Thousands upon thousands of repetitions, until they become as natural as breathing. Until your body can execute them without conscious thought, under any conditions, regardless of exhaustion or injury. This is where most students fail. They lack the discipline to continue when practice becomes monotonous and painful. They convince themselves that 'good enough' is acceptable. It is not."
A third finger.
"Third: Survival application. Theory and practice are meaningless if you cannot apply them under genuine life-or-death pressure. Twice per week, you will return to the Saber Garden alone. I will assign you specific bounties, specific beasts you must hunt and defeat using the techniques you've learned. You will return with their cores as proof of your kills, or you will not return at all."
He lowered his hand, his expression hardening until it looked carved from stone.
"Your final evaluation before departing for the academy will be a spar with me. Unarmed combat, no weapons, no mana circulation allowed on your part. I will not attack. I will only defend and evade. Your goal is simple: land a single strike on me. A scratch. A tap. Anything that makes contact. If you can manage that much, you pass. If you cannot..."
He left the sentence hanging, but the implication was clear. If I couldn't land a single hit on a man who wasn't even fighting back, I wasn't ready to represent the Einsworth family at the Continental Academy.
'He's going to dodge everything I throw at him. A month from now, exhausted from training, I have to be fast enough and skilled enough to touch him even once.'
The challenge seemed impossible. But then again, so had surviving the Saber Garden. So had bonding with a legendary weapon. So had lying to Duke Eamon's face and walking away alive.
Impossible just meant it would take effort.