The morning sun spilled across the training hall, casting long shadows over the polished floor. Lancaster sat on the edge of the practice platform, gripping his wooden sword loosely. A sigh escaped him, heavy and unsteady.
"Young master," Augustus's voice broke the quiet, calm yet precise. "This is the face you greet me with on the very morning of your first lesson? What troubles you?"
Lancaster's cheeks burned faintly, and he shifted uncomfortably. "It's… nothing, Master. Or perhaps… everything," he muttered. "I feel… satisfied, yet disappointed at the same time."
Augustus raised an eyebrow, stepping closer, his gaze steady. "Satisfied and disappointed? Such conflicting feelings rarely sit in the chest of one so young. Explain yourself."
Lancaster pressed his lips together, remembering the previous night—the maid, the ridiculous proof, the tension, and his father peeking outside. His mind tumbled over every awkward detail. "It's… complicated. Let's just say… some things went as I expected, and some things… did not."
Augustus's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile, though his eyes remained sharp. "I see. A noble's heart can be burdened by the most unexpected matters. Yet a sword does not care for complication, young master. Only for precision and resolve."
Lancaster groaned softly, brushing a hand over his face. "I wish the sword could care about… less complicated things," he muttered under his breath.
"Then let it care for your hands instead," Augustus said smoothly, tossing a practice blade onto the floor at Lancaster's feet. "Enough musing. Stand, and let your body speak what your mind cannot."
With a reluctant breath, Lancaster straightened, gripping his sword. "Fine. But if I trip or embarrass myself, it's not entirely my fault."
Augustus's calm eyes gleamed faintly. "Collapse only after the lesson is complete, young master. Never before."
They stood opposite one another, the space between them taut as a bowstring. Lancaster adjusted his grip nervously, the wooden sword feeling heavier than steel.
"What… exactly are we going to do again?" he asked, his voice betraying a trace of doubt.
Augustus's gaze never wavered. "If one desires to land many strikes, one must first learn to endure them. Strength is not only in the wrist, young master. It is in the chest, the ribs, the very breath you draw." His tone was steady, almost lecturing, but his stance promised no mercy. "I will not merely teach you the techniques of the sword. I will refine every part of your body until it can withstand the weight of battle itself."
Before Lancaster could reply, Augustus closed the distance in an instant, his wooden blade lashing out like a striking serpent.
Lancaster's eyes went wide. "P–please, be merciful, Master—!"
The rest was lost in a sharp thwack! as the wooden sword drove into his ribs. His feet left the ground, and with an undignified yelp he was launched sideways, tumbling across the hall until he landed flat on his back.
Clutching his side, Lancaster wheezed, "Refined… body, you say. At this rate, I'll be… a corpse before noon."
Augustus strode forward, his expression calm, though his words carried an edge. "Then rise again, young master. A corpse cannot inherit the sword."
Lancaster steadied his stance, blade trembling slightly. He lunged.
Thwack! Augustus's wooden sword snapped against his hand.
"Too stiff," Augustus said flatly. "You wield your arm like a hammer, not a sword."
"Ackk—merciful heavens!" Lancaster hissed, clutching his fingers.
"The arm guides," Augustus pressed, circling him, "but the wrist commands. Loosen it."
Lancaster exhaled through gritted teeth. "Loosen, he says—after nearly shattering my bones."
"Better broken pride than a broken neck," Augustus replied, striking again—this time at Lancaster's ribs.
Lancaster twisted aside, barely dodging. "You intend to kill me before I've even begun?"
"On the contrary," Augustus smirked, "I intend to keep you alive."
"Well then—do not break focus," Augustus warned.
His wooden blade darted forward, a sharp and precise thrust aimed straight for Lancaster's chest.
To Lancaster, the world slowed. His eyes locked on the tip, heart pounding as if time itself bent to the strike. Then—
Thwack!
The blow landed. Lancaster staggered backward, but the force was lighter this time, almost measured.
Augustus lowered his sword, eyes narrowing in thought. Such fast adaptation… he nearly blocked it. I pulled back strength and speed to spare him, yet he was closer than expected.
A rare smile touched his lips. Forget two months—no. I shall carve every lesson I possess into him. Within one month, I will etch sword and discipline into every fiber of this young lord's body.
"Ahahaha!" Augustus's laughter thundered through the hall.
"What's gotten into that old man?" Lancaster muttered between clenched teeth—only for another thwack to smack against his waist, the sting jolting him upright.
"You're stiff as stone, young lord!" Augustus barked, his wooden blade already pulling back.
Lancaster swung desperately, but struck nothing—only the ghost of an afterimage.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The blows rained down in merciless rhythm.
"Your back, exposed again!" Augustus laughed, his voice both mocking and instructive.
Lancaster steadied his breath, hand pressed to the sting along his back. Is he truly driven to hone me into a swordsman… or does he simply take delight in striking me?
In a blur, Augustus appeared behind him, wooden blade poised.
"Your back is laid bare again, young master," he intoned, voice sharp as the strike that followed.
Lancaster's mind raced. How did he move before… yes—like this.
He twisted, driving his sword forward in a thrust, clean and precise.
"I exposed my back because I knew you'd strike there!" he countered, breath tight but resolute.
Augustus deflected without strain, his lips curling in faint amusement.
"And I knew you would attempt that gambit. So I obliged you, young master—stepping neatly into your trap."
Two swift thwacks cracked against Lancaster's stomach and chest.
He staggered, clutching at the sting, while Augustus lowered his blade, tone calm but edged.
"Deception must be hidden within truth, Lancaster. Yours bleeds through like ink on parchment."
"I don't even know what that means," Lancaster muttered, staggering back a step. His grip trembled, but he lifted his wooden blade again, forcing himself to stand tall.
Augustus tilted his head, watching with keen eyes. "Young master, if your body falters, we can bring this lesson to a close. You have endured enough for a first day."
Lancaster shook his head, catching his breath, determination hardening in his gaze. "No, master. You told me—if one seeks to land many blows, one must first endure many strikes. I will not stop here."
For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the sound of Lancaster's breathing. Then Augustus gave a faint smile, rare and approving.
"Indeed," he said quietly. "Then show me, young lord. Prove that your resolve is not mere words."
"Here I come, young master," Augustus warned as he closed the distance.
The clash came sharp and sudden—thwack—their wooden blades locking in the center. Another strike followed, thwack, the two pushing against each other, muscles straining.
"I'll be frank," Lancaster admitted through gritted teeth, "I don't have the stamina to keep this up. My body's already failing after the three blows earlier."
Their swords crossed again with a jarring crack, forcing Lancaster back a step.
"Yet you still choose to stand," Augustus said, pressing forward. His voice carried the weight of command, but also the trace of approval. "Remember this, young master: a man without divine blessing must labor twice as hard merely to reach the starting line. Twice, however, is but an illusion."
Lancaster's arms trembled under the force, sweat dripping down his brow. "Then what must I aim for?"
"Not double," Augustus muttered, his eyes sharp as steel. "A hundredfold. Only then will you not stand among them—you will surpass them."
"You've always had sharp eyes, have you not, young master?" Augustus asked, circling with his wooden blade raised.
"I… suppose so?" Lancaster muttered, bracing himself.
"Then learn not only by ear, but by sight. Watch closely."
A sudden thwack echoed as Augustus struck. Lancaster managed to block, but the sheer force pushed him stumbling back.
"What is the first lesson I ought to teach you?" Augustus asked again, his tone calm amidst the storm.
"The thrust technique," Lancaster panted. "Called the spindle."
"Precisely." Augustus's eyes gleamed. "And you gleaned its essence in less than a minute—merely by glancing. That is not ordinary, young master."
Thwack. Thwack.
Two more strikes slammed against Lancaster's ribs and neck. He staggered. "Ackk! Then what do you mean, Master?"
"I mean," Augustus pressed on, "you have been gifted with a rare pair of eyes. You see cleanly, deeply—and so you shall learn what few are ever shown."
He raised his blade, tone sharpening. "Brace yourself. Today, I introduce you to something new."
Lancaster tensed, heart pounding.
"I call this technique…" Augustus spun with blinding speed—so fast Lancaster caught only a fleeting glimpse of his master's back—
"Huh—?"
Before he could react, an immense force struck, flinging him across the hall. He hit the ground with a groan, body trembling, vision swimming.
As he forced himself upright, his gaze landed on the spot where he had stood only moments before: the floor was scarred, a deep slash carved clean across the stone.
Augustus lowered his weapon, his voice steady. "I call this technique Trivaceris."