Vein exhaled heavily, his breath misting in the cold air.
His arms burned, his fingers throbbed, and the wooden training sword in his grip felt heavier than steel.
It had been two days since he had accepted Musashi's training in this strange world, yet it felt far longer.
His body had been pushed to its limits, his mind forced to absorb philosophies that once meant nothing to him.
Musashi had started with The Book of Five Rings, guiding him through its teachings.
—The Scroll of Earth had been his first lesson.
"The way of the sword is the way of life," Musashi had said, watching Vein struggle to hold his stance after hundreds of swings.
"If your foundation is weak, everything will crumble. Strength is not just in your arms, but in your steps, your breath, your very being."
Vein had spent hours standing in silence, feeling the weight of the sword, feeling his feet press against the earth.
A solid stance, a clear mind—these were the lessons of Earth. He had learned not to fight against the ground but to let it support him.
Then came the Scroll of Water.
Water had no fixed shape, no form to restrain it. It adapted, it flowed, and it overcame obstacles not by force, but by understanding.
"The moment you become rigid, you've already lost,"
Musashi had told him, effortlessly dodging Vein's stiff, predictable attacks.
"Don't fight with your sword—move with it."
Vein had spent 20 days absorbing these teachings.
At first, his swings had been desperate, crude—filled with hesitation. He fought the wooden sword as if it was an enemy itself. But over time, he stopped thinking about it, stopped fighting against it.
His body moved smoother, his grip less tense. He was no longer just swinging.
He was flowing.
By the last day, Musashi had finally nodded in approval. "Not bad. You're starting to get it."
Vein, panting, sweat dripping down his face, looked up.
"Starting?" he muttered, exhaustion evident in his voice.
Musashi grinned.
"That's right. You've built the foundation, and now you've learned to move with the sword. But knowing how to move isn't enough."
He tapped Vein's forehead lightly with his wooden blade.
"You have not yet united your body and mind."
Vein's expression stiffened.
He had trained for ten days with Musashi, wielding the sword relentlessly, feeling his body adjust and adapt, yet something within him remained stagnant.
He had progressed physically, but there was no spark in his heart. No thirst for something beyond this.
Musashi saw this hesitation and sighed.
"You still lack desire," he said, sheathing his blade.
"That's fine. You won't find it by thinking about it."
He turned, motioning towards the void of space around them.
"Go back. Test yourself in the real world.
You've learned enough for now."
Vein blinked. "That's it?"
"For now," Musashi said simply. "Return when you understand how to wield it."
The space around Vein began to distort.
The training ground faded, swallowed by an unseen force. He felt himself being pulled away, his consciousness slipping—
And then, the cold air of his small room greeted him once more.
The wooden sword he had used was gone. The sweat and exhaustion still clung to him, but his hands were empty.
Vein looked at his palm, flexing his fingers.
He had changed.
***
The soft glow of morning light streamed through the frost-lined windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor.
Vein blinked as he sat up, the remnants of his strange journey still lingering in his mind.
He had returned.
Yet, something felt different. The sensation of gripping a sword, the echoes of Musashi's teachings—it was as if they had imprinted themselves onto his very bones.
Shaking off the remnants of sleep, he dressed and made his way downstairs.
"Morning," Vein muttered as he entered the kitchen.
Menon, already awake and lively, greeted him with a warm grin.
"You look like hell. Late night?"
Vein only hummed in response, sliding into his usual seat as breakfast was placed before him.
The simple warmth of eggs and toasted bread helped ground him back to reality. He ate quickly, exchanged a few casual words with Menon, then grabbed his fur coat and stepped outside.
The Hugart Tavern was only a short walk away, its familiar wooden frame standing resilient against the snowfall. Stepping inside, he was met with the usual morning quiet.
The tavern was mostly empty, save for a few early drinkers and tired travelers.
With practiced ease, he took up his usual duties—pouring drinks, cleaning tables, preparing orders.
Yet, even as his hands moved automatically, his mind was elsewhere.
His new innate skill.
He had spent his entire life as a mage. The concepts of mana, spell circles, and incantations had been ingrained in him since birth.
Now, he was walking a path entirely different from before.
The weight of a blade in his hand, the fluidity of movement
Musashi had drilled into him—it felt unnatural, foreign.
But not impossible.
He had learned the basics. And basics were a foundation.
As he poured a mug of ale, he noticed Silvia leaning against the counter, lazily polishing a glass. Her brown hair was tied up in a loose bun, and her sharp eyes flicked toward him with mild curiosity.
"You're distracted," she noted.
Vein smirked slightly, setting the mug down.
"Noticed?"
"You're slow today," she teased, setting the glass down.
"Something on your mind?"
He considered brushing it off, but Musashi's words echoed in his head.
Return when you understand how to wield it .
He had nothing yet. But he wouldn't find it standing still.
Vein exhaled, placing the rag over his shoulder.
"Cover for me for a while."
Silvia raised an eyebrow. "What, skipping work now?"
"Just for a bit."
She gave him an amused look before shrugging.
"Fine. But you owe me."
Without another word, Vein walked towards the storage room in the back.
The Hugarts kept a few swords just in case—mostly for defense against the occasional drunkard or wandering beast.
He scanned the weapons, his fingers brushing over the worn hilts before settling on two well-maintained swords.
They weren't particularly special—just standard steel blades—but they would do for now.
Slipping them into his belt, he threw on his fur coat and stepped back outside.
The air was crisp, his breath visible as he exhaled.
He had no destination in mind, but his feet carried him toward the forest.
The Duskwind Forest. A place of quiet, of solitude, full of mana beasts where he could test his skills.