Chapter 21

The next day, Ludger found himself in the yard again, a wooden sword in hand. His swings cut clean arcs through the air as Arslan barked corrections from the sidelines. When the drill ended and the others drifted off, Ludger rested the blade on his shoulder and glanced at Arslan, who was leaning lazily against the fence.

“Father,” Ludger said, tone deceptively casual. “That technique Viola used yesterday—what was it?”

Arslan straightened a little, stroking his chin as though buying time. His eyes darted once toward Elaine’s window before settling back on Ludger. For a moment, he looked like a man weighing whether or not to drop a stone into a still pond.

Finally, he sighed. “It’s a technique that burns mana to enhance the body. Strength, speed, even endurance for a short time. It’s dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing, but in the right hands… it can change a fight entirely.”

Ludger tightened his grip on the wooden sword, remembering the way the shock of Viola’s strike had rattled his whole body.

So that’s what it was.

Arslan rubbed the back of his neck, his expression awkward. “I taught Viola because she showed the talent for it. She’s smart, and her mana control was already decent for her age. But you—” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “I wanted to wait. Give you a few more years, let you show some real interest in sword training first. It’s not a trick for a child to play with.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed slightly. So his father had thought him unready, but Viola—stubborn, reckless Viola—had been trusted with the technique already.

Selene, overhearing, let out a low snort. “Figures. Hand the dangerous trick to the hot-headed one and keep it from the boy who actually thinks before he swings.”

Arslan winced, scratching at his cheek. “She insisted,” he muttered. “And, well… I thought it might keep her focused.”

Ludger said nothing at first, lowering the wooden sword to his side. But inwardly, his thoughts turned sharp.

Mana burning… if she can already use that, then I’ll need something of my own. Something better. I can’t let myself fall behind—not to her, and not to kids.

Ludger’s mind had already shifted elsewhere. His mother’s anger was justified, his father’s excuses predictable—but none of that mattered compared to the thought gnawing at the edges of his mind.

Mana burning…

It wasn’t tied to a specific class, at least not one the System had acknowledged. That meant if he learned it, the blue windows wouldn’t pop up to congratulate him. No new levels, no skill notifications, no numbers ticking upward. Just him and his own effort.

Ludger’s fingers flexed around the wooden sword before he let it drop to his side. The System was useful—no, indispensable. It gave him shortcuts, tools, and progress at a pace no ordinary child could dream of. But if he leaned on it for everything, then what was left of him? What part of his strength would ever truly belong to him, rather than to the Paths someone else had laid down?

He wanted more than that. Needed more.

If I can learn this without the System’s hand-holding… if I can make it mine, improve it my own way… then maybe I’ll prove something to myself. That I’m not just walking the lines it feeds me. That I can create my own.

The thought brought the faintest curl to his lips. A small indulgence of pride, of ego. He didn’t often allow himself that, but this was different. This was the kind of challenge that reminded him he was alive, that this second life could still be his to shape.

He lifted his gaze back to the courtyard, where his mother’s voice still lashed at Arslan. For once, he felt no urge to step between them. Let them argue. He had his own plans now.

And if he succeeded… then the System wouldn’t be the only thing defining his strength.

That night, when the house had gone quiet and the only sound was the steady chirp of crickets outside, Ludger lay awake on his bed. His hands rested on his stomach, his eyes fixed on the ceiling beams, but his focus was turned inward.

He called to his mana—not for a spell, not for [Create Water] or [Mana Bolt], but simply to move. To stir.

The energy responded sluggishly at first, as though confused without a command. He coaxed it carefully, guiding it toward his arms, his chest, his legs. No glowing text appeared to instruct him, no skill window blinked into existence. Just the faint hum of power pressing faintly against his veins.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t efficient. But it was his.

A spark of satisfaction flickered in his chest.

If Viola could manage it, so can I. But without clues… this will take time.

The effort left him sweating, his small body trembling slightly as he finally released the energy, letting it flow back into stillness. His heartbeat slowed, and exhaustion pulled at his eyelids.

Two months slipped by, and the days bled into a steady rhythm of training, cooking, and study. When Ludger’s sixth birthday came, it passed with little fanfare—Elaine baked him a cake, Arslan boasted loudly about how “his boy was already growing faster than anyone else,” and his companions offered small gifts.

But for Ludger, the true celebration was something else entirely.

Every night, after the house quieted, he returned to his secret practice. Bit by bit, he coaxed his mana into his limbs, shaping it without the crutch of a spell. At first, it had been clumsy—raw energy spilling out in uneven waves, his muscles twitching with the strain. But little by little, he had found control. His body responded faster now, his balance sharper, his strikes heavier when he allowed that subtle burn to take hold.

It was progress measured not by blue windows or glowing notifications, but by his own will. And that, more than anything, filled him with quiet satisfaction.

He could have asked his father for guidance. Arslan knew the technique well enough; he had passed it to Viola, after all. A few words, a single demonstration, might have cut months off Ludger’s struggle.

But he never asked.

This was his experiment, his proof. If he succeeded, it would be without Arslan’s reckless shortcuts. It would be

his

accomplishment, carved from patience and persistence.

And though the progress was slow, Ludger could already feel it—each day, he was closer to making the technique truly his own.

Two months after his birthday, the sound of hooves returned to the courtyard once more. Elaine stiffened instantly, her arms crossing as if preparing for battle, while Arslan sighed like a man who had seen this storm coming from miles away.

The carriage door swung open, and Viola stepped out. She no longer wore the fine travel dress from her first visit, but a simpler tunic and trousers—practical clothes, though still marked with the quality of noble tailoring. A wooden sword hung at her side, strapped like a knight’s blade rather than carried like a child’s toy.

Her gaze swept the yard, locking onto Ludger the moment she spotted him.

“I’ve come to test my progress,” she declared, her voice carrying sharp and clear. “This time, without using that skill.”

Arslan rubbed his temples and muttered something under his breath, but didn’t interfere.

Ludger blinked once, then tilted his head. “You rode six hours here and back… just for that?”

Viola nodded firmly. “Yes. So don’t you dare refuse. It would be annoying of you to turn me away after I went to all that trouble.”

Ludger exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at his lips.

Persistent, isn’t she? Reckless and stubborn, just like him.

He adjusted his stance, lifting his practice sword with one hand, his other resting loosely at his side. “Fine. But remember—you asked for this.”

The match began with a sharp crack of wood against wood. Viola wasted no time, throwing herself forward with quick, heavy swings. Her form was far cleaner than before—her steps tighter, her posture firmer. She had clearly been practicing.

Ludger held his ground. He let her press, his wooden sword rising and falling in smooth arcs, deflecting every blow with practiced precision. Each strike rattled the air, and the steady

clack-clack-clack

of wood meeting wood echoed across the yard.

At first, Viola seemed energized by it, her eyes bright with determination. But as the minutes dragged on, that sound—the endless repetition of her attacks being blocked—began to grate on her ears. Her scowl deepened, her swings grew sharper, and her breathing turned ragged.

She loved practicing with her sword, but sparring was different. Fighting against a moving opponent, one who refused to yield or give her an easy victory, wore down not just her body but her patience.

On the sidelines, Arslan scratched the back of his head. “She’s got spirit, but she’s not used to this kind of grind. I could’ve found some older kids to spar with her, get her used to the rhythm…”

Selene shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “And what noble head would let his granddaughter get knocked around by commoners?”

Arslan sighed, half-defeated. “Exactly. The old bull would never allow it. To him, she’s meant to polish her skills, not dull them against others.”

Ludger, meanwhile, remained calm in the center of Viola’s storm. His blocks were steady, efficient, each one feeding her frustration as she failed again and again to break through.

At last, she stumbled back a step, chest heaving, sweat beading along her brow. Her arms trembled slightly from the effort of swinging so hard for so long.

Ludger lowered his blade just a fraction, his eyes cool and unreadable.

She’s improving… but she’s still not ready for this kind of fight.

Viola’s chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, sweat dripping down her temples and soaking the collar of her tunic. Her arms trembled as she raised her wooden sword one last time—only for it to falter halfway up. With a frustrated huff, she lowered it and stepped back, admitting defeat without a word.

Across from her, Ludger stood calm, only a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His breathing was steady, his stance still solid. Selene’s brutal conditioning, the endless running drills, and the daily sparring had honed his stamina far beyond what Viola could match. And her swings, for all their force, were obvious to his trained eyes. He had blocked every single one.

“You’re stronger than before,” Ludger said evenly, lowering his own weapon. “But your attacks were too obvious. I could see each one coming, and that made them easy to block.”

Viola’s scowl flickered, but she didn’t argue. Her arms were too heavy, her pride too dented.

Ludger took a step closer, his tone calm but firm. “If you keep charging in like that, you’ll never win. Swordsmanship isn’t just strength or willpower. You need patience, too. Learn to hold back, to wait, to strike when the chance is right. You won’t learn patience from our father, though. He only has that for fishing.”

For a moment, Viola only stared at him, sweat dripping down her chin. Then she looked away, muttering, “...Fine.”

On the sidelines, Arslan’s mouth twitched into a faint smile, though Elaine’s glare kept him from saying anything.

Ludger turned away, resting the wooden sword on his shoulder. He didn’t know if Viola would take his words to heart, but at least he had tried. If she really was his sister, then she deserved more than just Arslan’s recklessness.

Maybe, just maybe, she could inherit something better.

By the time Viola caught her breath, the carriage was already waiting. She gave Ludger a final, silent look—less defiant than before, but no less intense—before climbing back inside. The guards shut the door, the driver flicked the reins, and soon the sound of hooves faded down the road once more.

Arslan stayed behind, leaning lazily against the fence with his arms crossed. A faint grin tugged at his lips, as if he had been waiting for Ludger to speak first.

Ludger wiped his face with the back of his hand, clearing away the thin sheen of sweat. “Why isn’t she in school?” he asked bluntly. “She’s a noble’s granddaughter. Shouldn’t she be buried by tutors by now instead of wasting time here?”

Arslan’s grin widened. “Ah, that.” He tapped his chin like it was a fond memory. “She was told not to come back. Got herself expelled.”

Ludger raised an eyebrow. “Expelled? From a noble’s academy?”

Arslan nodded, his chest puffing up with pride. “She punched a boy. Not just any boy, either. The son of a family higher than the Torvares. Knocked him clean off his feet. Broke his nose too, from what I heard.”

Harold, who had been leaning on his axe, barked a laugh. “That girl’s got more spine than half the kids her age.”

Selene frowned, unimpressed. “Or less sense.”

Arslan ignored the comment, his grin never fading. “Of course the academy couldn’t ignore it. They told her not to come back after that. Her grandfather was furious… but honestly?” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I couldn’t be prouder. She’s got fire, just like me.”

Ludger exhaled through his nose.

Of course he’s proud of that. Another reckless act dressed up as courage.

Still, the image of Viola standing her ground even against someone above her rank stuck with him. Reckless, yes—but not entirely meaningless.

Not long after Viola’s departure, Cor began to take more interest in Ludger’s training. The old sage had always been sharp-eyed, and the spar had only deepened his suspicion that the boy was hiding more than he let on.

So their lessons grew harsher.

Cor drilled him not only in basic casting but in control, forcing Ludger to reshape the same spell again and again. “Mana Bolt is not just a lump of energy,” Cor lectured, tapping his staff against the ground. “It has spin, momentum, weight. Alter any one of those, and the effect changes.”

At first, Ludger’s bolts were sloppy—spiraling too fast and dissipating, or too slow and collapsing into sparks. But little by little, he found balance. When he adjusted the rotation just right, the bolt sharpened, cutting through wooden dummies instead of exploding on impact.

“Better,” Cor said, nodding once. “Piercing power. Not brute force, but precision.”

The System chimed within Ludger’s mind soon after:

[Sage Class has reached Level 5.]

New Skill Acquired: [Mana Shield Lv.1].

The notification was progress, yes—but not the kind Ludger truly craved. He tested the wall that night, shaping a thin barrier of light in front of him. It shimmered faintly, catching his reflection on its surface, but it lacked the weight he sought.

What he wanted was deeper. A skill like [Meditation] that would let him refine his control, or better yet, a true mana core to expand his limits. Without one, every advancement felt like building higher on shaky foundations.

Still, he kept his face calm in front of Cor. The skill was useful, undeniably so. But inside, his ambition gnawed at him.

This is only the beginning. I’ll need more if I want to keep pace—not just with Viola, but with everything waiting beyond these walls.