"Fool."
Many students wore looks of amusement as Sean prepared to cross blades with the Crimson Lady Sera. Benson, in particular, let his disdain show openly.
The Crimson Lady—renowned throughout the kingdom as a great knight! And this wretch, on the brink of expulsion, dared raise a sword against her? Clearly, his final days at the Academy would be spent as the laughingstock of all.
"A pity…"
By contrast, Titus Kirk's face held a trace of regret. A moment's hesitation had cost him the chance to spar with the famed Lady Sera. Watching Sean seize the opportunity, he found himself—strangely—envying him.
"Sean?!"
Moll's face reflected worry. Since yesterday's injury, he had sensed some change in Sean—though he could not put it into words. Only now did he understand. The Sean of before would never have stepped forth like this, not beneath so many eyes.
Was it Benson's beating that awakened this boldness?
Clang!
Sean drew his sword. The blade flashed like a stroke of silver lightning, dazzling in the morning sun.
The thoughts of the onlookers were nothing to him. Breath steadying, he launched the opening form of the Silverfrost Knight Sword Art—"Silver Frost Reflects the Snow."
Swish!
The strike flowed from him smooth as waterborne driftwood, effortless, natural.
It was not a moment of brilliance—it was simple, true expression.
This was the body's most practiced form, the one the former Sean had wielded with greatest ease. Now, though Sean was a newcomer, the muscle memory guided him surely.
That boy may have lacked knightly aptitude, but his swordsmanship talent was real, and his diligence had carried him far. In mastery of the Silverfrost style, he had ranked among the foremost of his year.
"Who is this boy? To wield the blade so?"
Teachers and perceptive students alike murmured in surprise, taken aback by the precision of Sean's strike.
Even Sera herself blinked in mild astonishment. Weak though he was, his swordplay bore refinement—no fruit of idleness. Without years of toil, such execution would be impossible.
Clang!
Sera smiled faintly, then drew her own sword. With the same form—"Silver Frost Reflects the Snow."
The Silverfrost Sword Art was taught to all Neo Academy students; once, she too had trained in it, though she later set it aside for more advanced techniques. Yet years of discipline had branded it into her very bones.
Ring!
Steel kissed steel with a clear note.
A ripple of laughter swept the students.
Same form, yes—but from her hand, the strike's force would surely hurl Sean away. None doubted it.
"Truly overestimating himself—"
Benson sneered, but the last word stuck in his throat.
The clash did not end in Sean's defeat. Instead, blades rebounded and split apart, only to cross again.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
One after another, forms of the Silverfrost style unfurled. The two blades danced, colliding again and again, like equals locked in contest.
"Impossible…"
Benson's jaw fell open. Had he not seen with his own eyes, he would have sworn Sean faced some lower-class student, not the Crimson Lady herself.
The other students shared his disbelief. Only the six instructors—and a handful of noble youths from deep-rooted houses—began to understand.
"What sight, what control…"
One teacher wiped cold sweat from his brow, awe in his eyes.
Even knowing his students' strengths intimately, he could never have mirrored them so perfectly on the spot. Yet Sera did so effortlessly.
"She matches him stroke for stroke, drawing him forth by nothing but perception. Unbelievable…"
The director's own face glistened with sweat.
For in that moment, Sera was as another Sean—same strength, same speed, same every motion.
So strong.
Yet none felt the shock more keenly than Sean himself.
The others saw only matched blades. He felt the truth—that his sword art was changing beneath her hand.
Yes, changing.
In combat, his understanding of the Silverfrost style deepened. Guided by her subtle control, his strikes grew smoother, sharper. Her mastery was terrifying—able not only to hold her own sword, but to shape his.
Even if he failed to seize her knightly aptitude today, this bout alone would save him months of struggle.
Now, at last, he understood her words: Only in battle can its essence be found. For only in battle do flaws reveal themselves—magnified, undeniable.
And in truth, not even true battle could achieve this. The miracle lay in her deliberate guidance.
Clang, clang, clang!
After a flurry of exchanges, they both stepped back.
Sean bowed deeply, in the manner drilled into his body's memory. Though he had not copied her gift, gratitude filled him—this fight had given him much.
"Your swordsmanship is fine," Sera said, her blue eyes warm with approval. "I see the mark of hard training."
"Thank you, my lady."
Sean spoke with courtesy, though inwardly a pang of disappointment stirred.
It seems there is no hope of copying her aptitude after all.
Yet even as the thought crossed him, Sera said:
"Raise your arms."
"…What? Yes, my lady."
Puzzled, he obeyed, lifting both arms level. Surely she meant no harm.
A sudden pain shot through him. Sera grasped his arms, applied the slightest force—crack, crack!—and his joints popped like beans spilling in a pan. Something like fire coursed through his limbs, slicing as it went.
And then—
[Name: Sera]
[Knightly Aptitude: High]
[Swordsmanship Aptitude: Intermediate]
The words blazed across his vision.
Pain and joy mingled in him. He had all but abandoned hope, yet fortune had turned—Lady Sera's gifts now within his grasp.
Both shone before him.
High knightly aptitude—a rarity indeed. In his former world, such brilliance was almost never seen; those who bore it were destined for greatness.
And her swordsmanship aptitude, already at the intermediate rank, far surpassed his meager novice's. To copy it would be to trade a musket for a cannon.