Early morning, at the First Princess's Villa — the wide training ground echoed with desperate screams.
"Oh, god!! What kind of training is this?!"
Thirty rounds of running.
Fifteen hundred sword swings.
Three hours of standing practice.
Then three thousand meters of swimming.
And after all that… footwork drills.
Each number carved itself into my bones.
If the royal physician hadn't been constantly replenishing my strength with magic and medicine, I'd already be a corpse. Not nearly. Not eventually. Already.
This isn't training.
This is controlled survival.
My lungs burned with every breath, chest tightening until air felt like a luxury. My legs moved because they were ordered to move, not because they obeyed me anymore. Muscles screamed, tore, rebuilt—over and over—without rest or mercy.
I thought training in another world would be easy… but in this girl's body, it was hell.
No strength. No endurance. No foundation.
Just a fragile frame being forced to imitate a weapon.
And when I run—ugh—even this not-so-flat chest keeps getting in the way!
The irritation was sharp, embarrassing, and impossible to ignore. Balance shifted. Breathing broke. Every step reminded me that this body had limits I hadn't earned—and pain I couldn't escape.
And Sylva—no, Sylvaris—hasn't let me rest for even a second.
No pauses.
No praise.
No concern.
Just commands.
She's not trying to break me.
She's testing whether I break on my own.
Is she holding some kind of grudge against me?!
…Sigh.
My vision blurred. Sweat soaked through my clothes. Hands trembled around the sword hilt even when I wasn't holding it.
Maybe this really is the only way to grow stronger…
Strength doesn't come from comfort.
It comes from enduring what should have killed you.
…even if it kills me.
"Ray, come here."
Sylvaris's voice carried across the training field, clear and unyielding.
I stiffened.
I had told her to call me that. She had refused at first—cold, absolute. I'd pressed the issue until she relented.
And now she said it.
Naturally.
For the first time.
That alone made my chest tighten. Whenever she was calm—whenever she sounded accommodating—it meant she had already decided something unpleasant.
"I'm going to teach you the sword techniques I know," she said, tone steady, final.
What—?!
Finally!
After all that torture, I'm actually learning something real?!
"Sis Sylve! Show me! Show me your techniques!" I blurted out, unable to stop myself.
Her gaze snapped to me.
"I told you to call me Master," Sylvaris said coldly. "Not that."
The air itself seemed to drop in temperature.
"O-Okay!! Master…!!" I corrected quickly. "Show me! Show me your techniques!"
Idiot.
Calm down.
"Be patient," she said, a faint, restrained smile touching her lips. "First, listen."
She turned slightly, resting one hand on the hilt of her sword.
"The name of this style is Flowing Moon Sword."
…That name alone carried weight.
"This sword style embodies calm like the moon and swiftness like the wind," Sylvaris continued.
"Each movement should flow like moonlight dancing across water—beautiful, silent, and deadly."
I swallowed.
"It has five forms. I know four. You will only train in one for now."
"Why?! Why can't I learn all of them?!" The protest escaped before I could stop it.
"Because you would break your body," she said flatly. No hesitation. No softness.
"Even the first form is deadly if done incorrectly."
She raised her sword.
"First Form — Crescent Bloom.
A basic slash that requires perfect footwork, controlled breathing, and precise control of your Miki."
Her voice did not rise, yet every word pressed down on me.
Then she continued.
She spoke of higher forms—
of movements that bent the wind itself,
of techniques that erased distance as if it never existed,
of a final strike so severe that her voice lowered when she named it.
I listened without interrupting.
Each explanation felt heavier than the last, like stones stacking in my chest.
Whatever those forms were…
They were far beyond me.
"How many forms do you know?"
Rayvaris asked softly.
"Four."
Sylvaris's answer came without pride. Without apology.
Silence followed.
"How long did it take you to master this style?" I asked, voice lowered despite myself.
"Five years."
"…Five?"
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"And you call yourself a genius when you haven't even mastered the final form?!"
Sylvaris's lips curved—barely. Not amused. Not offended.
"Once you begin," she said, "you'll understand."
She stepped forward.
"Watch carefully."
The training ground fell silent.
Sylvaris drew her blade.
Shhhhh—
KRRIIIK—!
BOOOOM!
The sound struck first.
A massive tree split cleanly down the middle, the trunk tearing apart as if it had been made of paper. The halves shuddered—then crashed to the ground, sending dust and leaves spiraling into the air.
My breath vanished.
"…That was the first form?!"
"When you can do that," Sylvaris said calmly, lowering her sword, "I'll teach you the next step."
I stared at what remained of the tree—its ruined core exposed, edges still smoking faintly from displaced Miki.
"Th-That thing isn't small at all…!"
…How am I supposed to do that?
Rayvaris's curiosity twisted into unease.
"You only need to feel the Miki inside you," Sylvaris said, already turning away.
"Wrap it around the sword. Then release it—like I did."
That was all.
No further explanation.
No adjustment.
No reassurance.
…What?
How was I supposed to understand that?
"Close your eyes," Sylvaris added, voice distant now.
"Swing your sword. Try to feel the Miki within you."
And then she left.
Her footsteps faded across the training ground, leaving only the wind—and me.
I stood there, sword heavy in my hands.
That explanation was useless,the thought came sharply. Feel it? Wrap it? Release it? Those are words, not instructions.
Still…
Complaining wouldn't change anything.
"…Let's try first.
I tightened my grip.
The world narrowed.
I closed my eyes.
Breathing in.
Breathing out.
I swung.
Nothing happened.
No resistance.
No warmth.
No response.
There's nothing there, I realized. *No sensation at all.
I opened my eyes, staring at the blade as if it might answer me.
…So this is what she meant.
Not understanding.
Not copying.
But searching for something I don't even know how to feel.
Hours later…
Whoosh.
Whoosh.
The blade cut through air—and nothing else.
Again.
Whoosh.
"Why can't I even cut a tiny tree?!" My voice cracked as frustration bled through.
"How am I supposed to push my Miki into the sword?!"
My hands tightened around the hilt until my knuckles went white. The weapon trembled with me, mirroring my instability.
Focus.
"…Okay," I muttered, forcing my breathing to slow. "First… I need to feel it."
I closed my eyes again.
Time slipped by.
Minutes blurred into hours.
Swing after swing.
Breath after breath.
Nothing changed.
"What the hell…?" The words came out hoarse. "I can't feel my Miki at all."
There was no warmth.
No current.
No response—only exhaustion gnawing deeper into my limbs.
Sweat dripped from my chin, darkening the dirt beneath my feet. My arms shook. My legs threatened to give out.
This body really has nothing,the thought surfaced, cold and cutting. No talent. No instinct. No gift.
Still, I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
Stopping meant accepting it.
"I don't care how long it takes…" I whispered, lifting the sword again despite the pain screaming through my muscles.
My vision burned. Not from sweat.
From refusal.
"I will master Crescent Bloom…"
The blade rose once more.
"…no matter what it costs."
Because stopping meant disappearing.