Chapter 3
The day Paul placed a wooden sword in Rudeus's hands—
Everything changed.
"Well then, Rudy," Paul grinned, crouching down, "let's see what you can do."
To Paul, it was harmless.
A game.
A father bonding with his son.
To Rudeus—
It was data.
He held the wooden blade awkwardly.
Too small.
Too light.
Too inefficient.
But his eyes—
Sharp.
Focused.
Observing.
Paul moved first.
A slow swing.
Deliberate.
Measured.
Rudeus watched.
Every detail.
Foot placement.
Weight shift.
Shoulder rotation.
Grip tension.
"…I see."
When Paul stopped—
Rudeus moved.
Clumsy.
Unrefined.
But—
Accurate.
Paul blinked.
"…Huh?"
The angle was wrong.
The force was weak.
But the form—
"…That looked like—"
Rudeus swung again.
And again.
And again.
Not randomly.
He was recreating it.
Without Touki.
Without strength.
Without understanding the "why"—
But perfectly mimicking the "how."
That night—
His training changed.
No longer just breaking his body.
Now—
He was refining it.
Every swing tore muscle fibers apart.
Every repetition pushed him further.
Every mistake corrected instantly.
And every night—
He healed.
Mana drained.
Body rebuilt.
Stronger.
Sharper.
Closer.
"I don't need Touki…"
Even as a child—
He reached a conclusion most warriors never would.
"If I can control my body perfectly…"
His grip tightened.
His muscles tensed.
"…then I can recreate everything."
And in the darkness of his room—
Swing after swing—
Rudeus Greyrat began forging a path beyond swordsmanship itself.