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Chapter 5 - Test of Talent

Three days had passed since Mother's announcement, and true to her word, our sword instructor arrived precisely at dawn. I stood beside Celia in the estate's training courtyard, watching as a tall, lean man approached us with measured steps. His graying hair was pulled back in a simple tie, and weathered hands spoke of decades spent gripping a sword hilt.

"Sir Gareth Aldwin," Mother introduced, her tone carrying the respect due to a master of his craft. "He served as an Imperial Knight for fifteen years before retiring to teach swordsmanship to noble houses."

Sir Gareth bowed respectfully to Mother before turning his attention to us. His green eyes were sharp and assessing as they moved between Celia and me, the gaze of someone accustomed to evaluating potential students.

"Your Grace, Young Master, Young Lady," he said, his voice carrying the gruff warmth of a career soldier. "I've heard much about your eagerness to learn the sword. Before we begin formal lessons, I'd like to assess your current understanding of the basics."

Celia practically bounced on her toes with excitement. "Can we start with real swords? Or do we have to use those wooden practice ones?"

Sir Gareth chuckled, some of the formal distance melting from his expression. "Wooden swords for now, Young Lady. Steel is earned through proper foundation." He gestured toward a rack of practice weapons arranged along the courtyard's edge. "Please, both of you, select a sword that feels comfortable in your hands."

I moved toward the rack with deliberate casualness, letting Celia rush ahead to examine the various options with obvious delight. My own selection needed to appear natural—a child choosing based on size and weight, not someone who'd spent twenty years perfecting his understanding of blade dynamics.

The wooden swords were well-crafted, their balance carefully maintained despite being training weapons. I selected one that felt approximately right for my current size, though every instinct screamed that it was too light, too short. In my previous life, I'd wielded blades that could cleave through alien carapaces and shatter crystalline armor. This felt like holding a twig.

'Patience,' I reminded myself. 'Start small, build up gradually. Make it look like natural progression.'

Sir Gareth positioned himself in the center of the courtyard, his own practice sword held in a relaxed grip. "The foundation of all swordsmanship lies in your stance. Without proper balance, even the finest techniques become worthless." He demonstrated the basic guard position—feet shoulder-width apart, sword held at a forty-five-degree angle, weight evenly distributed.

Celia mimicked his posture with enthusiastic determination, though her form was clearly that of a complete beginner. Her grip was too tight, her shoulders too tense, her weight shifted too far forward. But her eyes blazed with focus, drinking in every detail of Sir Gareth's instruction.

I adopted the stance as well, allowing minor imperfections that a six-year-old would naturally display. Too perfect would raise questions I wasn't ready to answer.

"Good, good," Sir Gareth nodded approvingly as he moved between us, making small adjustments to our postures. When he reached me, his hands stilled for a moment. "Young Master, relax your shoulders slightly... yes, like that. Interesting. Your natural instincts seem quite sound."

'If only you knew,' I thought wryly. 'These instincts were forged in battles against creatures that would drive most humans insane.'

"Now then," Sir Gareth continued, stepping back to observe us both. "I'd like to see how you move. Nothing complex—simply advance forward with your sword extended, as if approaching an opponent."

Celia went first, her movements eager but uncoordinated. She stumbled slightly as she tried to maintain her guard while moving, the sword wobbling in her grip. Sir Gareth offered gentle corrections, his tone encouraging despite her obvious inexperience.

Then it was my turn.

I took a deep breath, centering myself. The key was to show impressive natural ability without revealing the full extent of my capabilities. I needed to appear talented—gifted, even—but still within the realm of believable prodigy rather than impossible master.

I advanced forward, keeping my movements smooth but allowing a few minor imperfections that would be expected from someone with natural talent but no formal training. My footwork was steady, my blade control impressive for my age, but I deliberately avoided the fluid perfection that twenty years of combat had ingrained in my muscle memory.

Sir Gareth's eyebrows rose as he watched. "Again," he said simply.

I repeated the movement, this time tightening my form slightly—as if I were already learning from his observation. The sword felt more comfortable in my hands with each motion, though I was careful not to let that show too obviously.

"Fascinating," Sir Gareth murmured, his professional interest clearly piqued. "Young Master, have you practiced swordsmanship before? Perhaps observed knights training?"

"No, sir," I replied honestly. "This is my first time holding a sword properly."

His expression grew more puzzled. "Would you be willing to attempt a simple strike? Aim for that practice dummy." He indicated a straw-filled target positioned several paces away.

This was the crucial moment. I needed to demonstrate exceptional ability while maintaining plausible deniability. The strike needed to be impressive enough to explain why formal lessons might be unnecessary, but not so perfect that it defied rational explanation.

I approached the practice dummy, analyzing its construction with the practiced eye of someone who'd faced countless opponents. The key was to show understanding of distance, timing, and power distribution—the fundamental concepts that separated trained fighters from amateurs.

'Just enough,' I told myself. 'Show the foundation without revealing everything.'

I raised my sword, settling into a proper striking stance that felt as natural as breathing. Then, with controlled precision, I brought the blade down in a clean diagonal cut that connected with the dummy's shoulder area with a solid thunk.

The impact was perfect—not the devastating blow I could have delivered, but precisely what a supremely talented beginner might achieve through pure instinct. The strike had textbook form, optimal power transfer, and landed exactly where I'd intended.

Sir Gareth stared at me for a long moment, then approached the dummy to examine the strike mark. His fingers traced the clean cut in the straw, his expression growing increasingly thoughtful.

"Again," he said quietly. "This time, try a thrust."

I obliged, delivering a straight thrust that penetrated the dummy's center mass with the same controlled precision. Again, the technique was flawless for someone of my supposed experience level—impressive enough to be remarkable, but not so perfect as to be impossible.

Celia watched with wide eyes, clearly amazed by what she was seeing. "Lance, that was incredible! How did you do that?"

I shrugged with what I hoped appeared to be confusion. "I'm not sure. It just... felt right?"

Sir Gareth nodded slowly, his professional assessment clearly reaching some significant conclusion. "Young Master, in thirty years of teaching swordsmanship, I have encountered no one who displayed this level of natural instinct. Your understanding of distance, timing, and blade dynamics appears to be intuitive rather than learned."

'Intuitive,' I repeated internally, barely suppressing a snort. 'Right. Years of killing alien monsters is quite the intuition builder.'

The reality was that nothing about sword work was truly intuitive. Every technique, every perfect cut, every flawless parry was the result of countless hours of practice, usually paid for in blood and pain. I'd learned proper sword work by facing creatures that would tear me apart if I made even the smallest mistake. There was nothing natural or instinctive about survival.

But I nodded hesitantly, as if uncertain about this assessment. "Does that mean I'm doing something wrong?"

"Quite the opposite," Sir Gareth replied, his tone taking on a note of professional respect that seemed oddly directed toward a six-year-old. "Young Master, I must be frank with you. Your natural ability surpasses what I can meaningfully teach you through conventional instruction."

Both Celia and I stared at him in surprise, though for very different reasons. Celia's shock was genuine amazement at her brother's apparent talent. Mine was surprise that he'd reached this conclusion so quickly.

"What do you mean?" I asked, maintaining my confused expression.

Sir Gareth gestured toward the practice dummy, then back to me. "Most students require months of instruction to achieve the form you've just demonstrated naturally. The way you move, the way you understand distance and timing—these are gifts that cannot be taught. They can only be refined."

He paused, considering his next words carefully. "I believe you are someone who will learn and progress along the sword path through pure instinct and self-discovery. Formal instruction might actually hinder your natural development by imposing artificial constraints on your movements."

'How convenient,' I thought with dark amusement. 'If only he knew that my "natural development" had already progressed through techniques that could split mountains and cut through dimensional barriers.'

But outwardly, I maintained my hesitant expression. "So... you don't think I need lessons?"

"Not in the traditional sense," Sir Gareth admitted. "What you need is time to explore and practice, with guidance only when you encounter specific technical challenges. Attempting to teach you basic drills and forms would be like trying to teach a master painter how to hold a brush."

The comparison was more apt than he realized, though in reverse. I wasn't a natural prodigy discovering latent talent—I was a master craftsman pretending to be a gifted amateur. But the end result was the same: formal instruction would be unnecessary at best, suspicious at worst.

"However," Sir Gareth continued, turning to Celia with a encouraging smile, "Young Lady, you have tremendous potential as well. Your enthusiasm and determination are exactly what I look for in a student. If you're willing to work hard, I believe we can develop your skills quite effectively."

Celia beamed at this assessment, her earlier amazement at my performance giving way to excitement about her own training prospects. "Really? You'll teach me everything?"

"Everything you're willing to learn," Sir Gareth promised. "The path of the sword rewards dedication and practice above all else."

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