WeTried Translations

Translator: Coughing Baby

Editor: Coughing Baby

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ The Reluctant Imperialist

Chapter 10

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My House and I

Once all the other candidates had left, the training yard was empty. I stood facing Instructor Freya.

“How will the lessons work?”

“How else? I teach, you learn.”

Freya kept it short. Her voice was low and calm, with a lazy drawl like she could not be bothered. Still, Duke Sebestian had chosen her, and Engi had vetted her. There was no reason to doubt her skill.

“First, a test. I need to see how much you know about the sword.”

She went to the corner of the yard and picked up a branch.

“I’ll use this. You use your sword and cut it.”

“...Yes.”

I gripped the training blade and took my stance, eyes fixed on Freya. She looked casual, almost careless, but I could not find a single opening.

I stepped in.

Tak!

The instant I charged, her branch cracked cleanly across my wrist.

A hot numbness shot through my hand, and I almost dropped my sword.

“You’re too honest. Be a little trickier.”

“...”

I gripped my sword again. I faked a direct entry, then sold another fake as if I were cutting in from her right, then aimed low-

Tak!

Same result. This time she hit my shoulder. The joint burned like it had been seared.

“Again.”

“...Yes.”

This time I rushed in crouched low. I closed the distance and thrust. Freya swung her branch in a straight line.

Paaang!

The air burst. It was not just a branch stopping me. My body flew back as if I had been hit by buckshot.

Thud.

I slammed face-first into the ground.

“...”

“Again. Get up.”

I repeated the same process.

Tak!

A hit to my side. The blunt impact knocked the breath out of me.

Tak!

A strike to my forehead. My vision spun for a moment.

Tak!

A blow across my chest. A mark appeared along my collarbone.

“You okay?”

“...”

Bit by bit, heat rose in me. She was playing with me. Worse, Freya had not moved from that same spot. Not a single step.

I was getting irritated. Doubt crept in too. But I was not angry at Freya. I could not keep being trash who blamed others.

If I was lacking, that was on me alone.

“Draw up your mana. You won’t beat me barehanded.”

I clenched my teeth.

Mana.

Right. Mana.

I needed mana.

I closed my eyes and focused inward.

I sensed the faint tremor of particles flowing through my blood vessels and took control of that tiny current. I circulated mana through my whole body.

Then, suddenly, a path opened.

A new channel pierced through my circuits.

A stream of mana rushed somewhere deep inside me. Its destination was the “virus,” the mana core that had regressed with me.

Two different kinds of mana knotted there. Black and blue merged into a single color.

Tick.

It responded to me.

The second hand rang through my soul.

At the same time, the world slowed.

I charged at once.

Sudden Super Acceleration. I kicked off the ground and reached Freya in an instant. Just as I had cut down Izenheim, I swung at her branch.

Slice.

The branch was severed cleanly, but her eyes moved.

Her pupils tracked my speed.

At that moment, I felt a strange thrill.

This woman was the real deal.

Tick.

The world snapped back to normal. The acceleration had lasted only a moment.

Boom!

I could not control my speed and slammed straight into the wall. Freya stared at the cut surface of her branch, surprised.

“...Oh?”

* * *

“A sword is a brush, and you are a painter. You paint in empty air with your blade.”

I stood facing my teacher in the training yard. The real lesson started now. After I cut her branch, Freya had become more serious.

“When you paint a landscape or a still life, how do you do it?”

“I’ve never-”

“Do you just imagine it? No. Usually, you look at the subject and paint it. Swordsmanship is the same. You watch your opponent and respond. But if you stop there, you become nothing more than a mass-produced painter. Know why?”

“Because you-”

“Because you have no fixed inner image of your own. Inner image and conviction matter most to a swordsman. Honestly, they matter most to any human. Your sword’s inner image is Ebenholtz too, right?”

“...I heard my house has a Secret Sword (Secret Sword).”

My father used it too.

But Secret Sword Technique [Swordsmanship] and Secret Sword [Sword] were strictly different. Secret Sword was a miracle closer to magic, while Secret Sword Technique was exactly what it sounded like, pure sword skill: how you move your body and deploy your blade.

“Right. From what I can see, you’re following orthodox Ebenholtz.”

“Yes.”

I had no choice. Everything I had seen, heard, and learned came from Ebenholtz, so my foundation as a swordsman was Ebenholtz Longsword style.

It was never a method that suited me. I had never even thought it did.

Freya had probably seen that too.

“Ebenholtz uses the longsword. That style is possible because your bloodline is physically tough by default. Ebenholtz swings the sword like they are painting, and that takes absurd grip strength and an absurd body.”

“...Yes. I know. It doesn’t suit me.”

It was time to let Ebenholtz go. I was ready to walk my own path.

“I want to break away from the Ebenholtz sword. That’s why I hired you.”

Freya frowned.

“Moron.”

“...What?”

She looked at me like I was hopeless.

“As far as I can tell, you were born with a body better suited to the Ebenholtz sword than any of your ancestors. Better than your father, even.”

“What?”

“Sebestian doesn’t use a longsword.”

Sebestian did not use one.

The orthodox Ebenholtz longsword was 1.6 meters in full length. He used a one-meter flat blade. In every other way he was Ebenholtz, but at least in that point, he was not orthodox.

“Listen carefully, kid. I think you’re the purest form of Ebenholtz. You might even be the last Ebenholtz left standing.”

The last Ebenholtz left standing. Those words sent a chill down my spine.

“You can’t run, and you shouldn’t. You are Ebenholtz. Where would you run to? Your body proves it. Walk the path your house laid down. Listen up. Theory lesson.”

Freya held up her fingers.

“The Empire’s swordsmanship roots split into three major streams. Other kingdoms have their own schools too, but the roots all come from these three archetypes.”

To be honest, I had never cared much about the origins or history of swordsmanship.

“First is the stream called Leo. Strong and linear. It mainly uses two-handed greatswords or longswords and emphasizes breaking your opponent head-on. The base form of your Ebenholtz style is Leo.”

Leo. Named after the lion. I had heard of it, an ancient sword form.

“Second is a movement called Aquila. Fast and sharp like an eagle. It uses light, keen longswords or rapiers, and it digs into openings with speed and precision. Most fencing arts are built on Aquila.”

Freya looked at me steadily.

“Last is Serpens. Flexible and unpredictable like a snake. They often use irregular weapons like twin swords, curved blades, even sword-whips, so the details vary by teacher.”

For a moment, mana shimmered in her gaze. I felt as if she were seeing straight through my bones, muscles, and mana flow.

“You were born with a lion’s strength.”

I blinked and asked,

“Me?”

I was a little rattled. Weak. Talentless. Disgrace of Ebenholtz. Pushover. Too proud. Low self-worth... I had heard those words so often I was sick of them. But her face was completely serious.

“Look at your body. I hit you with that branch dozens of times, and not one bruise appeared. You moved that fast, and there is still no sign of muscle tearing or mana reflux. By my standards, you should not be standing.”

“...”

Without thinking, I checked myself. She was right. My wrist, shoulder, and side showed no trace of those hits. I did not even feel sore.

“Now that you mention it, you’re right.”

I was clearly different from before the regression.

But why?

Was it just because I had grown younger?

Or...

Suddenly, I thought of the thing writhing beneath my heart.

Mana core. A fragment of the Dimensional devourers that had become part of me.

Instructor Freya was mistaking an alien mana core for my talent.

“Starting today, once a week, I’ll teach you the Ebenholtz sword.”

She was a strange person. Someone who was not Ebenholtz was going to teach the Ebenholtz sword to an Ebenholtz direct heir.

Then again, if Sebestian had chosen her personally, maybe she was from a branch line of the house.

Beep beep beep... Beep beep beep...

An alarm rang from a bag in the corner of the training yard. It was the timer Freya had set.

She dusted off her hands, sprang up, vaulted over the wall like a cat, and disappeared.

“...What?”

Left alone in the training yard, I stood there dumbfounded.

* * *

A dim but stylish whiskey bar. With a glass of expensive liquor in front of her, Freya sank into thought. The moments from earlier flickered before her like afterimages.

The young knight who had pressed into her space.

In a split second, he had crossed five or six strides and dared break through her zone.

That little Ebenholtz had bright yellow hair and eyes, like lightning.

The movement defied common sense, like turning back time.

“Hm.”

Sitting in a creaking chair, Freya stared at her whiskey glass.

“Super Acceleration (Super Acceleration), huh.”

Too many parts of Maximilian’s sudden burst of speed made no sense. First, that velocity was impossible through raw physical force alone. Human muscles and bones could not withstand it. Precise mana control as a buffer should have been essential. Mana should have wrapped his muscle fibers, protected his joints, and absorbed recoil from movement before that kind of motion became possible.

But Maximilian had shown none of that.

So what exactly was that bizarre speed?

Was it part of House Ebenholtz’s inherited secret? Or was it an innate abnormal constitution unique to that little Ebenholtz?

Countless theories crossed her mind, but her conclusion was already fixed.

“He was born with the most refined body in all of Ebenholtz.”

Until now, he had only been crushed under a cowardly temperament.

She had thought the Ebenholtz line was complete with Sebestian, but it seemed one more stage remained.

Freya took a sip of whiskey.

“Good stuff. This is why I like the capital.”

Either way, it did not matter. Maximilian was nothing like the public gossip calling him frail. At minimum, he was not weak.

If anything, he carried dangerous potential, unpredictable enough to be a threat, but so what.

All I needed was money.

“Hey, bartender. One more glass of 33-year Mehico.”

She got one million dollars for a mere three-hour lesson.

Sebestian really was one generous bastard.

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