The silence stretched.
Father stood still, arms crossed, gaze locked on me like I was a half-finished weapon—worth evaluating, not worth praising. His butler, as always, remained a silent shadow at his side.
I didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
This wasn't a casual meeting. And it sure as hell wasn't about small talk.
Then, finally, Father spoke.
"Show me."
Two words.No warmth. No hint of what he wanted.But I knew.
This was a test.
He stepped into the center of the training ground, drawing a dull-edged practice sword from the rack beside him.No aura. No stance. Just calm, almost bored readiness.
"Come," he said.
I exhaled once, drew my own blade, and charged.
The first strike was fast—clean, diagonal, fueled by everything I'd been drilling for two weeks.
He shifted half a step.My blade cut air.
I followed up immediately with a reverse sweep, turning it into a shoulder feint and a lunge.
He tilted his torso an inch. My sword missed again.
I didn't stop moving.
Vertical slash. Lateral sweep. Low feint into spin. A full-force upward swing aimed at his chin—
Nothing.
He wasn't even counterattacking. Just dodging.With minimal effort. Barely moving his feet.
He dipped, leaned, stepped once.
It was like trying to hit a shadow painted on the wind.
I reinforced my limbs with mana. Gritted my teeth. Pushed harder.
Still—nothing.
He didn't parry.He didn't block.He just… moved.
My breath came in sharp, ragged pulls.Sweat dripped from my chin onto the dirt.
Across from me, Father stood exactly where he'd started.Unmoved. Untouched.His practice sword still resting casually at his side.
He looked at me. Not with surprise. Not with judgment.Just a silent appraisal.
Then—barely perceptible—his lips lifted.
A subtle upward twitch. If I'd blinked, I might've missed it.
"Your basics have improved," he said simply.
He let the silence linger, then continued:
"The Dred Sword Style was never meant to be flashy. No spinning blades or ornamental footwork.""It was built on efficiency. Precision. Four techniques—slash, parry, stab, and footwork—refined to their limits.""Combined with internal mana flow, they form a foundation stronger than any borrowed style."
His eyes locked on mine—steady, unwavering.
"You're on the right path. Don't stray from it, chasing someone else's rhythm."
Then, without another word, he turned away.
"That's enough for today."
He took a few steps, then added without turning back:
"Prepare yourself. Tomorrow, we're attending a meeting at the Count's estate. You'll represent the house alongside me."
And just like that, he walked off—calm and casual, like I hadn't just emptied my lungs trying to land a single hit.
I sheathed the dull sword and bowed slightly—not out of habit, but because I wanted to.
I left the grounds in silence.
I wasn't surprised by what he said.Any decent anime would tell you—if you push your basics to the extreme, you become absurdly strong.Even One Punch Man got that way from doing pushups.
What did surprise me… was that smile.
I'd never seen him smile.Not even as Brandy.
Huh. I guess the family arc isn't over yet.
As I stepped off the training grounds, I spotted Kael leaning against the outer wall, arms folded like he'd been there the whole time.
"Still standing," he said. Not quite impressed—but not mocking, either.
I gave him a tired look.He gave me a crooked grin.
"He didn't even use aura, you know."
"I know," I muttered.
"Good," Kael said, pushing off the wall. "Means you've still got a reason to keep showing up."
He started walking away, but paused just long enough to toss one last comment over his shoulder.
"Next time you swing like that, try not to grit your teeth so hard.""You'll chip a molar."