Barely a day had passed since the end of our expedition to the submerged cavern, and Father had already decided I had lazed around long enough.

  As Baryon had kindly warned me, this time it was my father’s turn to train me.

  How come he has free time now? I thought as I struggled to defend myself. At least he’s finally trying seriously to train me.

  “Don’t let your concentration falter, Arda!”

  My father’s voice snapped me back to reality just as his sword twisted against mine, forcing it from my grip. With a single push from his free hand, he threw me off balance, and I had no choice but to hit the ground.

  I groaned, pushing myself up, sore and frustrated, while above me, my father watched in mild disappointment.

  “Not quite there, Arda. You’re full of openings.”

  This scene had repeated itself several times over the past hour. I could keep up with him for a few minutes, but inevitably, a small mistake would lead to my downfall.

  Damn it. Focus, Arda, I scolded myself as I readjusted my stance. Show him what you’re made of.

  “Again,” he commanded.

  I lunged at him, gripping my sword with only one hand. The training sword I used was unbalanced, but it was the only one the right length for me.

  Father parried effortlessly, his movements precise and smooth, with not a single wasted motion. I frantically scanned his posture for tells—any tiny shift that might reveal his next attack–but I could find none. It was just by sheer luck I was meeting his blade exactly where I thought it would land a hit.

  I stepped back just in time to avoid a kick to my ribs.

  It had missed me by a hair’s breadth, but Father was already one step ahead of me. The wood creaked as I moved my sword to intercept his next slash, countering with the flat of my blade. Not waiting for my wooden sword to stop vibrating, I faked a high swing, watching as he prepared to block it perfectly.

  Not this time, I exhaled sharply, speeding up my pace and twisting to strike at his exposed side.

  Caught off guard, he rushed to block me, barely managing to deflect my attack.

  My sword clashed against his, missing my target.

  I clicked my tongue in frustration, but Father looked impressed.

  “Not bad, Arda. You’re doing better now,” he admitted. “Let’s see if you can keep up, then.”

  He closed the distance in a single step, using his momentum to swing straight for my head.

  Instinctively, I ducked, and his sword sliced through empty air. Seizing the opening, I kicked the back of his knee, making him stumble.

  I immediately went for his sword, trying to disarm him, but he recovered way faster than expected. Much to my shock, he let go of his sword entirely, grabbed my forearm, and forced me to drop mine as well.

  Stubborn as I came, I didn’t back down nor submitted. I stepped in, attempting to shoulder-toss him, but he had somehow anticipated it, locking me into a joint hold before I could react.

  “Do you concede?” He asked, not even a hint of strain in his deep voice.

  I didn’t answer. Any witty response I may have had quickly subsided to the increasing pain in my shoulder. Without a proper counter, a joint lock like this could easily dislocate my arm or break it.

  Now seems like a good time to try something up. My body welcomed the familiar numbness of mana flooding through it.

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  I only had a few seconds before the seal snapped back into place. Now that I had some more experience with it, Baryon had carefully loosened the seal so that I could practice a bit on my own.

  We’d found out I could slightly move it without breaking it. The effect was temporary, but it allowed me to briefly use mana.

  Reinforcing my body, I twisted against the hold, and kicked at his face with everything I had, despite my disadvantaged position.

  My foot barely grazed his chin before he turned his hold into a suppression lock, slamming me into the ground face-first. The silver glow that seeped my body fizzled out in a pitiful hiss.

  “I give up,” I muttered, spitting out a few strands of grass that had made it into my mouth.

  He released me, and I rolled my shoulder, wincing slightly.

  “Nice trick,” he admitted. “I would’ve handled it differently, but still—an impressive response.”

  “Be sure to pass my compliments to Baryon next time you see him,” he added. “Your training paid off well.”

  “I didn’t win a single match, though,” I pointed out.

  “Just because you awakened two marks,” he replied, “it doesn’t mean you suddenly have more experience than me.”

  “Keep this level of intensity in the future,” he said. “You’ll improve quickly.”

  I nodded before pushing myself up.

  Even though our match had ended in grappling, he made sure I continued practicing sword fundamentals every day.

  Once I had internalized the basics, we would determine which of the three sword styles suited me best among the Dawn, Phantom and Sunset style.

  Legends had that these three styles had been developed by legendary masters long ago. Over time, they had been refined and formalized, to the point that now formed the core disciplines of swordsmanship.

  They were so integrated into modern fighting styles that most fighters didn’t even care training specifically into one—and perhaps didn’t know about their existence at all—but Father was dead-set on having me learn one of them.

  It probably had to do with some family tradition.

  As he turned to leave, his head jerked to a halt. “Ah,” he glanced back to me, “tomorrow morning, you have your piano lesson. Keep that in mind.”

  “Oh, joy,” I grumbled under my breath, but gave him a small nod to show I’d heard him.

  I kept training until the sun dipped below the horizon.

  * * *

  The lesson with Lud had been even worse than usual.

  Since I had spent an entire week away with Baryon, I hadn’t been able to practice, and Lud hadn’t been pleased, not in the slightest. For minutes on end, I had to listen to him rant about how he expected “nothing less than perfection” from me, and that “a day without practice is a day gone to waste.”

  I only half-listened to his scolding. On that second remark, however, I agreed with him, but I had a very different kind of practice in mind.

  Father and I resumed our training in the afternoon, alternating between sword combat and hand-to-hand sparring.

  All the stories I’d read always made swordplay look like childplay, and so I got convinced that I would have felt at home with a sword in hand. Much to my disappointment, I started to realize that, at my current level, wielding a sword was more of a liability than an advantage.

  “Any advice?” I asked Father.

  He shrugged. “Fighting with swords isn’t something you master overnight. The only thing you can do is keep training and improving.”

  I huffed, shooting an accusatory glance at my hands, which—much to Lud’s horror—were starting to develop calluses.

  “Enough talking,” my father said, rising to his feet. “There’s one last thing I want to show you today.”

  I stood up as well, watching as he picked up his sword from the ground.

  “When someone awakens an emblem—like I did—or two, in your case,” he continued, nodding at me, “there’s the possibility of growing complacent, failing to fully grasp the potential of what we’ve been granted.”

  He walked over to a training dummy, one we had used to practice different stances and attack sequences. “Everyone has a different relationship with their emblem,” he continued. “But with continuous dedication, it can be cultivated until it fully blossoms.”

  With a fluid motion, he unsheathed his sword, assuming the first stance of the Dawn style, a stance I had come to recognize well enough.

  “In time, you will come to understand your own, but until then… let me show you a glimpse of what’s possible.”

  Without hesitation, he swung his sword in a violent uppercut. “Triple Threat,” he muttered.

  The training dummy—barely chipped from our earlier sessions—was ripped apart by three simultaneous slashes that flared green before leaving deep gashes across its surface.

  “Incredible…” I gaped.

  It was even more absurd considering that my father had used a wooden training sword. With a real blade, a strike like that would be devastating.

  “That was amazing, Father!” I exclaimed.

  His expression hardened. “You can aim much higher than this, Arda.”

  “Dare, experiment. Be more greedy.”