A young man in his twenties with bright yellow hair and yellow pupils picked up a sword and swung it in the air, staring at another youth with jet‑black hair, brown eyes, and a slender, average build.
"Why is this trash also here in this prestigious academy?" he declared in a solemn tone, addressing the black‑haired, green‑eyed student beside him—a spectacled, handsome, well‑built fellow. "Whatever, let's mind our own business while we hone our skills," the spectacled youth replied, making a disgusted face.
***
Vale and I reached the practical training area. Some students shot us disapproving glares; others simply swung their swords, minding their own. I felt a gaze on the back of my head, turned, and saw the yellow‑haired boy still muttering to his companion. As I began to brush it off, a calm voice rose behind me.
"He is Aaron Abraham, ranked first among the first‑year students. He's the heir of the Abraham family, called the family genius. The spectacled one is Micajah Harold, ranked second, a magic prodigy while Aaron specializes in swords."
"Oh, that's why they're glaring at me," I muttered.
"Or maybe he's irritated by your attention‑grabbing act while the professor was taking attendance," Vale corrected with a slight smile.
After the talk, I headed for a training sword—still sharp and usable. I had spent nearly three decades in a modern world without any medieval‑weapon training, while everyone else had private lessons in swords, mana, and everything else. As I stood among the lined‑up swords, a hand rested on my shoulder and the same voice said solemnly, "Pick it up, Jangre."
It was Vale, the only friendly face in the crowd, though I sensed his talent ran deeper than mine. I lifted the sword and felt something I hadn't felt in my entire life.
'First touch, the hilt hums like a startled bird; my breath catches, heart drums—world tilts, and steel becomes part of me.'
I swung, glanced at my gripping hand, then at Vale, who watched intently. He stepped closer, examined my stance, and began a low‑key lecture.
"Grip the handle with your dominant hand. Let the pommel rest against the base of your palm; your fingers should wrap naturally around it, thumb pointing toward the blade's edge. Keep your wrist aligned with your forearm, Stand with feet shoulder‑width apart, knees slightly bent. Hold the sword at your side, then raise it slowly, keeping the elbow close to your body."
Even with his clear explanation, the concepts didn't click instantly. I kept swinging, trying to apply what I could.
"You're a little slow, right?" Vale whispered.
"I'm always a dullard, Vale," I replied, looking up before continuing.
The sun set, blood seeped from my palm, yet I persisted. Vale left for an urgent matter, and I kept at it until my arm could no longer lift the blade. Some ideas filtered through, but proper swordsmanship remained elusive—perhaps because it was only Day 1.
I swung until midnight, when exhaustion overtook me and consciousness faded. I awoke at 4 a.m. on a bench in the academy grounds, bruised palm still throbbing, breathing deeply before finally resting again.
***
A year had passed since my arrival at the prestigious academy in Beryl, capital of the Hera Kingdom. Most of the kingdom's talents train here; Eden Academy stands out, though it remains costly for ordinary students. The father of the previous Jangre reached out, provided allowances, and I realized he cared deeply—both for the former bearer of my name and for me now. He works tirelessly to repay the loan taken for my admission.
Despite his support, I remain stuck at Level 14 echelon (minor rung), while Vale and most peers sit at Level 13 echelon. Aaron and Micajah have shattered expectations, advancing to Level 12 echelon.
Even now, I still swing my sword until midnight, palm bleeding, bruises covering my body. I wander every corner of the vast, beautiful campus. Vale remains my sole friend aside from Professor Ken, and I stay grateful despite my stagnation.
"Jangre, let's go for lunch," Vale says, smiling.
"Hey Vale," I respond. "What?", he asks.
""What happens when a frog's car breaks down?" I joke. ":)", He pauses.
"It gets toad," I answer, placing a hand on his shoulder as we head toward the cafeteria.
"That's a terrible one, my friend," he laughs, shaking his head.
5 years had passed since my transmigration.