The beatings didn't stop until dinnertime.
"Ugh…my whole body feels like it's on fire."
I can't even lift my spoon…it's as if every muscle is screaming in pain.
"Eat quickly and get some rest. And, Haesa…that is, don't leave this building after nine."
"Huh? Where are you headed, Meursault?"
"I'm going out for combat. If anything happens, Otis will stay behind—find her if you need help."
Combat? Right, we're at odds with the Black Cloud Society, and they've even hired trackers. No wonder they only move under cover of night.
"Alright. Take care, Meursault."
"You too."
"W-will we ever have to go out there, too?"
"Probably. After all, we're the Sword Sect."
If all they do is feed us and put us to bed, this place might as well be a shelter.
"What, are you scared?"
"…Aren't you?"
Of course I'm scared—one wrong slash and you cross the Styx.
"The scarier it is, the tighter you grip your blade. Either you kill it, or it kills you."
"That's the spirit, rookie."
"How long will you keep calling me rookie? I call you Otis, you know."
"You'll stay rookie until you prove otherwise."
"When will that be?"
"Up to you. Now finish your meal and get to bed."
"Okay, let's go. Sinclair."
"Le-let's go! Good night, Otis."
Hmmm…that attack pattern…
They called it breathing, right? If I can grasp just that, could I use it too?
Sword technique…that had to be what Faust's library mentioned.
"Ugh. Faust's out right now, isn't he?"
Then I'll just check the book quickly. A moment shouldn't matter.
With the glossary Faust gave me in hand, I slipped into the library. To my surprise, the door wasn't even locked.
"Let's see…was it this book?"
Faust said the Sword Sect's varied origins and styles left records in many languages.
"Breathing…breathing…is this it?"
Watching a person inhale and exhale, it seemed to fit.
"Breathing is the foundation of a swordsman's stance."
If your breath falters, your posture collapses; if it quickens, your vision narrows. A swordsman's most critical asset is a broad field of view. To respond to attacks from any direction and anticipate the opponent's next move, you must remain composed. That composure is built on—
"Breathing…"
I see. Breathing underpins everything—not just swordplay, but predicting the next step, countering strikes from blind spots. It's the basis for countless techniques.
"The blade is…a vessel…for containing something—"
What it contains determines whether it cuts, stabs, or strikes. We define that as containing the self, the [E.G.O].
"Containing the self? So that blue and orange glow was the self?"
So it isn't Arts but a technique—a method of channeling oneself.
"How exactly do you do that?"
The most important part…I can't read it.
"If you don't have teeth, you chew with your gums. Any other books?"
Faust wouldn't need a glossary to translate everything, so if he gave me a child's glossary, there must be an intermediate one somewhere.
"Oh—here it is!"
An intermediate glossary…and more.
"I've still got a long way to go. Just a bit more reading."
I kept studying like that…until I simply fell asleep.
"Everyone, get inside and rest."
"The Black Cloud Society is spreading more than ever these days. It's a serious worry."
At the break of dawn, as the sun prepared to light the world again, Sword Sect members returned from battle and went to their rooms.
"Huh? Why are the kids' shoes in the library?"
Faust should be here—no shoes belonging to him. What are these tiny boots doing here?
—creak—
"There you are!"
"Shh—they look asleep. But why here instead of their room?"
"It must be…because of the book."
"A book? You mean swordsmanship?"
What reason would that small child have to crave a book? Have they infiltrated as spies for the Black Cloud Society, or plan to sell our techniques?
"Look here. It seems to be because of you, Meursault."
"I will win, Meursault."
The single goal written small above the glossary. Neat handwriting for a child.
"Seems they've developed a sense of rivalry toward you."
"Hmm…this time I'll let it slide. Take them back to their room and call it a day."
"Wake up, rookie! Overslept again?"
"Ugh! Where—? My room?"
"Where else? Sinclair's already left for the training grounds!"
"What? You traitor!"
"Save the traitor act for later, you slug!"
"Ugh…ugh…I'm being child-abused here…"
It's hard enough just climbing up here, and now you want me to haul Don Quixote on my back?
"Was it really heavy?"
"Yes. How many kilos is he—AAAH!"
"It's rude to ask a lady her weight!"
"What do you want me to do—AAAGH!!!"
My head! My hair! My white-and-black hair!!
"Enough jokes. Resume breathing training."
"Again? Damn…fine, I'll do it!"
"You've broken it again! [Correction Fist]!!"
"TWAAAAH!!"
And so they beat the crap out of me.