"Listen here, loosen your grip." Edward stepped closer and adjusted Seven's grip on the sword. "Loosen! You're trying to choke the sword. If Iria were the sword, she'd be dead by now."
"...?"
There was a saying, "if you couldn't beat 'em, join 'em."
And that was exactly what Seven was doing.
Today was the 6th day of Nocten. He was training with the knights at the camp. No. He was being trained by Edward.
He had come here on his own. Iria hadn't served him breakfast, nor brought him green tea as he climbed out through the window before dawn, stepping on the potted plants below. The sun hadn't even risen yet.
This was the reason why he had forced himself to sleep early last night.
He positioned himself at the center of the tents, where he was visible from all sides—just in case something went wrong. A faint unease lingered in his gut, the sensation of being watched. It was expected. Tomorrow was the day of decision. Of course they were keeping an eye on him now.
"Haha. You've got a good eye," Edward muttered, watching him closely. "But you're terrible with swords, Young Lord! Make use of the blood flowing within you. Here. Try to copy my footwork."
"I'll try."
The footwork was familiar. It was exactly the same as the scribbles on his desk [Basic Ways of the Sword]. It was the first thing every swordsman learned. Without footwork, there was no balance. Without balance, no harmony.
He glanced around.
The other three knights were already awake, engaged in their morning warm-up drills.
Naturally, there should have been no reason for them to work this hard in such a peaceful, secluded place. Magical barriers surrounded both the village and the castle, designed to repel beasts or those creatures unable to withstand the pressure of [Zi] and went rampant. Those animals were dangerous only to ordinary villagers, after all.
Yet, the knights trained. In truth, it was to keep their skills from getting rusty.
He noticed something else, too.
Though their patrol rotations appeared random at first glance, there was a pattern. He had been observing them since yesterday; or more like, even since the first time he had gone out.
The knights rotated in a semi-cyclic order. Every knight eventually partnered with every other knight. One was always resting, or off-duty, and that role rotated as well. The shift changed every two hours.
Meaning there was always a predictable off-duty knight.
He also had a rough idea of the patrol points: from the main castle gate to the stables at the rear. Simple, efficient, and easy to monitor.
With enough observation, he could determine where Edward was likely to be at any given time. After all, if anyone here could confront an assassin, it would be Edward. The strongest among them.
'...Or second strongest, next only to the person inside that tent,' Seven thought.
His gaze drifted briefly to the left wing. A pair of sandals sat outside one of the tents. He recognized one of them.
'Is he dumb, or does he already know that I'm aware of his presence and is confident enough to leave something this obvious hint behind?'
Either way, it made Aizen dangerous.
He forced himself to look away and refocused on his training.
"Ah, Young Lord," Edward said, pausing mid-step. "You're spacing out again. Do you want to take a rest? If you're tired already, feel free to sit down. If anything happens to you, our sweet Iria might stop treating us to that delicious breakfast, you know?"
He nodded. It had been about an hour already. Even he was surprised he had managed to keep up with the warm-up.
Sitting down, he observed the other knights once more. At the very least, they were competent. Their swings were synchronized. It was as if they were following a manuscript.
"Last question, Young Lord."
Edward asked, pointing his sword toward Seven after a swing, the sword humming faintly through the air. He was persistent with his questions.
"What made you interested in the sword all of a sudden? I meant to ask you yesterday, but it slipped my mind."
Despite the distance between them, Seven felt the air rush past his skin. A sharp sting followed. He hadn't even noticed the pain. Only when he lifted a hand to his neck, a thin line of blood welled up.
He didn't answer, because he didn't have a clean answer to give.
He couldn't tell them that he was trying to defend himself. To raise his chances of survival, even by a fraction. He couldn't ask for help either. One of the sandals outside the tent was proof enough that Aizen was here, making sure Seven kept his mouth shut.
"Well," Edward continued casually, lowering his sword, "it's fine if you don't want to answer, Young Lord. I was just curious. I've never seen calluses on your hands. Forget I asked—"
Seven's grip tightened around the wooden sword. His knuckles turned pale.
"To kill," he said.
The look in his eyes indicated he was serious. There was no hint of lies. But he felt sick the moment he said it, and his stomach churned from the idea of such action though he had prepared himself already, that in this world, it was to kill or be killed.
However, he still hated that it had come out his mouth so easily.
But it was also the truth that he couldn't remain weak forever. Even in his past life as Seojin, even when he avoided effort and pain, there was one thing he had always hated more than anything else was losing.
If there was even the smallest chance to win, he would take it.
Here, to survive, he would have to outplay the assassin. If it came down to it, he would have to kill him.
"A sword is a weapon," he continued, "and every weapon shares the same purpose."
He lifted his gaze. It was the truth. A sword is no different than a gun. So the moment one picks up a sword, they must have that kind of resolve.
"To kill those who aim for my life," he intentionally said it louder, hoping that it would reach Aizen's ears.
Edward stared at him for a moment before he laughed.
"Hahaha! Kill, huh?" he said, clearly amused. "As expected. Blood is thicker than water."
Edward's expression hardened.
Without another word, he lifted two fingers and gestured toward one of the knights. The man stiffened, then stepped forward, gripping the training sword.
"This won't take long," Edward said. "Watch closely, Young Lord. This is what it means to lift a sword with the intent to kill."
Cracka, cracka!
The air suddenly crackled.
Blue [Zi] erupted from the knights' bodies like living flames. Roaring. It wrapped around their limbs and coiled along the edges of their swords. The metal glowed, but it did not burn.
The ground trembled.
Cracks spiderwebbed across both training swords. Ordinary metal wasn't meant to hold that much [Zi], thus it screamed under the strain.
Less than a second passed, a shockwave exploded outward.
The other knight's sword was thrown from his grip, hurled through the air like a discarded toy. It whistled past Seven's ear and slammed on the dirt and snow behind him. The wind alone was strong enough to force him to step back.
Ahead, Edward still stood where he was but his sword hovered an inch from the knight's throat before it crumbled. The sword collapsed into fragments, scattering to the ground in a dull clatter.
'Damn. W-What just happened…?'
Seven's hair stood on end as a chill crawled down his spine, freezing him in place.
But the pressure vanished the moment Edward turned toward him. His expression turned back into a loud and friendly Edward as if nothing had happened.
"You get it now, Young Lord?" Edward asked lightly. "If you do, please pick up the sword behind you. My apologies if it nearly hit you."
"O-Okay."
His eyes were wide, but not from awe. But from despair! He had lost hope. If Edward was this strong… then what about the old man he had heard spoken of as the commander?
'Damn it,' Seven cursed inwardly. 'Hard work beats talent? My ass. That saying doesn't exist here either.'
As he bent to retrieve the fallen sword, he realized that it had landed just at the entrance of the left-wing tent. The one with a set familiar pair of sandals at its entrance.
He picked up the sword slowly, secretly stealing a careful glance inside.
But it was… empty!
The old man, Aizen, cannot be seen anywhere inside the tent. There literally was nothing but a simple desk and six chairs lined up side to side. A shelf. And other furniture.
"What the fudge?!" he couldn't help himself from asking. "Where the hell is—?"
"Where is who?" a voice spoke. "Are you looking for someone, Young Lord?"
His blood ran cold. This voice. It came directly behind him, close enough that he could feel breath brush the back of his neck. However, before he could turn around…
Bonk!
A ladle hit the back of his head.
"O-Oww! I'm sorry, Iria! I won't sneak out again!!!"