Inside the large training chamber, the air echoed with the steady sound of movement.
Shhk.
Shhk.
Shhk.
Kyle's arms moved in a fluid rhythm, the wooden practice sword in his hands cutting through the air with increasing precision.
Again.
And again.
His breathing was controlled, but sweat clung to his forehead and neck. His hair, which once was immaculately styled, clung slightly to his brow.
His robes, simple, tied at the waist, were damp and creased from movement.
Shhk.
Shhk.
Kyle exhaled through clenched teeth, his arms aching from repetition. His shoulders burned, and his palms were already developing calluses that hadn't been there before.
Still, he pushed on.
One of the manuals… the ones Kyle had inherited through his predecessor's obsessive reading… said something very strange for a cultivation world:
"Before the sword obeys your will, your body must learn its language. Swing, not for form, but for memory. A thousand swings a day is the beginning."
Even though he hadn't known a thing about swords on earth, Kyle took those words to heart.
Because he understood something most others didn't.
In Heavenly Ascension, there were dozens of instances where characters obsessed over technique only after they could use qi. But every truly monstrous swordsman in the novel?
They had trained in form long before they ever developed deeper into cultivation. And this was how they did it.
Swinging a sword, heck, constant practice repetition with any weapon of choice, and you would see massive improvements in basic mastery at the beginning.
And this was something the protagonist of the story, Prince Luke, abused to no extent, and Kyle intended to do the same.
He knew how the strong in this world trained to become the monsters they were in the future.
And he would be damned if he sat on this knowledge.
He wasn't strong yet.
But smart as he was, equipped with all this knowledge, Kyle was bound to become a monster of his own.
"…Six-hundred and thirty-one…"
Kyle muttered the number under his breath, swinging the blade again with all the focus he could muster.
Meanwhile, outside the training chamber…
"Are you sure?" a familiar voice asked.
Sebastian gave a soft nod. "Yes, My Lord, he has been in there all day, his body is far from being weak, but he is not strong either, yet he insists on using the heaviest beginner-grade wooden sword we have. Twenty kilograms."
Inside, Kyle's continued swings could be faintly heard, muffled thuds and slicing air.
Cassian's eyes narrowed slightly, a faint gleam in his gaze.
"I was delighted when you told me that he could cultivate now. I have been concerned about his well-being for a long time. Young master is truly dedicated to his improvement. It is enough to make me cry out in joy."
"…Yes," he said quietly. "He is."
Back in the chamber, Kyle finally stopped at seven hundred.
He let the sword tip fall gently to the floor, panting slightly, his arms trembling from exertion.
He leaned against the wall, letting the cool surface soothe his back, his eyes closed. He got a feel for his sword technique's runes.
Runes were used to track and quantify an individual's mastery of an art or technique. They were displayed as a visual imagery mark in a cultivator's spiritual sea, in the form of progression marks.
These marks glow and change as they grow in mastery. You might imagine them like tattoos or scars, layered and animated, almost like a living interface.
Kyle smiled when he looked at the improvements in his mastery. He liked to swing his sword for hours on end because his progress with sword mastery was visibly changing, unlike his cultivation base.
"This is only the start," he thought.
He was almost at complete mastery of the first star of his Phantom Blade sword art., meaning he would have a breakthrough in this art soon, and if he was lucky, he would be able to get an enlightenment and start sensing sword Qi, but that was easier said than done.
Regardless, Kyle was more than happy with his gains. With this, combined with his early-stage Qi cultivation, he was now on the lower end of the spectrum, where the majority of the populace lay.
He would be able to at least defend himself now.
"I should go and bathe, meditate, and then rest." He considered calling it a day. His muscles screamed. His body throbbed.
However, Kyle's lips twitched into a tired smile.
"I wonder what face Nuna will make when she sees my improvement in cultivation skill with the sword…I haven't told her about my cured cultivation yet."
That's right. Kyle was yet to see Nuna again, even now, she had;t returned. It was almost enough to make him anxious.
Thinking about her motivated him. Then, gripping the hilt again with shaking fingers, he stood upright.
"…Still got three hundred more to go."
Before he could continue, the door to doors opened.
Kyle paused mid-swing, sweat dripping from his chin, his limbs trembling from repetition. He looked toward the sound, brows furrowing.
—and froze.
His father stood just inside the doorway. He walked in, his step casual.
His towering frame was clad in a dark robe embroidered with the faint golden edges of the Ravenshade crest, training gear.
Is he here to train?
His eyes, usually sharp and stormy, were calm. And his lips… curled upward slightly in a rare, unreadable smile.
Kyle blinked, panting. "Father?"
The marquis said nothing at first.
He walked silently across the training floor, the sound of his boots measured and deliberate.
He took a position a few paces opposite his son, raising the sword in a neutral stance, his gaze still unreadable.
Then, finally...
"Show me what you can do."
Kyle blinked, shocked.
"Wait, you mean, now?" he asked, lowering his practice sword instinctively.
Cassian didn't answer. He simply raised his blade slightly.
Kyle's grip tightened.
He's serious.
Nerves pulsed in his limbs. His arms ached. He had already done more than seven hundred swings today.
His entire body was tired. But something in his father's stance, something in that stare, it pulled him forward.
Kyle exhaled.
Alright then.
He lifted his practice sword into a basic stance, stepped forward,
And swung.
Clack!
Their blades met.
A jolt ran through Kyle's arms as the force of the parry pushed him back slightly. The marquis didn't move an inch, his expression neutral.