Zaemon drifted into a deep sleep, cradled in his mother's arms. As his consciousness began to slip away, the memory of the emerald shroud she had cast during his birthday ceremony flickered in his mind. Sensing the transition, he triggered Overclock.
Suddenly, he found himself back in the training yard with Herald. In this mental construct, he held a dull practice sword. As he unsheathed the iron blade, he was surprised by its lightness—it felt weightless compared to the heavy "hardware" he had imagined.
"Show me your middle guard," Herald instructed, dropping into a ready stance.
Zaemon gripped the hilt, pointing the tip at shoulder height. He focused on his grip, ensuring his thumb was positioned correctly and avoiding a "death grip" that would slow his wrist.
"Parry mid, low, and high. En garde!" With a swift motion, Herald thrust his sword toward Zaemon's torso. The blade was a blur, but Zaemon parried it sideways. Herald immediately followed with a low slash. Zaemon stepped back, his shield blocking the strike with a dull clang.
Herald didn't stop, redirecting his blade upward. Zaemon knew the routine, but instinct screamed at him to dodge backward. It felt more natural to move than to stay rooted. However, the instructor followed up with a lightning-fast swing that stopped inches from Zaemon's neck.
"You need to parry it," Herald warned, pulling his sword back. "Don't just run. Control the steel."
"My bad," Zaemon exclaimed, his breath hitching. "But the dodge feels more natural."
Herald didn't bother with a rant. "Again."
They resumed their stance. In the high-speed loop of Overclock, repetition built muscle memory at ten times the normal rate. The hesitation in Zaemon's moves began to evaporate. He realized his swordsmanship was his least mastered skill; in his past life, his knowledge had been a secret collection of fancy, theatrical movements—not the lethal essence of a style crafted to kill. Now, he was finally making great progress, though a strange, unsettling heat began to flare in his chest.
As he felt his form reach a baseline of efficiency, the imagery of Herald vanished with a final, ghostly smile.
A new spectral shape emerged: the second boar. But it wasn't the adolescent beast he had spared in the arena. This was a monster—a mountain of corded muscle with tusks of jagged obsidian and eyes that glowed with a malicious, sentient hunger.
Zaemon found himself in the same position as before, equipped with his spear and shield. He dropped into a low, wide-based stance, grinding his boots into the spectral earth to establish an immovable root. The feeling in his chest flared painfully.
As the monster launched its head-on charge, Zaemon initiated the Panthra footwork, stepping his lead foot into a sharp diagonal. He didn't meet the force directly; instead, he angled his shield into a sharp lead wedge, creating a ramp that forced the animal's massive skull to deflect past his flank. At the moment of engagement, he set the spear, locking his rear arm and bracing the butt end against the ground. His rigid bone alignment transferred the boar's momentum into the earth, pinning the beast upon his spearhead.
But the simulation changed. Unlike the first boar, this monster released a violent red aura. It wasn't dead; its body began to vibrate with unnatural power. Sensing the "structural limit" of his weapon, Zaemon let go of the spear just as it shattered and dove to the side.
The boar charged again, the broken spear still impaled in its shoulder, seemingly unaffected. Zaemon reached for his belt—and this time, the sidearm was there. He drew the practice sword and re-engaged.
His Shifting Wedge allowed him to dance around the beast's tusks, landing shallow stabs, but the monster didn't tire. Exhaustion began to weight Zaemon's limbs. The boar charged one final time, a wall of red fury. Zaemon tried to move, but the heat in his chest suddenly went dormant, leaving him hollow. He stared into the glowing eyes of the boar as it closed the distance.
***
Sama sat in the silence beside Zaemon's bed for a long time. The "Berserker" of the Shattered Mountain Range, a man who had faced ten thousand orcs without flinching, felt a cold, hollowing fear. Olford's words repeated in his mind, a haunting loop about a lonely child desperate to prove his worth. Sama had been so focused on forging a shield for his family that he had accidentally turned his son into the image of a child he himself was very familiar with. But as he watched the boy sleep in Zeni's embrace, a surge of relief finally washed over his heart.
An image of his son defeating the boars appeared in his mind, as he never expected his son to defeat the boars, a feat most young children of great blood noble houses can do. The main purpose of the exercise was just to see the ability of the person to work in stress even if it is designed to have a chance of victory against the beasts.
That night, for the first time in months, Sama didn't retreat to the training barracks or the tactical room. Instead, he waited for his son to regain consciousness. He looked at the boar-shaped necklace—an item his wife had enchanted during her prime—which he now prepared to place on his son.
Zaemon stirred, waking as if from a terrible dream. He stared at the ceiling, his mind likely indexing the events that had transpired in the arena.
"Zaemon," Sama said. His voice wasn't the "general's" bark; it was the rough, uneven sound of a man trying to remember how to be a father. "Father," Zaemon replied, turning his head. He registered his father's hands—usually so steady on a sword hilt—resting on his chest. An emerald shroud, similar to the healing mana he had felt before, was clearing his mental fatigue.
In his father's palm lay a beautifully carved wooden board, identical to the one Sama's own grandfather had given him, but scaled for a child's hand. It wasn't just a piece of wood; it was an essence of their history.
"This was enchanted by your mother when she was in her prime," Sama said, his voice thick with emotion. "It is a reminder. You are the Hatar heir, yes. But before that... you are our son. You don't have to 'earn' your place at this table, Zaemon. You already have it."
He reached out then, his hand—calloused and massive—gently caressing his son's hair. His palm was a warm, heavy weight against the boy's skin. "I am a commoner who became a Baron through blood and sweat," Sama whispered. "I thought that by making you strong, I was giving you a life. But I forgot that a life needs more than just a sharp edge."
For the second time since his meeting with his mother, Zaemon allowed his natural response to come forth. His biological heart—the six-year-old one—began to thud with a rhythm that his adult mind couldn't quite categorize. He looked at the wooden boar and understood the secret message his father wanted to convey: safety. "Thank you, Father," Zaemon said. His voice was steady, but this time, it didn't sound like a machine.
As they sat together in the silence, Zaemon realized that while he had accounted for every external threat, he hadn't accounted for the man sitting beside him—the man who was finally, desperately, trying to be a father.
****
Nina and Herald walked toward their quarters, their hearts heavy with a shared realization. In the child, they saw a dedication equal to a soldier who had gotten a second life, and he refused to waste it.
They remembered the first time they met him—an average boy, physically advanced for his age, standing before them like a disciplined soldier. It was a level of focus they hadn't seen in recruits with months of training.
They had led Zaemon to a cleared plot of soft sand in the backyard of the General's residence. Herald stood amidst a massive array of weapon racks, training dummies, and sandbags, his exquisite sword sheathed at his hip.
"Young Lord," Herald began, his tone formal. "The general believes that it's time to train you so that you will be able to protect yourself—that is the essence of the discussion that we both had with the general."
"So, our focus will be on the basics of combat and self-defense. As a child of a noble house, you must also be well-versed in horsemanship and swordsmanship," Nina continued.
"I warn you, little cub, that our training will be challenging. Don't let your identity fool you. I will make you run more laps until you pass out or vomit blood or fail to do regular tasks and make you swing your swords until your arms rip from the sockets." Herald said with a smirk.
Zaemon let out a deep breath, but before he could respond, Nina stepped forward. Her voice was as cold as the instructor of his past life. "Don't be surprised, boy. The early years are the best time to temper the body. As the future heir of House Hatar, you must possess a mind and body that can bear this responsibility. I will ensure it."
Nina clapped her hands and gestured for Zaemon to enter the center of the pit. "Herald and I will observe you and create a training plan. Now attack me with all of your might! I want to appraise your basics."
Zaemon watched, stupefied, as Nina put her hands behind her back and stood perfectly still. He stared until she urged him again. Taking a deep breath to oxygenate his muscles, he lunged, attempting to use the martial arts he had practiced for his channel in his previous life. Without even moving her supporting foot, Nina easily tripped him.
Bang!
"Too much wasted energy," Herald said coldly. Zaemon was easily tripped a second time, tumbling into the sand, his face dusty and grim. On the third attempt, he used focus to nimbly dodge Nina's sweeping leg, which surprised her, and grasped her thigh-high boot to destabilize her.
However, he was immediately kicked down again; she hadn't even used a fraction of her strength. The "sparring" continued. Zaemon attempted one-inch punches, reverse swipe kicks, elbow strikes, and 360-degree spins. His proud techniques, which he believed to crack ribs and bones in his past life, currently failed to form a drop of sweat on her.
"Are you trying to distract me by making me laugh?" she said in a mocking tone.
His six-year-old body lacked the leverage and bone density to execute the essence of these advanced Earth styles.
Nina remained stoic, though her eyes occasionally flickered with surprise at his "strange" movements.
"Enough!" Herald raised a hand. Nina pushing Zaemon back onto the sandy surface.
"You are good at dodging and understand how to maximize your current strength," Nina noted, exhaling as she stepped back. "But your body is still immature, and those 'tricks' are often laughable in a real fight. We understand about what we must teach you."
Herald threw a small wooden sword and shield toward Zaemon. The boy scrambled to catch them, nearly toppling over. 'It's so heavy,' he thought, his muscles already screaming.
He adjusted his grip, securing the leather straps to his left arm, immediately feeling the massive burden on his shoulder.
"Left leg forward, right leg back!" Herald commanded, his voice turning stern.
"Center your defense on the shield—don't block your eyes! Always keep that shield high. There are only two situations where you put it down: when you are dead or when the enemy is!"
For two hours, the air was filled with Herald's merciless instructions. "Treat the sword as an extension of your forearm! Use the weight of the shield! Move!" Zaemon was panting, his sword hand shaking.
"Watch your steps! Steady your breath!" Herald's voice shot up like a whip-crack. "The key lies in your feet! You must become an extension of the earth!"
Zaemon clenched his teeth, swinging the wooden blade and allowing the inertia to spur his body into a whirl. His blood vessels bulged as he used his shoulder strength to heave the disproportionately heavy shield. He bent his right leg, preparing to slide and absorb the impact of Herald's next strike.
Boom!
He fell down again. The taste of sand no longer felt strange to his mouth.
Nina closed her eyes as Zaemon lost his balance for the twentieth time, falling into the sand. This time, he didn't get up. The heavy shield weighed down on his chest, pinning him like a fallen beetle.
"That is all for today," Herald said. "In the evening, we begin horsemanship."
That night, Zaemon initiated Overclock. Recalling the way he, like an idiot, raised the shield and waved the sword (how it led him around), his footwork (pulled by the inertia of the shield), and his training with both of them. He had been whacked around like a sandbag; he began to "debug" his movements. He realized that trying to use pure Earth martial arts was a mistake; he had to adapt them for this world. By combining and experimenting with the old knowledge. He then with figure-eight flow and the "earth-rooted" power Herald demanded, the first drafts of the Shifting Wedge began to take shape in his subconscious.
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