"Hold the sword with both hands. That is the most basic form of respect one can offer an opponent."
By the stream near the Uchiha compound, Artoria stood quietly before Uchiha Itachi, her tone calm yet firm.
"Straighten your back," she instructed. "Let your spine become a sword itself — its edge facing both outward and inward. Every strike you make with a blade cuts not only your enemy, but also yourself. Whether that impact brings growth or destruction depends entirely on the conviction within your heart."
She took a step forward, her golden hair swaying slightly in the breeze.
"A sword must not be too sharp — for excessive sharpness leads to fragility."
"But it mustn't be dull either — especially not the tip. A dull blade is a sword that's forgotten its purpose."
"The fundamentals of swordsmanship lie in these three truths: swing with steadiness, thrust with speed, and draw with decisiveness."
Holding an iron sword nearly as tall as himself, Itachi executed a clean downward slash.
Then, one by one, he replicated every basic technique that had been passed into his mind through Artoria's telepathic teaching.
Thrust. Point. Twist. Slash. Sweep. Cut. Lift. Parry.
Each motion was measured, precise, and eerily identical to her own.
Artoria watched without a word. The astonishment that had once filled her eyes was gone — replaced by solemn recognition.
It had been half a month since she began teaching him. And in that time, Itachi's progress had exceeded even her boldest expectations.
Through their shared link, she could directly transmit her memories, thoughts, and experiences into his consciousness. Yet what he accomplished went far beyond mere memory transfer.
She now understood the truth of his words back at the yakiniku restaurant:
"As long as I focus earnestly, learning and comprehension come easily."
Itachi could truly learn anything after seeing it just once.
Whether theory or practice, technique or control — he absorbed everything with unnatural ease.
Artoria knew that the Uchiha's Sharingan possessed the power to perceive and replicate others' movements. But Itachi's eyes had not awakened yet — not even to the one-tomoe stage, let alone two.
That meant what he displayed now was pure talent, not bloodline.
Even Artoria — once hailed as the greatest knight of her age — could not claim such mastery. When she had trained, it took her repeated practice to truly perfect a single motion.
But Itachi? He replicated every swing one to one — sometimes even refining it beyond her own form.
--
"So this is the foundation of swordsmanship," Itachi said at last, lowering his blade. "I understand it now."
His gaze lifted toward Artoria, who stood in dignified silence across the stream.
"Then next… I should begin studying advanced sword techniques, shouldn't I?"
"I can already feel my body catching up to the level of an average shinobi. Even without relying on taijutsu or chakra, I can match an adult in physical endurance and strength."
His tone was modest, but his progress was undeniable.
Half a month of training had already transformed him.
If two weeks ago a single punch from an ordinary adult could have floored him instantly, now he could take the hit and remain standing — relying solely on his physical body, not chakra reinforcement.
"Not yet."
Artoria shook her head gently, her voice calm but resolute.
"Physical refinement is a process of accumulation. Talent plays a role, yes, but time and perseverance matter far more."
To be honest, she had once confidently believed that within three months he could reach the threshold for advanced swordsmanship.
But now… she no longer dared to measure his progress by time.
Itachi's pace defied logic — faster than any natural growth should allow.
Ultimately, she explained, the true qualification for advanced swordsmanship was simple yet daunting:
"To endure the strike of magic itself with your body alone."
In her world, that meant resisting elemental sorcery without armor.
In this world, the standard translated easily: to withstand a jutsu barehanded.
...
After a moment of reflection, Itachi nodded solemnly.
"So that's the level of a Knight of the Round Table… a candidate who can stand before sorcery unyielding."
By that measure, he knew he still had far to go.
Artoria's mention of advanced swordsmanship stirred his curiosity. Even without her explicit instruction, he could already review her memories directly. But nowhere in those recollections did she define what high-level swordsmanship truly entailed.
Now that she had clarified it, he understood.
To be unbroken — body and will both — before any force of the world.
"Today, we'll stop with the basics," Artoria said after a pause. "You should remember — your father mentioned something important. Today, you're to visit the Memorial Stone. Have you forgotten?"
"The Memorial Stone…"
Itachi's eyes widened as the realization struck him.
He had been so consumed by training and learning that he'd nearly forgotten.
"Now that you mention it…" he murmured. "The western front has settled, hasn't it?"
He recalled his father's recent conversation during dinner:
The Uchiha squad had just returned to the village when Iwagakure's Taiseki led a thousand elite troops across the Kannabi Bridge, launching an invasion of the Land of Fire.
But the village's famed "Yellow Flash" — Namikaze Minato — had rushed to reinforce the front.
Their clash turned the bridge itself into a battlefield.
In the end, Minato and his team destroyed the Kannabi Bridge, effectively ending the war on the western front.
"Then we'd better hurry home."
Sheathing his iron sword into its rough scabbard, Itachi started running back toward the compound.
The Memorial Stone was a solemn occasion — one not to be taken lightly.
If he arrived late, his father would surely scold him.
Along the way, he noticed more and more villagers dressed in black mourning robes, all walking toward the same destination.
The sight urged him to quicken his pace.
---
When he finally reached home, his father Fugaku was already waiting at the door, expression stern, dressed in a formal black kimono.
His mother, Mikoto, stood beside him, still in her casual house clothes rather than mourning attire.
The moment she saw Itachi holding the heavy iron sword, she hurried forward.
"Quickly, go change into your formal clothes — everyone's waiting for you."
Accepting the folded garments from her hands, Itachi hesitated for a moment.
"Mother… aren't you coming with us?"
Fugaku answered for her, voice clipped and serious.
"Your mother isn't feeling well. We'll handle the memorial this time."
"Not feeling well…?"
A flicker of worry crossed Itachi's heart.
Even as he turned to change, his hand lingered on the black mourning cloth — a reminder of those who had fallen, and of the fragile warmth still left at home.