I walked toward a far corner in the arena, away from the other teens.
Step.
My feet stopped as I reached the wall, right where the podium was.
I planted my feet firmly on the ground, shoulder-width apart. My left foot was half a step ahead of my right, letting most of my weight rest on my rear foot.
Then I took a breath to calm myself as I relaxed my joints and bent my knees slightly.
I gripped the hilt of the sword firmly, my fingers circling it. Then loosened my grip again, just a bit—still firm, but not too tight.
My elbow bent as I raised the sword.
The tip aligned with an imaginary opponent's throat.
My stance was set.
Haah.
I inhaled a breath.
The sword felt heavy in my grip, sweat formed in my palm, but I held the position.
The sword and my stance felt familiar and foreign at the same time.
It was strange.
On Earth, I had thrown punches and kicks—but never held a sword.
There was no reason to.
People in the 21st century would laugh at you for training with one.
But I also had my memories of the estate.
Four years of sword training.
Having familiarized myself with the stance, I attempted a slash.
Step.
I stepped forward with my left foot and extended my arm in a controlled motion, letting the sword fall with the help of its own weight while guiding its descent.
Shing.
The blade cut through air.
Step.
I stepped back and repositioned myself.
I felt it immediately as I swung.
There wasn't enough strength behind the cut.
It felt shallow.
But strength wasn't the biggest problem.
The feeling was.
The motion itself felt natural.
My body remembered the training.
Four years of rigorous practice under my sword instructor.
He wasn't as easygoing with me as he was with Lucien or Favian.
Every stance had to be perfect.
Every swing precise.
He never allowed me to slack off.
"Train as if it's the real thing."
That would summarize his mindset.
My body remembered it all.
That was the good part.
But my mind wasn't yet familiar with the sword.
It was strange, but plausible at the same time.
If I combined all the years I lived without a sword, it amounted to nearly thirty.
The time I had spent training with one?
Four years.
It wasn't even a quarter of my life.
That was the bad part.
So for now, I had my priority.
To familiarize myself with the sword.
Guard.
Cutting.
Stabbing.
Footwork.
The four fundamentals of the sword.
I had to relearn them before my next fight.
My gaze drifted down, toward the sword.
The initial plan had been to train my strength as well by deliberately choosing a heavier sword.
But that plan failed because my mind couldn't keep up.
Warmth spread from my core through my shoulder and down my arm into my hand.
Strength surged.
I felt the difference immediately.
The sword felt lighter, and it was easier to move now.
Since I first needed to relearn the movements, it was better to postpone raw strength training and instead incorporate mana control.
Enhancing my body while practicing the sword would save me a lot of time later.
I started again and shifted into position, sword slightly raised.
Step.
My left foot moved, taking a step forward.
I straightened my knee and rotated my hip, arm following the motion.
The strength came from my hip—not my arm.
My wrist turned as I guided the sword into a downward slash while my free hand swung back for balance.
Shing.
Haah.
I exhaled with the cut before my hip rotated back. My arm followed as I stepped back into position.
Step.
'Better.'
The movement was fluid and controlled—but my mind still lagged slightly behind, as I had to consciously envision each motion before doing it.
But it was a good start.
Haah.
I breathed in.
Step.
I took a step forward.
My shoulder rolled, extending my arm in a straight line. Elbow tight. Wrist steady.
The strength came from my back and shoulder rather than my arm.
My free hand drew in near my ribs.
Swoosh.
Haah.
I exhaled as I locked the sword in the stabbing motion before stepping back again.
Step.
Shoulder rolling back as I went into guard position.
'Again.'
I took a step forward and rotated my hip, bringing the sword down into a slash.
Shing.
I stepped back into position.
'Again.'
I took a step and pushed my arm forward as I stabbed.
Swoosh.
I stepped back into position.
'Again.'
Step.
Slash.
Guard.
'Again.'
Step.
Stab.
Guard.
***
I don't know how much time had passed.
But enough for my shirt to become drenched in sweat, the fabric clinging to me like a second skin.
A small headache bloomed behind my eyes.
I had exhausted my mana by enhancing my arm for hours.
My shoulders and forearms ached as well.
Thud.
I planted the tip of the sword into the sand and leaned on the hilt for support.
Haah.
My breathing was heavy.
Haah.
I tried to calm it down as I rested while my eyes drifted across the arena.
Of the twenty teens who had stayed to train, none remained.
I was alone.
The guards had changed shifts.
They now sat in wooden chairs near the weapon racks, casually talking among themselves.
My breathing slowly steadied, and my racing heart calmed again.
But my body was sore.
The physical strain of the training was higher than I expected.
Surprisingly, my right arm, which I had kept enhanced during the training, didn't hurt as much as the rest of my body.
I could already guess the reason behind it, but wasn't quite sure yet.
Still, it was enough.
I decided to stop the training for now.
It wouldn't be wise to push beyond my limits and risk it when another battle could be scheduled.
I straightened and pulled the sword out of the sand before lifting it onto my shoulder.
Step.
My feet carried me toward the racks near the entrance.
Step.
The guards stopped talking as I approached.
They watched me silently as I returned the sword before shifting their attention away.
Step.
I walked through the open gate and into the corridor.
'The guard had mentioned that we could wash ourselves. I wonder if it's true.'
I glanced down.
The blood from the journey had already dried and clung to my skin.
My clothes weren't in a better state, torn and ripped at a few spots, drenched in sweat and blood.
I needed a shower.
Step.
The corridor was mostly empty.
One or two guards patrolled it. They glanced at me but said nothing.
I wanted to ask them for the way to the bath, but feared another joke as an answer.
Step.
I walked past the rooms where we received the branding.
And there it was.
An open door.
A guard stood beside it, leaning lazily against the wall.
The scent of soap and water drifted toward me as I drew closer.
Step.
I met the guard's gaze briefly before halting at the threshold.
Clean, damp stone tiles covered the floor.
A row of faucets lined the left wall. Wooden buckets lay scattered nearby. On the right side was a large basin filled with water, faint steam rising from its surface.
'Even warm water?'
I stared a moment longer before stepping inside.
Step.
My dirtied boots squeaked on the wet floor as I made my way toward one of the faucets.
I turned one of the buckets over and sat on it before slipping out of my boots.
Only then did I notice the state of my socks, completely torn.
The boots weren't in a better state, ripped at the sides, barely held together by a thin string of cloth.
I pulled off the scraps, which couldn't be called socks anymore, and stood, untying the strip holding up my trousers.
I kicked boots and socks aside before letting my pants fall down. Then reached for the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head, and dropped it to the ground next to the pants.
Normally, I would have felt cold standing naked in this room.
But I felt nothing.
My body must have gained some resistance to the cold after all I went through.
I filled an empty bucket with water at one of the faucets.
They even had two handles, with the option for warm or cold water.
That surprised me a lot.
I haven't thought about it since the maids prepared the baths at the estate.
But wasn't it strange that this medieval world had modern technology like water temperature?
It was really difficult to place this world's technology in an era.
As the battles were fought with swords, you would say that this world was in the Medieval era.
I didn't see any guns or gunpowder, but glass and printed papers were common, which stands for Renaissance but also against it.
There were even trains in the capital of Elandor, which were only made during the Industrial Revolution.
But I saw nothing indicating that they had reached the Modern Technical era or beyond.
The bucket was full.
I turned the faucet off and reached for one of the soaps that lay on the ground.
'So they are likely around the level of the Industrial Revolution?'
My gaze went up, catching the dim glow of the lightstones.
'No matter how long I thought there were no answers.'
I stopped thinking and grabbed the bucket, pouring the water over myself.
Splash.
I placed the bucket back under the faucet, filling it with water as I began rubbing my whole body with the soap.
My hands weren't enough, and I had to use my nails to scrape the dried blood and dirt off.
Some stains had clung to me for months.
Washing my back was a struggle.
But I got most of it off.
I grabbed the bucket again and poured it over myself, washing off the soap.
Splash.
Now, finally clean—
My head turned toward the basin behind me.
'A bath.'
I couldn't wait any longer and stepped into the basin.
The water was hot.
Almost on a level that burned my skin. But not quite there yet.
That perfect temperature—uncomfortable at first, then soothing.
'Perfect.'
I let myself sink into the water, my head resting against the rim of the basin.
My sore muscles loosened under the heat, and my skin, rough from stone floors and straw, softened.
A murmur escaped me as I closed my eyes.
"I feel alive again."