Lindarion was too excited about the sword to even think about resting.
Grabbing it once more, he made his way through the endless corridors, his steps carrying him back to the stone circle hidden deep within the gardens—this time, alone.
For a moment, he wondered if Seraphine was keeping an eye on him, silently observing his every move. But he quickly pushed the thought aside. It didn't matter.
Drawing his sword from its sheath, he savored the sound—the crisp, flawless slide of steel against the scabbard echoing in the still night air. A distinct metallic scent filled his nose, sending a thrill through him.
Lindarion thought as the blade sliced cleanly through the air, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next, like a dance where the sword was his only partner. It felt natural, effortless—an extension of his body as if they were one.
A radiant glow traced the weapon's path, like a streak of lightning flashing across the sky.
Hours passed as he lost himself in the motions, completely immersed, his focus unshaken.
An intrusive chime broke his rhythm, nearly making him lose his footing.
[Dexterity +0.5, Strength +0.5]
'So I can improve too…'
A grin spread across his face at the thought, the kind a child wears when they receive a long-awaited toy.
Taking a deep breath, he summoned the swordsmanship manuals stored within the Black Hole.
The moment he read through them, knowledge flooded his mind, each technique unfolding with perfect clarity as if an invisible master was guiding him.
He planted his feet firmly, one hand gripping the hilt while the other hovered near his center of balance.
First Technique: The Straight Cut.
He tightened his hold and executed a smooth, fluid strike. The blade cut effortlessly through the air, leaving a faint whisper in its wake. Again and again, he repeated the motion, refining it with each pass—relaxing his wrist, focusing his power at the right moment.
Second Technique: Parry and Counterattack.
Stepping back, he simulated a defensive maneuver, blocking an imaginary opponent's strike. The moment his unseen foe's blade "connected" with his, he retaliated—swift, precise, cutting sideways in a controlled arc.
Technique after technique, he moved with growing confidence, his motions becoming second nature. The cold, windy air did little to cool the heat building in his muscles from the relentless practice.
Finally, he stopped, drawing in a deep breath. The sword remained steady in his grip as if it had become a part of him.
Mastering the fundamentals wasn't flashy, but every movement brought him closer to the true art of swordsmanship.
As he stood beneath the sun, he knew—this was only the beginning.
Flipping through the summoned manuals again, one particular technique caught his attention.
Wave Dance – The Art of the Flowing Blade.
The description emphasized fluid movement and rhythm shifts. It wasn't about brute force but about disrupting the opponent's tempo, making it impossible for them to predict the next strike.
Adjusting his stance, he held the sword lightly as if it were a fallen leaf resting in his palm. The first step of the technique was a smooth, wave-like motion—an initial lateral slash that didn't fully complete, instead transitioning seamlessly into another swing in the opposite direction.
[Strength +1, Dexterity +1]
The blade practically danced in his grasp.
Again and again, he repeated the movements, refining each slash until they became softer yet deadly precise.
The key was never giving the opponent a moment to react—each strike served as the foundation for the next.
As he moved faster and more fluidly, he felt his body attune itself to the technique's natural rhythm. The sword was no longer just a weapon—it was a flowing current, and he was its guide.
[Strength +0.5, Dexterity +0.5]
White streaks blurred in the air, and the sound of the blade cutting through the wind resonated around him. Every movement was in perfect sync.
Finally, he halted, taking a deep breath.
'This will be a useful technique.'
Collapsing onto the ground, slightly exhausted, he could feel the effects of the Serpent's Endurance and Ancient Wisdom passives granted by his Ouroboros' Disciple title.
He could grasp techniques quickly and barely fatigued during training.
Still, he knew it was time to stop and return to the palace.
Springing up lightly, like a small bird, he made his way back, strolling leisurely through the beautiful gardens.
By the time he navigated the endless corridors and arrived in his room, he noticed a stand holding a carefully arranged suit.
A white ensemble with gold embroidery. Running his fingers over the fabric, he felt its rigidity—it was as if the outfit was impenetrable, resembling armor rather than mere clothing.
'So this is what I'm supposed to wear tomorrow. Not bad.'
Examining it once more, he changed out of his training gear. Instead, he slipped into an elegant noble outfit, entirely black.
Fastening his sword onto his belt, he stepped out of his room, moving with unhurried grace.
The dining hall's warm glow illuminated the marble pillars and the long, finely crafted table laden with steaming dishes.
The aroma of honeyed wine blended with the scent of freshly baked bread and roasted meats.
Seated at the head of the table, his father, Eldrin, poured himself a drink in quiet contemplation, while his mother, Melion, delicately took a bite of her food.
Lindarion sat upright, his sword resting at his side.
Just as he reached for his fork, he caught his mother's gaze—her eyes fixed, not on him, but on his blade.
She slowly set down her utensils, her gaze narrowing slightly as a knowing smile curled her lips.
'That devilish smile… This isn't going to end well…'
"Lindarion," she spoke softly, yet her tone carried clear surprise.
"Why, exactly, do you have a sword with you?"
He placed his goblet down, his fingers grazing the hilt absentmindedly.
His smile faltered slightly as he struggled to maintain composure.
"For my training, Mother."
She was already aware of his training since his father had told her about it. Though truth be told, she hadn't been too fond of that either.
Melion tilted her head slightly, then turned to Eldrin, her sharp gaze demanding an explanation.
"Seriously?" she arched an eyebrow. "The boy is only six. Why is he carrying a weapon already?"
Eldrin set his goblet down with practiced ease, meeting Lindarion's gaze for a long moment before answering.
"Because he earned it."
For a brief second, Melion's lips parted, as if caught off guard by the simplicity and certainty of his response.
"Eldrin…" she began slowly, her smile widening.
"Are you sure it's time?"
"Baldrek forged this sword for him personally," Eldrin replied, calmly cutting into his meal.
"Had he not been worthy, he wouldn't have received it."
His words made Lindarion raise an eyebrow.
'That was unexpected.'
Melion's gaze returned to him, yet it was different this time. It wasn't just maternal concern but something deeper—perhaps recognition.
"If Baldrek truly deemed him fit…" she mused, her voice softer now.
"Then I suppose I'm curious to see what you'll do with such a responsibility, my son."
There was no reprimand in her words, but the unspoken expectation was clear. So was the quiet fear of a mother who worried for her child.
Lindarion nodded firmly.
"I won't disappoint you."
A faint smile touched Melion's lips before she turned back to her meal. The rest of the evening carried a lighter atmosphere—he shared the story of how he convinced Baldrek to forge his sword.
Eldrin shook his head, barely hiding his smirk, while Melion listened, mouth slightly open in astonishment.
As they finished and began to head out, Eldrin gently placed a hand on Lindarion's shoulder.
His voice, though calm, carried a weight of authority.
"Don't let anyone underestimate you, son—nor our family. You are the heir, after all."
He ruffled Lindarion's hair, a gesture of rare tenderness, before walking out of the room.