The Way of KnightChapter 12 – The Father's Legacy
The morning sun filtered through the narrow window of the Eisenwald household, illuminating the modest room that held nothing more than a bed, an old wooden table, and a rack filled with weathered books. Fenrir awoke earlier than usual. His body felt heavy, but his mind brimmed with new determination.
The creaking of the door made him turn his head. At the doorway stood his father, Baron Cedric Eisenwald. His body was still wrapped in bandages, his face pale, yet his eyes remained sharp.
"You're up earlier than usual," Cedric said, his voice raspy but firm.
Fenrir bowed his head. "Good morning, Father. I couldn't sleep well… too many thoughts in my head."
Cedric entered slowly, leaning on a simple wooden cane. Each step was heavy, but his presence carried the weight of authority.
"If that's the case, then perhaps it's time I teach you something I've delayed for too long."
Fenrir perked up. "What do you mean, Father?"
Cedric's eyes flicked toward the sword leaning against the wall. "The Eisenwald inheritance. Not wealth, not land. Survival skills that have kept our family alive for generations. It's time you learned the way of the sword."
The small backyard of the Eisenwald estate became the stage of their training. The morning air was crisp, dew still clinging to the grass. Fenrir stood with a wooden sword in hand, while Cedric sat on a chair nearby, watching with an intensity that demanded respect.
"Fenrir," Cedric's voice carried weight, "you may have a sharp mind, but a mind alone is not enough. A leader must also know how to fight. Soldiers will not respect a lord who only hides behind walls."
Fenrir nodded firmly. "I understand."
From a distance, Geralt and several village youths observed curiously. They whispered among themselves, eager to see their young lord—usually preoccupied with strategy—hold a sword in earnest.
Cedric gestured. "Show me your stance."
Fenrir raised the wooden sword, mimicking what he had seen in films and read in books during his past life. Knees bent slightly, hands steady, gaze focused.
But Cedric only sighed. "That's an actor's pose, not a warrior's. Efficiency matters here, not appearances."
He then corrected Fenrir's posture detail by detail. Knees more flexible, center of gravity lower, shoulders relaxed, sword raised in a ready position for a strike, not for show. Fenrir adjusted gradually until his father finally nodded.
"Better. Now, attack me."
Fenrir froze. "Father… in your condition—"
"I can still wield this cane," Cedric lifted the long stick. "Don't underestimate me, boy. This body has felled more men than you can count."
Fenrir drew a deep breath. Very well, then.
Fenrir lunged forward, swinging his wooden sword from the right. Cedric blocked with the cane, pivoted smoothly, and pushed Fenrir back.
"Your strike has strength, but no balance," Cedric remarked. "You rushed it."
Fenrir gritted his teeth and attacked again, this time with a straight thrust. Cedric angled his cane, deflecting the blow, and tapped Fenrir's shoulder with its tip.
"If this were real steel, you'd be dead."
The watching villagers held their breath. Fenrir rubbed his shoulder, his face flushed. Yet rather than despair, his eyes burned even brighter.
This isn't just a duel. It's a test. If I fail to grasp Father's lesson, I'll never become a true leader.
He charged again, this time holding back his power, studying distance, waiting for an opening.
"Better," Cedric acknowledged, deflecting with more effort. "You learn quickly. Remember, the sword is not just a tool to kill. It is an extension of yourself."
The sound of wood striking wood echoed through the courtyard. Fenrir's breath grew ragged, but each time he fell, he rose again. Cedric tested not just skill, but stamina and resolve.
As the duel dragged on, Fenrir felt something different. His breathing steadied, his focus sharpened. A warm current flowed within him, gathering in his arms.
When he swung the wooden sword again, it quivered faintly, as though an unseen power coursed through it. Cedric narrowed his eyes, parrying harder than before.
"…Aura," Cedric muttered, surprise flickering in his voice.
Fenrir himself was startled, but quickly realized: This must be the system's influence. I can barely control it, but it feels real.
Cedric regarded his son with a mix of pride and solemnity. "You've already awakened basic aura… Fenrir, perhaps fate truly has a different path in store for you."
After nearly an hour, Fenrir collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat. Cedric, though seated, looked satisfied.
"Enough for today. Sword training isn't about a day or two. It's a lifelong journey."
Fenrir bowed his head deeply. "Thank you, Father. I won't waste this lesson."
Cedric's gaze grew heavy, and he spoke with quiet conviction:
"Fenrir, remember this well. A sword is only a tool. What makes it sharp is your purpose. If your purpose is only to protect yourself, your blade will dull. But if it is to protect others… your sword will pierce anything."
Fenrir felt a resonance deep in his heart. These words weren't mere advice—they were the true legacy Cedric intended to pass down.
The day ended with Fenrir training until his body nearly gave out. But before nightfall, a courier arrived at the village gates. He bore a blue banner marked with a golden lion—the crest of Marquis Helbrecht.
The courier presented a sealed scroll. Cedric broke it open and his eyes hardened as he read.
"An official summons," he murmured. "Marquis Helbrecht demands our presence at his estate. He wants to meet you, Fenrir."
Fenrir froze. A mix of tension and anticipation swelled within him. So this is the beginning of noble politics…
Cedric looked at his son gravely. "You must be careful. The world of nobles is more dangerous than any battlefield. A sword can be predicted. Intrigue cannot."
Fenrir clenched his fist. "I understand, Father. But if I truly want to climb to the top… I cannot avoid it."
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