Chapter 8 - Spar
A full week had drifted by since I successfully unlocked the secrets of wordless casting.
The morning sun broke through the heavy horizon like a cluster of golden spears, casting long, brilliant rays over the quiet, dew-kissed fields of Ytval. Moisture still clung lazily to the tips of the tall grass, glistening in the early light like a thousand miniature stars. Every morning, the moment my eyes cracked open, I made it a strict personal routine to practice my internal mana manipulation before tackling my daily chores. With each passing session, I could feel my internal reserves expanding; the growth was microscopic, yes, but it was steadily, undeniably rising.
Clack!
Clack-clack!
The sharp, echoing resonance of wooden swords colliding shattered the morning tranquility in rhythmic bursts.
Out by the dusty training patch situated just adjacent to the barn, Lyra danced effortlessly around an older man's precise strikes, her bare feet expertly skimming the packed dirt. The man's name was Saul. He was dressed in incredibly simple, utilitarian clothes: a faded gray tunic, tightly rolled sleeves, and heavy leather boots that had clearly seen far more historical battlefields than I ever would in this lifetime. 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. On paper, he was merely hired as one of our farm's primary security guards, but the local rumors whispered a far more staggering truth: Saul was a retired Sword Saint.
Apparently, my father had strings to pull. Saul had been patiently training Lyra in the fundamentals of combat for the past year or so.
"Your guard is far too wide, Lyra!" Saul barked out mid-strike, his booming voice sharp but completely devoid of malice. "Keep your steps smaller! You are trying to defeat an opponent, not impress the birds in the sky."
"I am trying to dodge you, old man!" Lyra grinned, ducking a high swing and pivoting around his flank.
Their wooden blades clashed once more, the blunt impact echoing like drumbeats across the open field. I stood a safe distance away, watching the display with my arms tightly crossed, my trusty red magic textbook securely tucked under my left armpit.
Truthfully, traditional swordplay wasn't really my thing. It was far too physically demanding, inherently chaotic, and completely lacked elegance. As a former chemical engineering student, I naturally preferred precision, deep logic, and predictable structural frameworks. Yet, my father consistently insisted that physical training was paramount for my development. He claimed it wasn't just about learning to fight, but rather about forming intrinsic connections, building a localized reputation, and ensuring we had reliable people who would eagerly back us up when the world inevitably turned sideways. Because of that philosophy, Saul had been formally instructed to teach me the basics as well.
Father himself? He didn't even bother training us. He just smiled, shrugged, and went off to help Mother plant crops and prune trees. And yet... he was supposed to be a Sword God. A living legend, or so the whispers said. I'd never seen it. I only saw him with soil-stained hands and that gentle smile he always wore when Mother was near.
He was just... a dad. A family man. Maybe that was all he wanted to be now.
My gaze drifted back to the active spar, watching Lyra's fluid, completely fearless movements. Saul swung low in a deceptive feint, but Lyra instinctively spun inside his guard, utilizing her smaller frame to tap his ribs with the blunt tip of her wooden practice weapon.
"That is officially a point for me!" she declared loudly.
Saul chuckled warmly, lowering his weapon. "You are either improving at a terrifying rate, young lady, or I am just getting incredibly old."
"Hah! Why not both?" Lyra countered instantly, proudly puffing out her chest.
I shook my head, a small smile tugging at my lips despite my best efforts to remain detached. Swordplay wasn't my calling, sure, but Lyra genuinely made the brutal exchange look like an intricate dance. A small, reckless spark of curiosity flared in my mind; maybe I could try swinging a wooden stick once or twice just to see how it felt.
Clack!
"L-Lyra, could you please go a little easy on me—wah!"
I stumbled backward in a panic as her wooden sword sliced violently through the empty air, passing mere inches from where my nose had been positioned a millisecond prior.
"How are you ever going to get better if I keep treating you like an absolute wuss, Kyro?" Lyra snapped back, her golden eyes flashing with competitive fire as she immediately pressed her advantage with another lightning-fast strike.
Whap!
I barely managed to sidestep the incoming blow, my heart pounding erratically against my ribs. My grip on the smooth hilt of my training sword was completely awkward; my fingers were clenched too tightly, and my wrists felt incredibly stiff. Every single time I foolishly thought I spotted a brief window to mount an offensive strike, she would ruthlessly close the distance before I could even lift my arms. She was absolutely relentless, and terrifyingly fast. Her feet barely seemed to touch the dirt, her focus entirely locked onto my sloppy form. Honestly, when she got like this, my older sister was deeply terrifying.
Off to the sidelines, Saul stood with his arms crossed over his chest, observing the match like a hawk. His facial expression remained entirely unreadable, but I could swear I saw the absolute tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"This... is not my thing,"
I muttered under my breath, desperately trying to circle away from her forward momentum.
"Less complaining and a lot more swinging!" Lyra shouted, already lunging directly toward me like a kinetic bolt of lightning.
Her consecutive strikes materialized faster than my brain could process. I staggered backward continuously, my training sword flailing wildly in a desperate, purely reactive defense rather than a structured attack.
While I fought for my absolute life, the soft sound of approaching footsteps crunched over the loose soil. Saul turned his head slightly toward the path, offering a highly respectful nod. "Ah, good morning, sir."
Thorskil approached the training grounds, a wide straw hat casting a deep shadow over his eyes while he carefully cradled a ceramic pot filled with freshly germinated seedlings. He looked every bit the humble, mundane farmer he chose to be.
"Oh, how is the morning training session progressing?" my father inquired with a warm, easygoing smile.
"Pretty smooth, all things considered," Saul replied, offering a slight bow of his head before redirecting his gaze back toward our chaotic sparring match. "Your daughter possesses an immense amount of raw potential, incredibly sharp instincts, and remarkably quick feet. She definitely carries your elite bloodline."
He paused for a brief beat, his sharp eyes flicking over to my struggling form as I stumbled over a loose rock, barely avoiding a direct jab to the sternum.
"Your son, however... well, he is clearly still trying to find his footing. But considering he is four full years younger than Lyra, his current performance is entirely understandable."
Thorskil chuckled softly. "Thank you again, Saul, for taking the time out of your day to handle them."
Saul straightened his posture. "No need for thanks, sir, the pleasure is entirely mine."
Meanwhile, out on the dirt patch, I sidestepped another blue-and-brown blur of a swing, my boots skidding heavily through the dust.
Damn it, she is way too fast to deal with conventionally! I thought bitterly, sweat dripping profusely from my chin as my physical stamina rapidly depleted.
Then, a sudden, highly wicked tactical thought slithered into my mind. A slow grin curled the corners of my lips as I deliberately backed away from her next incoming strike. I dropped my center of gravity low to the earth, making it look like a clumsy stumble, while my bare palm subtly brushed against the loose topsoil.
Using my newly acquired wordless casting, I bypassed the vocal incantation entirely. I internally channeled a sharp burst of my expanding mana pool straight through my arm, violently projecting my intent directly into the earth beneath her feet.
And squelch.
Lyra blinked in utter confusion, her forward momentum slowing for a fraction of a second as the solid ground beneath her boots suddenly transformed into a localized patch of thick, viscous mud. She tried to spring forward, but her foot was completely trapped. The sheer force of her own speed betrayed her, sending her tumbling face-first directly into the dirt. Her blue Aura shimmered faintly at the exact point of impact, a soft, protective burst of light automatically manifesting to cushion her fall.
"Ow...!" she groaned, her face half-buried in the soil.
She blinked off the daze, glancing down in bewilderment at her legs, which were currently sunken into a newly formed puddle of artificial mire.
I proudly stepped forward, my small shadow stretching dramatically over her fallen form. With all the theatrical flair I could possibly muster, I pointed the tip of my wooden sword straight down at her chest like a conquering warlord standing over a defeated empire.
"Hah! I win!"
For a tense beat, absolute silence blanketed the training field. Then, slowly, Lyra's fingers curled tightly around the wooden tip of my blade.
"Wait... what are you doing—?"
Yank!
With an explosion of terrifying physical strength, she violently jerked my sword forward, dragging my small, lightweight body along with it.
"W-whoa!"
Bam!
Before I could even attempt anything, her small fist collided squarely with my gut, completely knocking the residual air clean out of my lungs. I wheezed, collapsing to my knees as I tried desperately to recover my breath, but she was already completely on top of me. Mud flew wildly into the air as she aggressively pulled her trapped foot free from the mire, mounting my chest and beginning to pummel my shoulders and arms with a wave of righteous, unbridled sibling fury.
Her fist collided with my gut, knocking the air clean out of my lungs. I wheezed, trying to recover, but she was already on top of me, mud flying as she pulled her foot free and started pummeling me with righteous fury.
"OW! AUGH! STOP! THIS IS ABUSE! AH—!"
"I will show you exactly who wins this match, you little cheater!" she screamed, swinging wildly.
From the sidelines, Saul and Thorskil looked over just in time to witness the structured training session completely devolve into an absolute backyard brawl.
"Lyra!" Saul shouted, immediately rushing forward to intervene. "Stop! He clearly yields!"
Thorskil let out a heavy, amused sigh, shaking his head in resignation as he gently deposited his pot of seedlings onto the grass and stepped forward to assist. "Hey, stop it, both of you."
***
The sharp sting of the physical impact hadn't quite faded away yet. I winced in discomfort as a freezing, water-soaked cloth was dabbed gently against my swollen cheek. My face still pulsed rhythmically from Lyra's highly passionate response to losing her footing.
Thorskil sat quietly beside me on the wooden bench, one knee propped up, looking as calm and unbothered as always. Despite his hands hardened by decades of brutal labor, his movements were remarkably light and precise as he tended to my minor bruises.
From across the interior of the farmhouse, Reyna's sharp, authoritative voice easily cut through the wooden walls like a localized thunderclap.
"Lyra Samsworth! What on gods-name were you thinking?! Violently beating your little brother like that? You are officially grounded for an entire week! And you are getting absolutely no sweets after dinner!"
"I was actively holding back my real strength!" Lyra's muffled, furious voice shouted back from the confines of the adjacent room. "He literally cheated using underhanded mud magic!"
"That is absolutely not a valid excuse to turn your five-year-old brother into a physical punching dummy, young lady!"
Thorskil chuckled softly under his breath, squeezing the excess water from the cloth back into the ceramic bowl. "Sounds like your sister is currently receiving the full parental lecture."
"Good..." I muttered resentfully, pressing the freezing cloth firmly against my bruised cheekbone. "She entirely deserves it... she is a menace."
"Oh, come now, Kyro. You did explicitly bait her," my father pointed out, raising a singular, highly amused eyebrow at me. "I distinctly saw that incredibly smug, arrogant smile on your face the exact moment she hit the dirt. You practically begged for a beatdown."
I offered a sheepish, defeated grin. "I was simply being creative.. It sucks I got punished for that."
"Mhm." He dabbed the cloth against my temple one last time before setting it down in the water. "I will admit, that wasn't a bad play at all. Actively utilizing wordless magic in the absolute dead-center of a physical spar... heh, it completely caught a Sword Saint's student off guard."
I blinked up at him, shifting slightly. "...You are not mad at me?"
"Why would I?" He leaned back against the wall, looking deeply thoughtful. "Not mad in the slightest. Highly surprised, sure. It is certainly not every day a five-year-old child figures out how to precisely manipulate the elemental density of soil mid-fight without speaking a single word. It shows an incredible amount of growth, in my opinion."
I instinctively puffed out my chest just a little bit, feeling a wave of pride. "So... you think I actually did a good job?"
Thorskil gave me a long look, an expression that was beautifully split fifty-fifty between maternal pride and pure amusement.
"You efficiently used your immediate surroundings and you successfully thought outside the conventional box. That is exactly what elite fighters do to survive," he smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Even if your brilliant tactical maneuver did ultimately end with your facial structure being temporarily reorganized by your sister's right hook."
"Reorganized, huh...?" I mumbled dryly. "That is certainly a very fancy, polite word for getting absolutely pummeled into the dirt."
He laughed heartily, a deep sound that resonated in his chest. "Next time you execute a trick like that, son, I highly suggest running a little bit faster the moment you claim victory."
"I genuinely thought I had earned a dramatic, slow-motion victory moment!"
"And that exact moment of theatrical arrogance cost you a front-row seat to her best punch."
We both laughed together. It physically hurt my bruised ribs to laugh, but the shared warmth was entirely worth the mild discomfort.
Then, Thorskil's voice lowered significantly, the easygoing demeanor shifting into something far more serious and reassuring. "Kyro. You possess something incredibly special inside of you. I can see it clearly. Just... promise me you will be exceptionally careful with how you develop your magic, alright? Do not relentlessly push your physical body to the brink of collapse just to prove a point to the world.. or to anyone."
I paused, looking at his calloused hands, then nodded with absolute sincerity. "I understand, Dad. I promise."
Thorskil reached over, playfully ruffling my messy hair. "Good boy. Now get some proper rest. You are going to need every single ounce of your physical energy if Lyra inevitably breaks out of containment for a rematch."
I nodded in agreement. Just as he turned around to exit the bedroom, the wooden door creaked open slightly.
Lyra peeked her head inside the room. Her arms were tightly crossed behind her back, her yellow eyes darting erratically across the floorboards, looking literally anywhere else except directly at my face. She hovered awkwardly by the doorframe, continuously shifting her weight from one foot to the other as if the grain of the wood had became fascinating all of a sudden.
Thorskil smirked knowingly, stepping past her with fluid grace. "I will... go check on your mother." he said smoothly, executing a flawless retreat.
The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind our father, a thick, awkward silence settled over the bedroom like a heavy morning fog.
Lyra cleared her throat loudly, breaking the tension. "Soooo..."
I looked up from my damp cloth, an instantly mocking smirk plastering itself across my face. "Are you here to officially finish the job, oh mighty warrior?"
She frowned deeply, her brow furrowing. "No! I mean... maybe... absolutely not! I came in here to say..." She let out a loud, frustrated huff, stamping her boot. "Ugh, this is so stupid."
I raised a judgmental eyebrow at her display. "You, struggling to say something? Now that's rare."
She glared at me with pure heat, but then, her shoulders dropped as she let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Okay, look, I am sorry for turning your face into mashed potatoes," she muttered rapidly, her voice dropping an octave. "It is just that you were being so ridiculously smug with your stupid 'ha-ha I win' face, and I tripped, and it was entirely embarrassing in front of Saul, and you technically used magic to cheat!"
I blinked, thoroughly stunned by the admission. "Is this your official version of a formal apology?"
"I explicitly said the words 'I'm sorry'!" she snapped defensively, her entire face flushing a bright, embarrassed red. "Do not push your luck or I will violently take it back right now!"
I grinned broadly. "Apology officially accepted, oh terrifying warrior who was cleanly defeated by a mud puddle."
She groaned loudly, throwing her hands into the air. "Ugh! I seriously should have hit you way harder."
I laughed softly, and she finally walked across the room, plopping her body down onto the edge of the mattress beside me with a heavy thud.
"Did you really use actual magic for that trick?" she asked, tilting her head to the side as her curiosity finally overrode her lingering annoyance.
"Yup," I said proudly, puffing my chest out again. "I figured if I couldn't beat you using raw physical speed or muscle strength, I would just use my head. Though, even if it didn't look like much, converting solid earth into mud wordlessly is still pretty draining on my current mana reserves."
Lyra shot me a sideways glance, her eyes narrowing in deep calculation. Then, a small, highly enthusiastic smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"You absolutely have to teach me how to do that."
I blinked. "What? Teach you magic?"
"Yes!" she practically bounced in place on the mattress, her golden eyes sparkling with a manic intensity as if they had caught actual fire. "I want to be the absolute strongest! The strongest human... no, the single strongest being in the entire world! I am going to completely surpass Father one day!"
I paused, staring at her in sheer awe. Wow... talk about a massive, highly ambitious shonen protagonist dream.
I cleared my throat awkwardly, trying to find the right balance between being a supportive brother and a realistic scientist. "That is... quite a massive dream, Lyra," I said, trying my best to sound encouraging instead of mildly terrified for the future of the kingdom. "Anyway, learning to manipulate magic isn't nearly as easy as you seem to think it is. It took me months of agonizing mental practice just to make a single spark happen. And when I finally figured out the biological trigger... I literally passed out roughly twenty times before I could even force a basic flower to bloom."
She grinned broadly, entirely undeterred by my grim historical data. "Pshh, please. I am your older sister, Kyro. I bet I could easily master it in a single week."
I violently held back a massive snort of pure derision. Yeah, right. You literally cannot even read a basic children's book yet.
"Okay, sure," I said instead, adopting the most neutral, deadpan tone I could possibly muster. "Totally. You will undoubtedly be casually conjuring massive explosive fireballs by next Tuesday afternoon."
Naturally, she completely missed the heavy dripping sarcasm of my statement. "Exactly!" she cheered proudly, placing her hands firmly on her hips. "And then I will create a flaming sword, duel Father in the front yard, win the match, and become an absolute living legend."
I raised an eyebrow, staring directly into her eyes. "Are you going to do that right before or right after you finally learn how to hold a textbook the right way up?"
That verbal jab landed perfectly. "Hey! I can read perfectly fine!" she snapped, her face flushing once more. "I just... happen to hate doing it."
Biggest cap ever. Sighing internally.
"Uh-huh. Sure."
"Reading is incredibly boring! I would much rather spend my time swinging heavy swords and punching physical stuff into pieces. That is what I call real learning."
"Well, I would personally rather not get punched directly in the face every single day. That is what I call real learning."
She burst into a bright, infectious laugh, playfully nudging my uninjured shoulder with her fist. "Alright, smart guy. Teach me then. Let's start the lesson."
I looked at her eager face, then gently touched my still-sore cheek from earlier, weighing the immediate physical risks of this venture. "I will do it on one singular, non-negotiable condition."
"What is it?"
"There is to be absolutely no punching allowed during the entire duration of the magic lessons or outside lessons."
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Ugh, fine. No punching. But if I get bored, I might trip you into the mud."
I gave her a tired look. "Somehow, I feel like this is the start of a very painful teaching career."
Despite everything, I couldn't help smiling. Maybe teaching her magic wouldn't be so bad... as long as I survived it.
[End]