Wielding Sword?

Day by day, week by week, month by month—time seemed to flow like a river. In the blink of an eye, winter had arrived, bringing with it the end of the year.

Speaking of time, this world differed from my previous one in some odd ways. A year here consisted of 15 months, and each day was 26 hours long—split evenly between 13 hours of day and 13 hours of night.

Now, there were just five days left until the new year. By then, I'd turn five years old. And on the first day of the first month, Iraun, there would be an event I had been eagerly anticipating since my arrival in this world.

But we'll get to that later.

My daily routine had become familiar. Mornings were for play. Noon was for reading. Afternoons, I learned etiquette and mannerisms from my mother. Sometimes I went to the soldiers' training grounds to watch their sparring.

That part was probably my favorite.

Right now, I was sitting on a bench, watching the soldiers clash.

Their movements were swift, their strikes precise. They used a variety of weapons—swords, spears, daggers, halberds, bows, greatswords, chain knives, and even massive, blunt weapons that could shatter bone with a single swing.

Today, most of them were practicing with wooden swords. I'd heard that every knight in training had to master basic swordsmanship before specializing in another weapon.

Two soldiers in particular caught my attention. Their sparring was intense, almost as if they were out for blood. The clash of their swords sent rhythmic echoes through the air, a melody that I found strangely captivating.

Their movements were so fast that I couldn't keep up with my eyes. How did they do it?

I hoped I could do something like that someday.

The taller soldier lunged forward with a powerful thrust, aiming for his opponent's chest. The smaller soldier sidestepped with remarkable agility, spinning on his heel to bring his sword down in a wide arc. The taller one blocked it just in time, the wooden blades colliding with a resounding crack.

Taking advantage of the rebound, the smaller soldier stepped in closer, delivering a quick series of strikes that forced his opponent to retreat. But just as it seemed he'd gained the upper hand, the taller soldier shifted his stance, bringing his blade upward in a sweeping motion that disarmed his opponent in one fluid move.

The smaller soldier froze, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, before letting out a laugh. "Nice one," he said, slapping his opponent on the shoulder.

I couldn't help but feel awe-struck.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled me out of my thoughts. Turning my head, I saw Greg, the instructor overseeing the soldiers. He was a rugged man with slicked-back white hair, a weathered face that spoke of countless battles, and piercing brown eyes that seemed to see through everything.

He greeted me with a slight bow before asking, "Your Highness, are you interested in swordsmanship?"

"Yes," I replied, without hesitation.

Greg gave a small nod before surprising me with a soft, "Thank you."

"...For what?" I asked, tilting my head in confusion.

"For coming here to watch them train," he explained. "Every time you're here, it raises their spirits. They're eager to impress you."

I blinked at his words.

So, they're in high spirits because I'm here? Just because I'm watching them?

It made sense, I supposed. Maybe they wanted to show off because the prince was observing their efforts.

That's right, peasants. Show me your best, I mused playfully to myself.

I was starting to feel more and more accustomed to my life as a prince. This world, my surroundings, my routine—all of it had become second nature.

But there was still one thing I hadn't fully adapted to.

The thought pulled me back to the memory of a conversation I'd had with my mother a few months ago.

It was in the library when I first learned about my lineage as a ghoul descendant. Curious, I had asked my mother about the food I'd been eating.

She had hesitated at first but eventually revealed the truth.

"Yes," she admitted, "there is something special mixed into your meals. While most of the meat comes from magical beasts, the sauces contain flesh—criminal flesh, to be specific. It's ground and prepared so thoroughly that you wouldn't recognize it."

She went on to explain that some meals were entirely made from flesh, all of it harvested from criminals guilty of heinous crimes. Sometimes, criminals were even "donated" from other kingdoms to maintain the supply.

The information wasn't public, of course. If people knew, no one would commit serious crimes, she said with a small, ironic smile.

I remembered blinking at her explanation, trying to process it all. The flesh I'd been eating came from the worst of the worst—vile, cruel individuals.

But did that make it better?

Thinking about their corrupted flesh flowing into my stomach made me want to vomit.

Of course, it wasn't as though I'd prefer to eat the flesh of good, innocent people.

The memory made me sigh as I turned my gaze back to Greg.

"Your Highness," he asked, breaking my thoughts, "would you like to try wielding a sword today?"

I contemplated for a moment before nodding. "Alright," I said, "let's give it a try."

Since I had nothing else to do, breaking a sweat in the cold weather seemed like a good idea. Besides, this was my first chance to wield a sword, and that alone was enough to pique my interest.

Greg gestured for me to follow him as we headed into the indoor training ground. It was warmer than outside but still carried a faint chill in the air.

"Wait here," he said before disappearing into the back of the training facility.

I assumed he was headed for the storeroom, and after a few minutes, he returned holding a short wooden sword.

Handing it to me, he explained, "It's a short sword. The regular ones might be a bit too heavy for you right now."

I took off my winter coat and handed it to Sister Risu, who was standing nearby.

Then I grabbed the sword with one hand.

Though he called it a short sword, it felt like a full-sized weapon in my hands.

Trying to gauge its weight, I gave it a few experimental lifts. It wasn't too heavy or too light—just balanced. But I could already tell that holding it with one hand for more than a couple of minutes would wear me out. If I used both hands, I could probably last longer, but...

My hands were trembling.

Not from the weight, but from nerves.

It was my first time wielding a sword in either of my lifetimes. And to make things even more daunting, I was receiving a one-on-one lesson from Greg, the head instructor himself.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to steady my hands and calm my racing heart, though it was easier said than done.

If holding a sword is making me this nervous, what'll I do in an actual fight? I thought, laughing internally.

But mixed with my nervousness was a twinge of excitement.

Greg observed my state and let out a small sigh, though I noticed a slight curve at the corner of his lips. "Alright," he said. "Let's start simple. Try swinging the sword. Just swing it downward."

"Swing?" I repeated, and he nodded.

"Yeah, just a simple downward swing. Nothing fancy."

I nodded in return and took a stance. My right foot went slightly forward, my left foot slightly back, copying the stances I'd seen in countless online videos back on Earth.

Raising the wooden sword overhead, I paused mid-swing.

Instead of bringing it down, I lowered it and wiped my sweaty palms on my clothes.

My hands weren't just sweaty from nerves—they always got clammy when I worked or even when I wasn't doing anything. It was frustrating, but I'd learned to deal with it.

Once I was ready, I resumed the stance again and swung the sword downward in one fluid motion. Then I glanced at Greg, silently asking if I'd done it correctly.

He nodded, though his eyes narrowed slightly as he stepped closer. "Not bad, but let me fix a few things."

Standing beside me, he adjusted my stance.

"Keep your torso slightly tense—it's your core that gives you stability and power."

"Relax your shoulders, but don't slouch. You need to stay balanced."

"And hold the sword firmly, but don't tense up too much. If you grip it too hard, you'll tire out faster."

With his corrections, I swung the sword a few more times.

"Good. Now," he said, "let's work on weight distribution. You need to learn how to distribute your weight evenly on both legs and shift it quickly when necessary.

Watch your footing."

His explanation left me staring at him blankly. I had no idea what he was talking about.

Fortunately, Greg was patient. He demonstrated, shifting his weight seamlessly from one leg to the other as he moved. He explained how shifting weight helped maintain balance and added power to each strike.

It made sense when he showed it, but replicating it was another story.

I tried my best to follow his instructions. With each swing, he guided me, correcting my form when needed and explaining everything in a clear, understandable way.

Is he always this patient? I wondered.

He was strict with his trainees, often barking orders or critiquing them harshly. But with me, he seemed almost gentle.

Maybe it's because I'm the prince...

I swung the sword again. And again. And again.

I lost count of how many times I repeated the motion. My arms burned, my legs ached, and my hands throbbed from gripping the wooden handle.

Finally, I dropped to the ground, lying on my back with the sword resting beside me.

I was completely, utterly exhausted.