Sword training Starts and the begining of Imagination

Several Days Later

I have been practicing magic—not the kind taught with chants and old books, but something raw, something instinctual. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It kept me up at night, pulsing in the back of my mind like a heartbeat I couldn’t ignore.

It was early morning. The sky was still pale when Father called me outside. The snow had finally melted, leaving the training ground behind our house little more than a flattened path of dirt and rocks. Still, it was good weather for practicing magic—or so I thought.

“It’s time you start learning how to wield a sword,” Father said, his voice firm. “There will be times where you’ll need to protect yourself and others. And when those times come, magic alone may not be enough. If you want to survive, Aren, you'll need more.”

He tossed me a wooden stick shaped like a blade. I caught it awkwardly.

“Don’t think of this as play. This is training.”

“Y-Yes, Father,” I said, gripping the hilt with both hands.

My father, Arden Valehar, was an exceptional man. Even though we lived in a quiet village, he was no less than a knight in skill and discipline. There was a kind of grace in his movements—technique sharpened by years of experience and strength that felt almost inhuman.

“Since you’re only five, we’ll start with the basics. Just swing for now. One year of that. Normally, I would’ve waited until you were ten, but you insisted, so here we are.”

Yes, I insisted. Because swordsmanship looked cool. And because the earlier I started, the stronger I could become. I wanted to be like him.

“Now try to swing the sword. Don’t be nervous. Just do it. Don’t think too much.”

“Yes, Father!”

“Swing with your hips. Let your body flow.”

We practiced for over an hour, my arms growing sore from the repetition. When the lesson ended, I dropped onto the grass, exhausted but exhilarated. But there was no time to rest.

Now it was time to practice magic.

Focus, Aren… Focus.

Come on. The energy is everywhere. I can feel it… but why can’t I shape it?

A theory came to mind: maybe external mana—the energy in the world—was too difficult to control for someone like me. Maybe… I needed to look inward instead.

Later, I found Mother in the kitchen and tugged on her sleeve.

“Do we have any books on the basics of magic?” I asked.

She looked surprised. “We do… but sweetheart, I haven’t taught you how to read yet.”

“You can start tomorrow! Please, can I see the book today?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Alright. Just don’t tear the pages.”

The language was hard to decipher, but thanks to the illustrations, I grasped some basics: mana is everywhere—but also inside us. That was the breakthrough. If I couldn’t pull from outside, maybe I could start from within.

I sat down and closed my eyes. No spells, no chants. Just focus.

Imagine water… flowing, cool, calm. Channel mana to the tip of my finger…

Suddenly, a faint glow. A shimmer.

Wait—what?!

Shit. It’s not supposed to be this easy… is it?

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