Chapter 14 - Swords

Chapter 14 - Swords

T wo weeks had drifted by in the blink of an eye.

Clack!

Clack-clack!

The sharp crack of wooden swords colliding shattered the late morning tranquility of the pasture.

Out in the wide green field between the house and barn fences, the farm’s livestock grazed peacefully in their enclosed pastures, entirely accustomed to the noise. Tall wooden fences marked the boundary between the grazing grounds and the shimmering waves of the wheat fields beyond.

Just a short distance from the barn, I stood in a stance, clutching a tiny practice sword tailored to my small, five-year-old frame—a wooden blade smaller than the one my sister wielded.

"Hah!" I grunted, forcing the heavy piece of carved timber upward through the air, my high-pitched voice straining with the effort.

"Ergh!" I swung again, concentrating entirely on keeping my elbows tucked and my balance centered, just as Saul had demonstrated.

My—sorry— our mentor , however, was focused on Lyra at the moment.

Clack-clack!

The man's name was Saul. He was dressed in incredibly simple, utilitarian clothes: a faded gray tunic, tightly rolled sleeves, black eyes, and heavy leather boots. His hair was cropped short and colored a deep brown, though the sides were heavily threaded with stark white strands that openly signified his advanced age.

Lyra was insane with her moves. She wore a dark blue shirt and short brown shorts. Down on her feet, she had matching brown boots with distinct yellow tops at the openings. Rushing with frightening speed, she launched a ferocious flurry of strikes against the old warrior.

"HAH!" she shouted, her small face set in fierce determination.

Clack!

Saul caught her descending strike cleanly on the flat of his wooden blade. Lyra grunted, digging her bare feet into the grass, trying with all her strength to push him back. Saul didn't budge an inch. He stood as firm as an old oak tree, his off-hand casually resting behind the small of his back, his expression entirely unbothered.

"You're quicker than I anticipated, Lyra," Saul noted quietly, looking straight down into her blazing golden eyes.

"Stop... moving!" Lyra growled through her teeth, surging forward with a sudden, explosive burst of physical strength that actually forced Saul's lead foot to slide back an inch into the dirt.

"Hn..." Saul observed, a flicker of genuine interest passing through his dull, black eyes.

In a fluid, seamless motion, he yielded to her pressure, stepping back while dropping his center of gravity. Swinging his rear leg out in a low, sweeping hook, he swiped her legs out from under her.

"Wha—!"

Thud.

Lyra hit the ground hard, but before her back even touched the soil, her blue aura flared brilliantly, a dense layer of defensive mana enveloping her skin like armor to cushion the impact.

As her eyes snapped open, she saw Saul’s wooden blade already descending toward her chest in a swift executioner's strike.

Gritting her teeth, Lyra pulled her knees to her chest and threw her heels over her head, using the rolling momentum to flip cleanly back onto her feet, narrowly dodging the tip of his weapon as it whistled through the air.

Impressive, Saul's eyes tracking her recovery. Without missing a beat, Lyra lunged back into his guard.

Clack-clack-clack!

Saul passively parried each strike, carefully measuring her rhythm, searching for the micro-second opening between her swings. As Lyra raised her sword slightly too high to prepare a heavy overhead strike, that was where Saul made his move.

BAM!

The blunt tip of Saul's practice sword thrust forward, striking her squarely in the ribs. The force of the blow broke her momentum, sending her flying backward through the air until she tumbled into a heap in the dry dirt.

Lyra lay flat on her back, her small chest heaving as she stared up at the vast blue sky, gasping for air. A shadow fell over her face as Saul stepped over, looking down at her with his usual neutral mask.

"That was good, Lyra," he said quietly, extending a calloused, weathered hand.

Lyra grabbed his hand, allowing him to haul her effortlessly back onto her feet. She wiped a streak of dirt off her cheek with her sleeve, a proud grin breaking through her exhaustion.

"I—I almost had you!" she beamed, puffing out her chest. "How much longer do you think I need to train before I surpass you?"

Saul looked down at her, considering her words. "You possess an extraordinary natural talent for the blade, Lyra. It is remarkable how much you've grown with only a single week of formal instruction."

It is only natural, Saul reflected inwardly. She carries the blood of the Sword God.

"At the rate you are progressing," Saul continued aloud, his voice flat but entirely sincere, "you will reach the rank of Advanced Swordsman in no time. It is truly unbelievable."

Lyra gasped, her golden eyes widening in delight. "Really?!"

Saul gave her a stoic nod.

Plunk.

The soft sound of wood striking the lush grass drew both of their attention. They turned to see me standing a few feet away, my arms hanging limp at my sides. My practice sword lay in the dirt at my feet. After thirty heavy swings, my tiny five-year-old hands were shaking, completely sapped of strength.

"I... I can't lift it anymore..." I muttered, shaking my pale wrists in an attempt to stave off the burning fatigue in my forearms.

Lyra looked at me, her eager smile souring into a disappointed pout. "Look at him. He can't even raise his sword anymore. Pfft. Pathetic."

Saul let out a soft sigh, stepping past her. "You are being far too harsh on your little brother, Lyra. He is only five years old."

"When I was his age, I could lift a metal pickaxe with one hand!" she boasted, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"You and Kyro are not the same person," Saul replied calmly, bending over to scoop my discarded wooden sword off the grass.

"S-sorry, Master Saul..." I stammered, looking down at my shoes, my chest burning from the mild embarrassment. "I couldn't finish..."

"There is nothing to apologize for, Kyro," Saul reassured me softly, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder for a brief moment. "Training is complete for today. You and your sister may head inside for lunch."

I nodded gratefully. Lyra gave a loud, theatrical sigh, but fell into step beside me as we walked toward the wooden fence gate leading back to the house.

Saul watched us leave, holding both our wooden practice swords under his arm. Once we closed the gate behind us, he turned and strolled back toward the barn.

Outside the barn entrance, Thorskil was carefully lifting a clay pot filled with vibrant, blooming flowers, settling it neatly onto the bed of a wooden wheelbarrow. A metal shovel was stabbed deep into the dirt beside him.

"Rey is going to love this new batch of lavender," Thorskil muttered to himself with an affectionate smile, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

"Sir," Saul's quiet voice called out from behind.

"Ah!" Thorskil turned around, his face lighting up with a broad, booming grin. "Saul! How did the session go with the kids?"

"It went well," Saul replied, walking over. "A bit too well in Lyra's case. She has inherited your talent in full."

"HAHAHA!" Thorskil laughed heartily, rubbing the back of his neck in humble embarrassment. "She's been nagging me about learning swordsmanship for months, but I see she was actually serious about putting in the work!"

Saul nodded slowly. Both men paused, turning their heads to watch the distant figures of Lyra and me slipping through the back door of the main house.

As the door clicked shut, Saul turned back to his employer, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Sir... if I may ask a question?"

"Hm?" Thorskil tilted his head, smiling. "What's on your mind?"

"Why did you hire me, a mere High Sword Saint, to train Lyra when you could easily teach her yourself?" Saul asked directly, his tone blunt and devoid of pretense. "I do not mind the work—in fact, instructing her is an honor. But logically... it makes little sense. You're the Sword God, after all. I do not doubt your ability to train her, but if you were to do it, I believe she would reach even further."

Thorskil sighed, a sheepish chuckle escaping his chest as he rested his hand on his hip.

"Ah, well... you see, I've been terribly busy with the farm chores lately," Thorskil explained, gesturing vaguely toward the vast pastures and the barn behind him. "So many animals to feed, crops to maintain, fences to repair... I simply don't have the spare time to give her the proper daily attention she needs."

Saul stared at Thorskil—a living legend, a realm-shattering Sword God who could likely split a mountain in two—now complaining about pasture maintenance and crop rotations.

"I see." Saul's face remained entirely blank, his eyes dull. "Then I'll do my best."

Thorskil nodded. He pulled out a sack of coins and extended it to Saul. "Here's your pay. Thank you, Saul."

Saul nodded as he left the barn.

***

After lunch, I dragged myself up the wooden stairs and into my bedroom.

My bed groaned in protest as I collapsed face-first onto the mattress. My exhausted frame instantly melted into the blankets, every muscle in my shoulders and forearms throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.

"Damn it..." I muffled a groan into the pillow. "I'm too tired to even think..."

Downstairs at the table, my hands had been shaking so violently from muscle fatigue that I couldn't even keep a spoon steady. In the end, Mom had quietly sat beside me and fed me herself. I hadn't asked her to do it—my pride as a former adult rebelled against the very idea—but in that moment, I had been too weak to refuse, and profoundly grateful for her warmth.

"Aughhhhh..." I let out one final groan before shutting my eyes off and began to snore.

***

--Next Day--

My arms felt like lead. A deep, gnawing soreness locked my shoulders whenever I tried to flex my fingers.

Unable to train, I sat hunched on an upturned wooden crate near the corner of the barn. Sunlight streamed through the fence slats, illuminating the pasture ahead where Lyra and Saul were already hard at work. In my lap rested Source of Power . I had put off reading it for almost a month, but with my physical body temporarily broken, I figured it was time to dive back into it.

I opened the spine, tracing the faded ink on the yellowed parchment, trying to locate where I had left off.

Clack-clack!

Clack.

Clack-clack!

"HARGHH!"

CLACK!

"Oof!"

A wooden sword went spinning high into the air, landing cleanly in Saul’s waiting left hand. Lyra went tumbling across the green grass, skidding through the dirt before coming to a halt on her side.

"Darn it..." Lyra groaned, wiping sweat and grass stains from her forehead as she pushed herself up.

Saul walked over, his expression entirely neutral as he held out her practice weapon. "You moved well, but your footwork became sloppy near the end."

Lyra reached out with a trembling hand, clutching her stomach with her other arm. "I'm full..." she muttered, her stomach visibly bloated from lunch.

"Ah. That explains the lack of balance," Saul said, his voice flat.

Lyra wiped her chin, her golden eyes darting around the pasture until they locked onto me, sitting peacefully in the shade. She turned back to Saul, her brow furrowing. "Why isn't he training?"

"His arms are severely fatigued, and he is five," Saul answered without hesitation. "Do not disturb him. Let him read."

"No fair," Lyra muttered, crossing her arms in a petulant pout.

Saul sighed softly. "I will fetch us a jug of fresh water from the house. Stay here." He turned and began marching toward the back door.

With Saul gone and nothing left to do, Lyra’s eyes drifted back toward me. But unfortunately for me, a dangerous, impulsive thought crossed her mind.

I whistled softly under my breath, squinting as I tried to decipher a smudged passage. Without warning, a hand darted into my field of vision. A sudden, sharp yank ripped the book right out of my hands.

My eyes snapped wide. "H-HEY!"

"What kind of garbage is this?" Lyra demanded, holding the book up to the light while keeping her wooden sword resting casually against her hip. "This is training time! You don't just get to slack off while I work!"

With effortless carelessness, she tossed the book over her shoulder. It tumbled through the air, landing face-down in the grass behind her.

"L-Lyra! Stop!" I pleaded, my voice cracking as I gestured to my trembling hands. "I can't! My arms are completely dead!"

"Weak excuses," she sneered, clicking her tongue. She flipped her wooden sword in her grip and tossed it forward. It thudded heavily onto my lap. "Fight me."

I stared at the heavy block of wood sitting on my knees. "What?" I asked, caught completely off guard. "No!"

"You will fight me," she demanded, her golden eyes narrowing with an unyielding glare. "Now."

"And if I don't?" I asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to sound braver than I felt.

A cruel, confident smile spread across her face. "Then you can say goodbye to those stupid books."

"You fucking—" I caught myself, glaring down at the weapon. "You're such a big baby, you know that?!"

I grabbed the hilt, my sore muscles screaming in agony as I struggled just to lift the wooden sword off my lap. It was built for Lyra’s larger frame, making it a bit heavier for my depleted strength.

"Tch..."

This is for my book, I told myself, trying to rationalize the sheer absurdity of the situation. Besides... she won't actually hurt me. Right? If she goes too far, Mom will destroy her. Lyra still has nightmares about the last time she broke my arm—Mom spanked her so hard the whole house felt like an earthquake.

"Fine!" I yelled, trying to adjust my grip. "How are we going to—?"

Lyra surged forward.

My eyes widened in pure horror. In a terrifying, instantaneous burst of speed, she closed the distance, her small fist pulled back and wrapped in a faint, instinctual flicker of blue aura.

Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. I saw her knuckles coming straight for my face.

BAM!

A blinding flash of white pain erupted across my jaw. A sickening crunch echoed in my skull as my head whipped violently to the side. A small, bloody white speck—my tooth—flew into the air, spinning alongside droplets of red.

Huh...? What just...?

Then time snapped back to normal.

The force threw my five-year-old body through the air. I tumbled across the grass, rolling hard through the dirt until my back slammed into the heavy wooden wheel of a parked wheelbarrow with a dull, hollow thud.

"ARGH!" I shrieked, doubled over as agony flared through my spine and jaw.

Slowly, deliberate footsteps approached. Lyra stood over me, looking down at my crumpled frame with a cold, matter-of-fact expression.

"You idiot," she said, her voice completely devoid of remorse. "You should have raised your sword."

Tears of pain and indignation welled up in my eyes, spilling over my cheeks. "Y-you...! W-what was that for?! You bitch—!"

She stepped closer, her shadow falling completely over me, casting my vision into darkness. The sheer presence of her aura made my throat seize.

Before I could scramble away, her hand shot out, snatching the collar of my tunic.

"EEK!" I let out a terrified shriek as she lifted her arm. With a single, effortless pull of her strength, she hoisted me off the ground until my toes were dangling inches above the grass, forcing my bloody face inches from hers.

"Now... do you understand why swordsmanship is so important, you wuss?" she growled, her golden eyes boring into my tear-filled ones.

"W-why...?" I sobbed, blood pooling in the back of my throat.

"Because if you were actually trained, you would have raised your blade and blocked my hit," she explained plainly, as if delivering a simple math lesson. "But because you're weak and lazy, you got hurt."

"I meant... WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

"To teach you focus, duh!"

"YOU'RE CRAZY!" I yelled right in her face, completely abandoning any attempt at composure. "YOU'RE FRICKING CRAZY! YOU ATTACKED ME WITHOUT WARNING!"

"I'm trying to teach you!" she barked back—and slapped me across my bruised cheek. The sharp slap echoed across the quiet field and the sting burned.

Tears streamed uncontrollably down my face. "Y-you monster... You're a complete buffoon! You don't know the first thing about teaching! YOU ARE A BARBARIAN!"

Lyra’s eyes flashed with dangerous irritation. "And you're a pathetic weakling," she spat, shoving me back slightly while keeping her grip tight on my clothes. "I am trying to make you strong so you don't die out there!"

"You're teaching me nothing but shit!" I barked back, pure hatred laced in my voice.

Lyra’s jaw set into a hard line. Her right fist pulled back, her aura flaring brighter around her knuckles. "Seems like you need a few more lessons."

"EEK!" I squeezed my eyes shut, flinching away from the impending blow.

"LYRA!"

The roar cut through the air. Relief washed over my battered body so fast I nearly went limp. It was Dad.

"What do you think you are doing?!" Thorskil’s voice was devoid of its usual warmth, carrying an icy, terrifying authority that made the grass rustle.

"P-papa?" Lyra froze, her fist hovering an inch from my nose. She blinked, turning her head. "I-I was just teaching Kyro how to be strong. I—"

Thorskil stepped into view, his eyes sweeping over the scene: my bloody mouth, the fresh purple bruising along my jaw, the tears streaming through the dirt on my face, and my tiny body dangling from her fist.

His jaw tightened hard from seeing it.

"Just stop," Thorskil said quietly. The terrifying edge in his voice faded, replaced by a hollow, weary, heavy tone. "I'll teach Kyro myself. Let go of him."

Lyra released her grip instantly, letting me drop heavily onto the grass. She turned to me, a smug, triumphant grin breaking across her face. "Luckily for you, you wuss, Papa's going to teach you how to be strong now!"

Without a shred of guilt, she skipped over, scooped up her wooden training sword, and began practicing her swings again as if nothing had happened.

Thorskil knelt down, his massive, calloused hands extraordinarily gentle as he gathered my small, broken frame into his arms. I buried my face into his shoulder, sobbing quietly as he carried me inside the barn. He set me down softly on a clean stack of hay in the shade. He grabbed a wooden bucket of fresh water and pulled a clean linen cloth from his belt, dipping it into the cool liquid.

"D-dad...?" I hiccuped, my chest heaving.

He inspected my jaw, gently dabbing away the blood and dirt smeared across my skin. "Are you alright, Kyro? How does it feel?"

"Worse..." I muttered, staring numbly at the hay between my feet. "I want to die."

"Don't say that," he said softly, his voice firm as he wiped the blood from my chin.

Dad... I thought bitterly, a terrible, sour taste lingering in my mouth that had nothing to do with blood. Shouldn't you be disciplining her...? Why aren't you doing anything to her?! I know it's not my place to tell you how to parent, but she just beat me up! Do something!

"I know your sister was in the wrong," Thorskil murmured, gently unbuttoning my tunic to check for broken ribs beneath the fabric. "But... to her, she didn't think she was doing anything wrong. That's just her barbarian instinct coming through..." He let out a long, heavy sigh. "No matter what I say, she will struggle with that nature while she's young. It's... remarkable, really, that you show zero signs of that same aggression. You aren't as fast, nor as physically violent, but—"

"T-that's not fair, Dad!" I cut him off, my voice trembling with raw indignation. "Look at what she did to me! She knocked my tooth out!"

He paused, looking down at the bloody mouth—he let out another defeated sigh. "I'm sorry, Kyro."

Despite his supposedly overwhelming power, his legendary title as the Sword God, and his endless kindness... he was terrible at disciplining his children. The realization hit me like a cold bucket of water.

I bit my lower lip, anger flaring through the pain. "Dad! Just... ugh! Can't you at least DO something to her?! Are you just going to stand there and let her beat me up whenever she feels like it?! SPANK HER! Or yell at her like Mom does, you idiot!"

Thorskil froze. He opened his mouth, his eyes wide with a profound, helpless sorrow. "I..."

He went silent. Slowly, he lowered his hands, letting out a breath that sounded older than the mountains. "I'm sorry, Kyro."

"Forget it," I spat, ripping my arm out of his soft hold. "I'm going home."

"B-but your wounds! Let me at least—"

"I'm fine, Dad," I said coldly.

I grabbed my torn tunic, pulled it over my aching head, and marched straight out of the barn, intentionally slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind me with as much force as my five-year-old arms could muster.

Thorskil remained sitting on the hay, staring blankly at the closed door.

Outside, I spotted my copy of Source of Power sitting face-down in the dirt where Lyra had thrown it. I trudged over, picked it up, and aggressively wiped the dust off its worn leather cover with my sleeve.

"So, did Papa teach you how to be strong yet?" Lyra asked brightly, pausing mid-swing with her wooden sword, a cheerful smile on her face.

I didn't say a word. I didn't even look at her face. I raised my right hand, extended my middle finger straight into her face, and kept walking toward the wooden gate. A short distance down the path, I passed Saul, who was carrying a heavy iron bucket filled with fresh drinking water. He stopped dead in his tracks as he saw my swollen jaw, bloody chin, and tear-stained cheeks.

"Kyro..." Saul paused, his neutral mask cracking slightly. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," I snapped without breaking my stride, pushing past him and marching toward the house.

Saul turned his head, watching me go until I slipped through the back door. Slowly, his gaze shifted toward the pasture, landing on Lyra, who was carelessly spinning her practice sword. Saul’s eyes narrowed into terrifying slits. An intense, blazing aura of dark orange energy flared violently around his body, kicking up dust around his boots.

"Lyra," Saul called out. His voice was low and dripping with menace. "What did you do?"

Lyra flinched, her cheerful expression melting away under the weight of his aura. "I... well, I was just training Kyro for a bit..."

"You and I both know his muscles were fatigued," Saul said, stepping toward her like an advancing mountain. "And I explicitly ordered you not to bother him."

His orange aura spiked, crackling in the air.

"FIVE HUNDRED PUSH-UPS. NOW!"

"I—!" Lyra stuttered, her eyes wide with shock.

"NOW!"

Panicked, Lyra dropped to her hands and knees in the dirt, frantically blasting through push-ups as fast as her arms could move. Leaving her in the dirt, Saul turned and walked into the quiet barn. The interior was dim. Thorskil sat hunched over on a bale of hay, his shoulders slumped, his bright rose-colored eyes staring blankly at his own heavily calloused hands. He looked utterly defeated.

"Sir?" Saul asked softly.

Thorskil jolted slightly, forcing his posture straight as he looked up. "Ah... S-Saul. What is it?"

"Did you see what happened to Kyro?" Saul asked, his face returning to its usual stoic mask.

Thorskil leaned forward, resting his forehead in his palms with a heavy, miserable sigh. "Y-yes... She punched him. Broke one of his baby teeth clean out..."

Saul’s jaw tightened. He turned his head toward the open barn door, where Lyra’s breathless grunts could be heard outside.

"MAKE IT A THOUSAND!" Saul bellowed out the door.

"W-WHY?!" Lyra’s agonized scream echoed back from the field, but she didn't dare stop.

Saul turned back to his employer, his eyes softening slightly as he observed the great Sword God looking so lost.

"Saul...?" Thorskil asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper in the large barn.

"Yes, Sir?"

Thorskil looked up, his rose eyes searching Saul's face with desperate, vulnerable sincerity.

"You have children of your own, don't you?"

"I do, Sir," Saul answered simply. "Two daughters and a son."

Thorskil swallowed hard, his voice trembling slightly. "Then... tell me... how do you be a good father?"

[End]