Chapter 22 – Academy (8)
By this time of day, the training yard was usually mine.
Technically, it was one of the Sword campus' "overflow" fields — a long strip of packed earth with a few battered dummies and a rack of practice weapons. In practice, most first-years were either cramming theory, hunting food, or collapsing face-first into their pillows right now.
So this was where I came to breathe.
Sword in hand, mana cooled, System quiet.
Today, when I turned the corner around the shed, someone else was already there.
A girl in Academy uniform stood in the middle of the yard, breathing a little hard, both hands clenched on a wooden sword. Her hair was tied high, swaying with each swing. The sun was low enough that it turned the edges of her silhouette gold.
Tamara.
Of course.
She didn't see me at first.
She stepped forward and swung again, aiming a horizontal cut at one of the dummies. The sword connected with a dull thud. Dust puffed from the straw.
Her form… wasn't bad.
Her shoulders were stiff. Footwork a bit too wide. But there was intent in every swing — and a familiar, faint shimmer around the blade, like the air itself was being pulled along.
Sword aura.
Or rather, a mage's guess at it.
A thread of wind mana clung to the wood, strengthening the impact. Crude, but present.
She pulled back, chest rising and falling, then reset her stance and swung again.
Thud.
"Your weight's wrong," I said.
Her shoulders jolted. The sword dipped.
Slowly, she turned her head.
Golden eyes met mine across the yard.
"…Milton," she said.
Her voice was flatter than usual, but the tips of her ears were pink.
I walked over to the weapon rack and picked up another practice sword, rolling it in my hand.
"I thought you'd be in Solar Hall," I said. "Or terrorising some poor commoner for taking your usual seat."
She scowled automatically.
"I don't terrorise people," she snapped. "I… strongly encourage proper behaviour."
"That's one way to put it," I said.
She huffed and looked away, tightening her grip on the sword.
Silence stretched between us for a moment.
The late sun painted the yard orange. Wind tugged at the training dummies' old cloth. Somewhere, a bell rang in the distance, echoing across stone.
"…Why are you here?" she muttered finally, not looking at me. "This is Sword campus property."
"I could ask you the same thing," I replied. "Last I checked, you're Staff campus. And mages usually prefer not to run around hitting sacks of hay."
Her grip tightened.
"I came to… review my form," she said stiffly. "You said in class my openings were obvious."
"Garen said that," I corrected. "I just watched you nearly get your arm taken off."
Her jaw clenched.
"Anyway," she said, as if that settled it. "I'm correcting it."
She raised the sword again.
I watched her feet.
She stepped forward and swung. Horizontal.
The line of the cut was wrong. Too high. Her hips out of sync with her shoulders. The aura clinging to the blade bled away sideways instead of driving forward.
"Again," I said.
She almost snapped something back, then bit it down and repeated the motion.
Thud.
"Again."
She swung. And again. And again.
By the sixth time, her breath had gone from controlled to ragged. Sweat darkened the cloth around her collar. Her hands had started to shift, blister points forming on skin that was more used to holding a staff.
"…You're just standing there," she muttered between breaths. "If you're going to criticise, at least say something useful."
"I am," I said.
She glared.
I sighed.
"Tamara, you're a Tier Two mage at twelve."
Her eyes twitched.
"Thirteen," she corrected automatically.
"Thirteen," I allowed. "Most nobles your age are still struggling to stabilise a Tier One core without frying their nerves. You, on the other hand, can already wrap wind around a weapon without chanting."
Her ears went a little redder.
"That's… normal for my house," she muttered. "Father said if I can't even reach Tier Two by—"
"That's exactly my point," I cut in. "You're a Tier Two mage at this age. You should be focusing on magic, not swordsmanship."
Her head snapped toward me.
"What?" she demanded.
I tapped my own sword lightly against my shoulder.
"Sword aura isn't a hobby," I said. "It's another language. If you split yourself between raising your magic Tier and trying to become a Sword campus monster, you'll end up average at both."
Her expression twisted.
"I'm not trying to become a Sword campus monster," she shot back. "I just—"
"Want Father to notice," I said.
She froze.
For a moment, the only sound in the yard was her breathing and the faint creak of the dummies shifting in the breeze.
Her fingers tightened around the sword until her knuckles went white.
"…Shut up," she muttered weakly.
I let the silence sit a moment, watching her shoulders tremble once before she forced them still.
"If that's all you want," I went on quietly, "there are easier ways. Be a perfect Staff campus prodigy. Obey every rule. Smile and sit properly at dinners. Marry some useful ally he chooses. You'll get noticed. As a contract, more than a person."
Her head bowed, hair falling forward to hide her expression.
"I don't want that," she said.
"I know," I answered.
I stepped closer, stopping within arm's reach.
"If you insist on swinging a sword, then do it properly," I said. "Not like some bored noble child copying drills they saw once. Treat it like magic."
She sniffed once.
"…How?"
"Show me your horizontal cut again," I said.
She hesitated.
Then she raised the sword.
This time, I stepped in beside her as she moved.
"No," I said, reaching out. "Your lead foot first."
I nudged her boot with mine, shifting it half a step forward and a little to the side.
"Your hip follows," I continued, placing two fingers lightly against the side of her waist and turning it. "Not your shoulders. Your shoulders only go at the end."
Tamara went rigid at the contact, eyes flicking up to my face, then away.
"My lady," I said dryly, "if you lock your entire body every time someone taps your waist, your form will be terrible."
"That's not—!" she sputtered, face flushing scarlet. "I'm fine!"
"Then swing," I said.
She swallowed, gripped the sword, and moved.
Step. Hip. Torso. Arms. The line of the cut flowed smoother this time, the wooden blade tracking lower, passing through an invisible line at an opponent's hip instead of shoulder height.
"Better," I said.
She blinked.
"It felt… different," she admitted.
"Because you stopped fighting your own body," I replied. "Again. But this time, think about the path."
"Path?" she echoed.
I glanced at the dummy.
"To a mage, a spell circle is a path," I said. "Mana follows it when you shape it. For knights, sword aura works the same way, only the circle is your body and the line is your swing."
She frowned, concentrating.
"Picture a thin line drawn in the air from your shoulder to the target's hip," I said. "Don't swing at the dummy. Swing along that line. Let the aura cling to it."
Her grip shifted slightly. This time when she stepped, I could feel the faint stir of mana before she even moved — a subconscious habit, drawing wind around her hands.
She swung.
The air around the wooden blade shivered, more coherent than before. The impact against the dummy made a sharper sound. Straw rustled where the line of the hit had dug deeper.
Tamara's eyes widened.
"I felt that," she said.
"Good," I answered. "That's what you're actually good at. You're not a knight pretending to be a mage. You're a mage who can steal a few tricks from the knights."
Her lips pressed together.
"Is that… bad?" she asked quietly.
"No," I said. "It's dangerous. In a good way. But only if you build the base right."
I stepped back, letting my sword rest point-down.
"If you keep your current schedule—" I counted in my head "—two hours of sword practice for every one hour of spell work, you'll stagnate. At best you'll end up a Tier Three mage with Tier One aura. No one will fear that."
Her shoulders slumped the tiniest bit.
"So what then?" she asked.
"Three options," I said, holding up fingers. "One: drop the sword, go full Staff campus model student, ascend the Tiers, become the Duke's shining little prodigy. Two: ignore magic, transfer to Sword campus, try to beat idiots who've been living with blades since they could walk."
She wrinkled her nose.
"…Both sound disgusting," she muttered.
"Agreed," I said. "So we pick option three."
Her eyes lifted.
"Which is?" she asked.
"Accept that you're a mage first," I said. "Use the sword as an extension of your spells, not as a separate thing. Sword practice focuses on applying your element, not copying Sword campus forms. One hour a day. No more. The rest goes into your core, your control, and your output."
She stared at me.
"One hour?" she repeated, almost offended.
"For now," I said. "If you can't make progress with even that much, doubling it won't fix anything."
She looked back at the dummy, at the faint mark her last strike had left.
"Will that be enough to… be strong?" she asked, voice small under the usual pride.
"Strong enough to make people regret underestimating you," I said. "And strong enough that when you stand next to your brothers, no one will dare call you 'loud' instead of 'dangerous'."
Her fingers tightened around the hilt.
A slow, crooked smile tugged at her mouth.
"That," she said, "sounds acceptable."
"Good," I said. "Then from now on, if you're going to sneak onto my training field, at least do it properly. Start with twenty clean horizontals along the same line. If the aura scatters, you start over."
Her head snapped around.
"Your training field?" she repeated, outraged. "This is Sword campus property!"
"And I'm the only one who actually uses it at this hour," I said. "Which makes it mine by habit."
"That's not how property works!" she argued.
I shrugged.
"It's how tired people work," I said. "Now swing. You're wasting your illegal borrowed time."
She glared at me for a long moment.
Then she huffed, turned back to the dummy, and raised her sword.
Step. Hip. Line. Aura.
Her next cut landed with that same sharper sound.
I watched her shoulders loosen just a fraction as she felt it.
Her pace settled into a rhythm.
Step. Swing. Breath. Step. Swing. Breath.
The sun slid lower. Shadows stretched. A few times she fumbled and cursed under her breath, starting the set over from one without me having to say anything.
I leaned on my own sword, letting my body cool, counting her swings in the back of my head.
By the time she finished her twentieth clean strike, sweat was running down her temple. Hair stuck to her neck. But the line of the cut was no longer wild; the aura clinging to the blade was tighter, thinner, more obedient.
She lowered the sword, panting.
"That," she said, between breaths, "was… horrible."
"That," I echoed, "was progress."
She turned to look at me.
For once, there was no obvious arrogance in her gaze. Just something sharp and complicated under the tiredness.
"…Thank you," she said quietly.
The words sounded foreign on her tongue.
"You're welcome, my lady," I replied. "Just remember: you're not allowed to die using something I taught you stupidly."
Her lips twitched.
"I'll make sure to only die in a dignified, well-calculated way, then," she muttered. "So as not to shame your guidance."
"That's all I ask," I said.
She let out a small sound that was almost a laugh, looking away quickly as if she hadn't meant to.
For a heartbeat, the training yard felt less like a battlefield waiting to happen and more like… a place where people could actually change.
[ System ]
[ Sub-Quest: "Tame the villainous" – Progress Updated ]
[ Route Character – Tamara: Affection ↑ | Trust ↑ ]
[ New Flag: "Tamara: Secret Training Buddy" ]
…Great.
Villainous duke's daughter.
Tier Two mage.
Now also: unofficial disciple.
I really was collecting problems.
Tamara shifted the sword in her hands, then glanced sideways at me.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, trying and failing to sound casual.
I paused.
"…If you're willing to listen," I said.
Her cheeks pinked slightly.
"I didn't say I'd listen," she sniffed. "I just… might be here. By coincidence. With a sword."
"Of course," I said. "Pure coincidence."
She turned away too quickly, but I saw the small, stubborn smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
As she left the yard, I watched her go, the wooden sword resting on her shoulder, aura still faintly clinging to it like a promise.
If nothing else…
At least this time around, the "villainous" girl was pointing her blade in a better direction.
And, whether she realised it yet or not, a little more in my direction too.