After tea with my mother, I returned to the training grounds, the air still cool with the afternoon breeze. The familiar weight of the spear settled into my hands as I began, each movement a whispered promise to the path ahead. I no longer needed my tutor hovering nearby; that was what reaching the level of Intent meant—learning to carve one's path alone, a journey marked by solitude and the relentless pursuit of mastery.
'If only I had more experience wielding the spear,' I mused, feeling a twinge of longing. Being the heir to a Grand Duchy brought its privileges, but also its chains. Venturing into the wild to hunt beasts and sharpen my edge was out of the question. Not yet, at least.
In my past life, my sword had become an extension of my very soul, honed through the relentless tide of battle against alien invaders. Each encounter, each hard-won victory had driven the blade deeper into the fabric of my being. The countless foes that fell under its bite had led me to carve Sword Unity, a level so profound it echoed in the essence of who I was.
But even that had not been enough to slay the monster that still haunted my memory.
A shiver traced down my spine as the image of Ozyrokth, that apocalyptic behemoth, surfaced unbidden. Its chitinous body glistening under shattered skies, eyes that glowed with a hunger older than worlds. I had poured everything into that final clash—my will, my skill, my very soul. Yet my sword had never pierced deep enough.
I exhaled slowly, banishing the memory back to the shadowed corners of my mind. This was not that world, not that time. Ozyrokth and its ilk were stories best left to the ashes of my past life. Here, the present awaited with simpler, but no less daunting, goals.
The spear was my focus now, the path I had chosen to reach Blue Stage. To wield Spear Intent was not just to mimic technique; it was to breathe life into it, to adapt and create a style that was uniquely my own. It would not be truly perfected until I reached Heart, but Intent was the beginning—the moment where discipline met inspiration and the spear became more than wood and steel in my grasp.
I rolled my shoulders, shaking off the last of the tremors that the memory of Ozyrokth had stirred. 'This world is different', I reminded myself. There were no apocalyptic monstrosities threatening to swallow the sky, no silent calls of duty that pulled me into the maw of death.
Here and now, there was only me and the spear, and the steady heartbeat of resolve as I prepared to take that first step.
I shifted my stance, the spear balanced in my grip, its tip poised and waiting. Spear Intent would not come from mere repetition of forms; it needed essence—an imprint of who I was, what I sought to protect, and what I aimed to achieve. I thought of my mother's words from our conversation earlier: strength tempered by wisdom, purpose beyond power. I thought of Celia's laughter, of the soft rustle of her dress as she ran through the halls, of the bond that had grown between us in this life. These were the things that rooted me here, that made this life worth defending.
I began to move, each motion slow, deliberate. The spear swept through the air in wide arcs, cutting a path as if marking the very space I occupied. My breathing synchronized with each movement, and I felt the mana inside me stir, pooling at my core before seeping into my limbs, guided by will alone.
The training intensified as I quickened my pace, transitioning from basic forms into more complex strikes. My body flowed, the spear an extension of my reach, its tip tracing the intent that had started to form in my mind. Thrust, pivot, sweep—each motion was precise, but something still felt incomplete, like a story missing its final chapter. My grip tightened, frustration gnawing at the edges of my focus.
'No,' I reminded myself. Intent could not be forced; it had to emerge, to be felt and realized. I stilled for a moment, letting the tension seep away as the wind brushed against my face, cool and grounding. I allowed myself to pause, to reconnect with the reason behind each strike.
My eyes closed, shutting out the training grounds until there was only the spear, the rhythm of my breath, and the thrum of mana in my core. I thought not of victories, but of moments: Celia looking up at me with trust, Mother's rare, warm smile, the way the sun spilled into the library where we'd all sat in quiet companionship. Protection. That was the essence of my intent. The spear was not just a weapon—it was a guardian's promise.
A new warmth spread through my chest, and I felt my mana shift, aligning with that silent resolve. The spear in my hands seemed to hum with life, responding to the realization that now coursed through me. My eyes snapped open, and I resumed my movement, faster this time, the air crackling faintly as I pushed through each form with intent that resonated beyond technique. The spear glowed faintly, not with light but with the invisible edge of aura—the first whisper of Spear Intent.
I struck forward with a final thrust, power surging from my core through my arms and into the spear's tip. The force rippled outward, a shockwave that stirred the leaves on the ground and sent a shiver through the nearby trees. The world seemed to hold its breath, and then, I felt it—a sharp, searing pulse at my center as my mana core expanded and cracked, shifting as if a chain had been broken.
The air around me stilled. I stood, the spear steady in my hands, my heart thudding in my chest as the warmth of achievement spread through me. Blue Stage. I had reached it, and the energy within me felt stronger, more controlled, a foundation laid for the future.
A breeze rustled the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of wildflowers and earth. The training grounds seemed brighter, the colors more vivid, as if the world had acknowledged my step forward. The spear, once a mere instrument, felt different now—imbued with the echo of my intent.
I took a deep breath, letting the newfound power settle, not as a burden, but as a promise to be wielded wisely. The memory of Ozyrokth lingered only as a distant reminder, a ghost of a challenge yet to come, but not one that defined me. Here, in this world, the path was my own to forge.
I exhaled deeply as the sun surrendered its hold on the sky, casting a warm, amber glow over the estate before dipping behind the horizon. The training grounds, now shadowed in twilight, felt lighter, as though even they acknowledged the turning point of the day. Satisfied, I turned and made my way back to the estate, the soft murmur of evening insects trailing behind me.
Inside, my personal maid, Lyra, along with a small cadre of other attendants, moved deftly to bathe me, washing away the sweat and fatigue from hours of relentless practice. The warm water and the gentle hum of the maids' chatter soothed my muscles, but my mind wandered, caught in the web of assessment and quiet ambition.
'By the standards of my old world, I've reached the level of a B-class Climber,' I thought, the realization bringing a small, satisfied smile. It was a solid milestone, a testament to my progress and the fruits of discipline. It was expected, of course. Anything less would have felt like an affront to the will I carried from a life hard-earned.
Yet, Indigo Stage loomed ahead—a barrier of patience and persistence. To touch that rank before the onset of puberty would be ambitious, perhaps too much so. But I knew that when the inevitable rush of growth came, when my body surged with the changes of youth, the path to strength would steepen less, the climb made swifter by nature's own momentum.
As I donned fresh clothes, the subtle rustle of fabric accompanied by the faint scent of herbs, I caught the watchful gazes of the knights stationed in the corridors. Their eyes spoke volumes—expressions of surprise, respect, perhaps even unease as they sensed the new weight of power that clung to me like an invisible cloak. The silent acknowledgment stoked a quiet pride within me. I was no longer just the young heir; I was something formidable, beyond the Silver Wolf knights who guarded our estate and on par with the White Wolf knights, the elite few who stood as silent sentinels of Silvaria's might.
'And if I wielded my sword?' The thought hummed through my mind, half-curious, half-challenging. A slight smirk crossed my lips. It was a question unanswered, a secret held close, even from myself. What I could achieve with the blade, the weapon that had once sung through alien flesh and across forgotten battlegrounds, was an unknown I was in no rush to test. For now, the spear was my focus, the foundation of this life's strength.
Dinner awaited, with its familiar comforts and soft conversations, but beneath the normalcy, a new resolve sat like an ember in my chest, glowing with the promise of the future. The knights' eyes followed as I passed, no longer seeing a boy, but something far more resolute—a shadow of the strength I would one day wield.