"Brother, do not die. Brother, do not leave us," Leila whispered dramatically.
Lancaster groaned. "By the gods, Leila… must you always wake me as if I'm on my deathbed? Can you not shake me like a normal sister?"
"You always look as though you might die any moment," she shot back, hugging the blanket.
He turned over, sighing. "I look tired, not dying. There is a difference."
"Is that so?" Leila asked, her little voice sharp with mock suspicion.
"It is," Lancaster replied, already turning away. "Now let me sleep—ten more minutes." He exhaled, then amended lazily, "No… an hour. Yes, an hour. Now begone."
Leila shook him again. "Brother, Father said I must wake you."
Lancaster groaned, burying his face in the pillow. "Father did? And why, I wonder, does he choose to join in the game of tormenting my sleep?"
"No, silly," Leila replied. "You are turning ten today, remember? Father said he has something to give you."
"Ahhh, damn it," Lancaster groaned, dragging the blanket over his head. "If it truly is my birthday, then all I wish is eight—no, ten—hours of sleep without any of you interrupting it."
"Come on!" Leila cried as she clambered on top of him, shaking him with all her might.
"All right, all right—I'm going!" Lancaster surrendered, groaning. "Now get off me. Go on, out. I need to change my clothes. Tell Father to grant me a few minutes."
Leila hopped off the bed and dashed out, the door closing with a sharp clack.
Lancaster let out a long sigh. Rising, he pulled open the drawer and took up his casual clothes. As he dressed, he caught his reflection in the mirror, studying it with a faint frown.
Bzztt… bztt.
He froze. "Hmm?" Lancaster glanced around, searching for the source of the sound.
As he shut the drawer, a faint voice slipped through the air. [User]
Lancaster stiffened. "Who's there?" He turned toward the windows, yet nothing stirred beyond the glass.
He scratched his head with a groan. "Strange… am I hearing voices from lack of sleep? Or is lack of sleep the very thing driving me mad?"
He stepped out of his room and made his way downstairs. The maids waiting in the hall bowed slightly as he passed.
"Good morning, young lord," they chimed.
"Good morning," Lancaster replied with a small nod.
An old butler approached, walking at his side. "Young lord, the master awaits you outside. Come—I shall escort you there."
"Thank you, Wilfred," Lancaster said with a faint smile. "I appreciate it."
As they stepped into the morning light, Wilfred halted and bowed deeply.
"Young lord—no… forgive me. Young Master Lancaster. I have watched you since your very first steps. To see you reach ten years this day fills this old heart with pride."
The others of the household gathered, bowing and offering their greetings in unison.
Lancaster froze under their gazes, his face warming. "T-thank you, everyone. I truly… appreciate this." He scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. "But you all know I'm not… good at these sorts of things."
"Well then, young master, shall we go to your father?" Wilfred asked, his tone gentle yet proper.
Lancaster gave a small nod. "Yes… let's. Father is surely already growing impatient, waiting for us."
They stepped into the training yard, where the clang of steel rang faintly in the distance.
"This is the fate of a poor noble house," Lancaster muttered as he walked, voice low but sulking. "Managing scraps of land, no celebration, no cakes, no fine gifts. And if they do give me something, it will be another book of nonsense." He sighed, shoulders drooping.
His eyes lifted, thoughtful despite himself. "But the townsfolk still respect us. Not only for Father's strength… it is for how he governs them."
At the far end of the yard, a tall figure waited—broad-shouldered, arms crossed, watching their approach with the weight of command.
Wilfred bowed deeply. "My lord."
Lancaster slowed his steps, biting back another sigh. And there he is… the reason they bow.
"Lancaster Leontius Castellan greets the lord," he said, bowing with careful formality.
My father—Corvathis Ashenvar Lytheron Castellan. The thought dragged across his mind with a sigh. His name is so long it puts mine to shame. This is why I call him 'my lord' or simply 'father.' If I tried to speak it in full each time, I would lose my words before I ever reached the end.
[User Name Registered: Lancaster Leontius Castellan]
Lancaster stilled, his gaze sweeping the hall as if searching for the source.
"Is something amiss, Lancaster?" his father asked, voice calm but firm.
"N-no, Father," he replied quickly. "I only thought I heard… a voice."
"A voice?" Corvathis studied him with a faint narrowing of the eyes.
"Pay no mind to the voice," his father said, motioning to the man at his side. "This is Sir Augustus, a veteran swordsman, famed for the precision of his blade."
He looked to the knight, his tone steady, weighty. "Sir Augustus, I entrust to you my son, Lancaster Leontius Castellan. The boy was not blessed by the gods at birth, yet a father must do what he can. He must be taught to guard his own life—and the land that will, in time, be his to govern."
"Pay it no mind, my lord," Augustus replied with a bow. "I shall do all I can to shape young master Lancaster into a swordsman of worth. Fear not—I will teach him until my final breath."
His gaze shifted toward Wilfred, a faint smile softening his stern features. "After all, it was my little brother's wish. Is that not so, Wilfred?"
Wilfred's face flushed with quiet embarrassment, though he smiled and inclined his head.
Lancaster blinked at the two of them, a thought slipping across his mind. Brothers… these old men are actually brothers?
Augustus studied him carefully. "I see, young master, you carry doubt in your eyes. Then allow me to explain what path I follow, so you might understand what I will teach you. I am not a swordsman of brute force, but a fencer. Do you know what that means, young master?"
[Answer generated. Delivering to user.]
Lancaster's lips moved almost on their own. "A fencer is not measured by strength alone, but by precision, elegance, and control. Unlike those who swing with reckless force, the fencer's art lies in restraint. Each step calculated, each thrust deliberate. No wasted motion, no needless flourish—only strikes that meet their mark with certainty. To fence is to bring order to chaos, to make battle itself a discipline."
Silence followed. His father's brows lifted, Wilfred's eyes widened, and even the seasoned Augustus stood in surprise.
"By the heavens…" Augustus murmured, before turning to the lord. "It seems the young master has already grasped the essence of the path. I daresay he is more prepared than most who come to me."
Lancaster blinked, his throat tightening. What in the world did I just say? Where did that come from? I've never studied fencing… and yet the words poured out of me as though they'd always been mine.
His father glanced at him, the faintest of chuckles escaping his lips. "He is my son, after all," he said, warmth softening the usual gravity of his voice.
Lancaster blinked, staring at him. Father… is smiling? Is he smiling because of me?
[User.]
Lancaster's eyes widened. This time, however, it wasn't just a sound—it was words, clear as ink on parchment, echoing inside his mind. What is this? Who are you? he whispered inwardly.
[An Unknown God will answer only one of your questions.]
[Do you accept?]
A bead of sweat slid down his temple. His stomach twisted—not from fear, but from the absurd timing. "I… I need to pee," he blurted out, forcing a strained smile. "Please excuse me for a moment!"
Before anyone could stop him, Lancaster darted toward the trees, boots kicking up dust as though chased by demons.
Once he had finished, Lancaster pressed a hand to his chest and whispered in his thoughts, Yes… I accept.
[Do not fear.] The voice within him carried both weight and calm. [This presence—you may call it a system—shall be your companion. It will guide you, aid you, and in time reveal its worth. And now, I shall grant you a blessing. Pay no heed to those who call it otherwise. This gift is mine alone—my own creation.]
A sharp bzzt bzzt rippled through his head, like static tearing at the edges of thought.
[My time wanes… survive, Lancaster. Do your best to endure.]
The voice faded, leaving behind only silence, the rustle of leaves, and the wild hammering of Lancaster's heart.
Lancaster's eyes shone, as though some hidden spark had awakened within him.
"Lancaster," his father's voice rang with authority, yet carried a trace of warmth. "Come. Sir Augustus will instruct you in a basic form and a technique."
"At once, Father," Lancaster replied, bowing his head before hastening to their side.
Augustus advanced with measured steps, his presence solemn. "Young master," he began, his tone both respectful and firm, "the technique I shall impart is the simplest of all. For a child blessed by the gods, its mastery would require less than a month. For you…" He paused, his eyes steady upon Lancaster. "Perhaps two. Yet time matters little if the will is unyielding."
"That long?" Lancaster muttered, his lips tightening. "Two months for a single technique?"
Augustus' mouth curved with calm certainty. "For others, a blessing speeds the path. For you, young master, effort must replace what the gods withheld. Yet effort, too, has its own nobility."
Lancaster tilted his head, studying the old swordsman. "…Then show me why it is worth two months."
"Very well." Augustus stepped forward, his boots pressing the earth with deliberate weight. "This art I name Spindle. Watch closely."
He slid his left foot forward, his right stretching behind. His body sank into the stance, the rapier resting against his chest like an arrow poised in silence.
"The lower body bears the strain," Augustus continued, his voice calm, almost instructive. "The torso turns, lending the thrust a spiral. That twist — that spin — is what gives the strike its precision."
In an instant, he moved. His form blurred, rapier flashing forward in a spiraled thrust that seemed to pierce not just the air but the very space before it.
Lancaster blinked, breath caught in his throat. "That… was no mere thrust."
A ghost of a smile touched Augustus' lips. "It will be yours, young master, if you have the patience to endure."
Lancaster's eyes gleamed as the spiral thrust faded into silence. Elegant yet fierce, it lingered in his mind like a painting brought to life.
"I think… I can do it," Lancaster said, gripping a wooden sword with both hands.
Augustus chuckled, folding his arms. "Hah, bold indeed, young master. Watching makes it seem simple, but to perform it? You'll need the strength of your legs, the twist of your torso, and a will sharpened to one point. Miss any of those, and the technique collapses."
"I will try."
Without hesitation, Lancaster set his stance—left foot forward, right stretched behind, blade resting against his chest. He exhaled, spun, and drove the thrust forward. The motion was rougher, less refined, yet unmistakably the same technique Augustus had shown.
The wooden blade cut through the air with a spiraling hiss.
Lancaster froze, staring at his hands. "I… did it? But I only saw it once… how is that possible?"
Augustus's sword slipped from his grasp, clattering against the earth. For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Lord Corvathis and Wilfred both stared, their composure shaken.
"How…?" Augustus's voice trembled, his eyes locked on Lancaster. Then, louder, as though his disbelief demanded the heavens to answer: "How…? HOW!"