CLANG!
CLANG!
CLANG!
My technique may not have been perfect, but this body definitely was. No matter how much punishment I took or how long I kept up this training, it never seemed to stay tired for long.
A body meant to go toe-to-toe with the main character.
CLANG!
I was still on the lowest difficulty, parrying, countering, and attacking whenever I had the chance. Before, I was always losing, but now every match ended in a tie.
I was getting better, albeit at a painfully slow pace.
[Noctierre's Swordstyle: 1.4%]
Even with the talent I had, this was still an irritating slog. This wasn't just any sword style, after all. It was a style meant for the main villain, so of course it wouldn't be easy. Even reaching ten percent would take a while.
CLANG!
"Fuck..."
I laughed, once again ending in a tie, the machine's sword inches from my heart and mine inches from its head.
And this was supposed to be the lowest difficulty...?
Maybe I should invest in a shield. It might make this easier. But Cassian wasn't exactly known for using one. Even in the novel, he described shields as a beginner's tool.
'A shield only slows me down.'
Ridiculous... any modern man would hear that and call him an idiot, and that included me.
This novel's world really didn't care about practicality.
"I can't rely on teachers either. They'd either think I'm insulting them or assume they have nothing to teach me. Even if I managed to convince someone to help... it'd only break my cover."
Why the hell does the original Cassian have to be so perfect?
Well... perfect in every way other than personality. I guess I have that going for me. If I'd arrived even a month later in this world, I probably wouldn't have been able to talk to anyone without them finding an excuse to run off.
"This body's a blessing and a curse..."
I sighed, planting my sword on the ground and using it for support as I rested. This body really was absurd. Even after hours of training, it was only now starting to feel aches, and not the temporary kind either.
Actual hypertrophy.
Albeit, it was definitely minor. You can't exactly make an already strong body even stronger with just a few hours of swordfighting. If anything, this probably just meant I'd be a nanobit stronger than before once I recovered.
[System Hint: {Current Style} incompatible with Noctierre]
"What? What does 'current style' mean? Are my HEMA techniques incompatible with it?"
Even saying it out loud felt absurd. My techniques came from multiple historical sources in my world and had been compiled and researched by experts to determine the most effective methods.
You're telling me Cassian's sword style was even better than that? Either that, or it was the opposite. Or... maybe it relied on unorthodox methods.
All three were possible.
But there wasn't really any way to know. Unless Cassian himself had written his techniques down, I had no idea how to interpret that hint.
"Maybe I should take a break and check my study or the library..."
"Should have definitely told me sooner, system..."
I scratched the back of my head and reached for the towel the same servant from earlier had left behind after the coffee incident.
How thoughtful...
Then again, either she was being thoughtful, or she simply wanted another look. Seeing the same servant deliver me two things in a row was unusual, after all.
Usually, they rotated duties.
"Thoughtful might not be the right word to describe her..."
This body really was unfair.
***
I headed to my study, towel draped lazily over my shoulders, still faintly damp from sweat. The rain hadn't let up; if anything, it had gotten heavier, tapping against the tall windows in a steady rhythm that followed me the entire way.
At least it matched the mood.
The moment I stepped inside, I went straight for the shelves.
If there was anything remotely useful about Cassian's swordsmanship, it had to be here. There was no way someone like him would rely purely on instinct without documenting something, notes, theory, anything.
Right?
I scanned the titles.
Military doctrine. Political strategy. Economic reports. A few historical texts.
Nothing about swordsmanship.
"…Of course."
Why would the perfect final boss bother writing things down? That would imply he needed to learn.
Still, I wasn't about to give up that easily.
I pulled open the desk drawers next.
Empty.
Second drawer.
Sealed letters. Contracts. Nothing useful.
Third...
"…Huh."
This one felt… off.
The moment I slid it open, I noticed the difference immediately. Unlike the others, this one wasn't organized. No neat stacks, no careful placement.
Just a single black notebook.
Plain and unmarked.
That alone made it suspicious.
I picked it up.
"…Come on, give me something good..."