The days slipped by uneventfully. Roland's routine never wavered—summon a few clones, train his mana control, experiment with spells, harden his body, and expand his capacity.
Nearly a year passed in this steady rhythm, and before he knew it, his third birthday loomed.
Inside the 3rd prince's chambers, a boy—larger than most toddlers—stood practicing. A small stone hovered before him. He crushed it into dust, then reformed it, only to crush it again. Over and over.
Tomorrow's my third birthday… already? That's insane. This last year flew by. But when I look at how far I've come, yeah—time definitely left its mark.
A firm voice called through the door. "Roland, are you there?"
"Yes, Father. I'm here," Roland answered, hurrying to open it.
Arthur, towering and stern, stepped inside. "I don't have much time, so I'll be direct," he said without pause. His tone left no space for objections. "Since you're turning three, it's time to begin your training."
"Father, I've already been training. My blessing, my magic—it's been a full year."
"Yes, I know. But mana veins and spellwork aren't enough. Your body needs reinforcement. And you must learn the sword. That, however, can wait two days. Find yourself a wooden blade—or something light like a dagger. Ask the guard outside, Noah, for pointers. He'll get you started."
Arthur's chin was high, gaze steady, as if every word was a decree carved in stone.
"Yes, Father. I will. Thank you for the guidance." Roland bowed slightly.
What kind of painful training am I walking into if he's actually giving me a warning? Pops never gives warnings.
Arthur nodded. "Then I'll take my leave. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Have a good day, Father."
"And you as well," Arthur replied, closing the door with slow finality.
Well… guess it's time to see what Mr. Guard knows about swords.
"Noah! Come in, please."
The door creaked open. A broad-shouldered man with cropped brown hair and dark eyes entered.
"You called, Sir?"
"Yes. Father told me to ask you for pointers with swordsmanship. Or just weapons in general."
Noah shook his head slightly. "I specialize in the sword. I know a little archery from my father, but that's about it. I apologize I can't offer more, Sir."
"No, that's fine. Could we go down to the training grounds?"
Noah gave no verbal reply, only a nod and small bow. He gripped the silver door handle, turned it, and pushed the wooden door open.
Roland hurried forward, little legs pattering quickly on the stone, while Noah followed, carefully matching his pace. The corridors stretched wide, decorated with statues and gilded paintings, walls of solid carved stone. Roland's footsteps echoed louder than they should have. Maids darted past, giving only sidelong glances to the prince but never daring to meet his eyes.
Man, I love being royalty. You just don't get this kind of treatment on Earth. Still… which way's the training ground? I've barely ever left my room. Actually… I've never been outside this damn castle.
"Noah?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"Can you lead me? I've never been."
"Of course, Sir."
And so they walked—Noah calm and steady, Roland scurrying at his side.
This is awkward… never actually talked with him properly. Eh. Why should I? I'm a prince, he's just a guard. Roland puffed his chest out and deepened his inner voice like some pompous noble.
He glanced up at Noah. The guard's eyes shifted left and right, his hand resting on the hilt at his side. Occasionally, though, his gaze lingered a moment too long on passing maids, attendants, or even armored female knights.
Oh ho. I can bully him.
"Noah, how old are you?"
"Twenty-seven, Sir."
"Do you have a wife?"
"N-no, Sir."
"But aren't men your age usually married?"
"Well… yes. But I've devoted myself to the sword. To serving the royal family."
"I see, I see. And what about the ladies you keep staring at?" Roland asked, lips curling. "Anyone caught your fancy?"
"Uh—no, Sir! N-not at all."
Before Roland could push further, a massive metallic double door appeared ahead, painted silver and engraved with faint designs. Noah quickly strode forward, pushed it open, and a gust of air spilled out—thick with the tang of steel and the earthy freshness of trampled grass.
"These are the training grounds," Noah announced, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Relief flickered across his face—whether from escaping the questions or something else, Roland couldn't tell.
Inside, racks of weapons lined the walls. Sunlight spilled across the packed dirt floor through high slits in the stone.
"Choose whichever wooden sword feels right to you—longsword, shortsword, even a greatsword. We'll handle bows another day." Noah's voice carried pride now, his chest swelling slightly. "I'm truly honored to train you, Sir Roland. The sword is my passion."
Roland wandered to the pile of wooden blades. He grabbed a short sword—though to his small frame, it was the size of his entire body. He hefted it without the slightest wobble.
"Good choice," Noah said, eyes widening faintly. "Now, listen well. There are three primary paths of swordsmanship: the heavy sword, the swift sword, and the elemental sword. Many branches exist, but these are the roots.
I walk the path of the swift sword. His Majesty Arthur wields the elemental sword. And the leader of the Royal Guard, Sir Lancelot, is a master of the heavy sword."
"Is it possible to wield all three?" Roland asked, utterly absorbed.
"In theory, yes. In practice? Only legends have ever done so. Still, many great swordsmen have mastered two."
Roland's grip tightened around his wooden blade.
"Today, though, we'll stick to basics. With a sword that size, you'll use two hands. Right hand above, left hand below. Your left guides, your right provides strength and control."
Roland adjusted his grip. Left leg forward, blade raised in front of his body.
"Excellent stance, Sir Roland," Noah remarked. "Now—lift the sword above your head, then bring it down. But loosen your grip. Look—your knuckles are white. If you choke the handle, you'll shatter your wrist. Let the weight flow through you. A relaxed grip spreads the impact."
"Got it!" Roland replied instantly.
"Then swing."
Roland raised the wooden sword overhead, loosened his fingers, softened his wrist, and let it fall. The blade whistled as it cut the air, stopping neatly at his waist.
Before Noah could speak, Roland had already raised it again. Whistle—down. Again. Again. Up, down, up, down, each swing smoother than the last.
The sound grew sharper, the motion more fluid. The wooden edge sang through the air, erasing flaws with every repetition. Whistle. Whistle. Whistle.
A thrill surged in Roland's chest. Heat crawled through his veins. His pulse pounded in his ears.
This feels… incredible. I don't know why—but I want to cut something. Something alive. I want to kill with this sword.