Obviously, more than a thousand sessions of sword practice could never be finished in a single morning.
Lucien knew that, of course—but he also knew he couldn't stop.
The morning sun slanted through the courtyard trees, glinting off the dull sheen of sweat that coated his forearms. Each swing of his wooden blade sent a tremor of ache through his right arm, the muscles beneath his skin twitching with exhaustion. The dull thud of the practice sword echoed rhythmically against the training dummy—steady, precise, relentless.
Motion correction complete. Muscular strain threshold exceeded, the biochip's neutral voice murmured in his mind. Recommendation: cease training.
Lucien exhaled sharply and lowered the blade. His breathing came in short bursts, each one edged with the faint sting of fatigue. The soreness was spreading—forearm to shoulder, shoulder to spine—until the whole right side of his body trembled slightly when he tried to steady it.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath. "I'll stop… for now."
He leaned the wooden sword against a post and rotated his arm, wincing. The chip's assessment wasn't wrong; he'd pushed himself close to the limit again. But that limit, he thought, was what he was trying to rewrite.
Still catching his breath, Lucien switched to footwork drills—progressions he'd learned under the banner of the Apprentice Knight's Manual: advance, retreat, sidestep, slide. His boots scraped rhythmically against the packed dirt of the training field.
With the biochip analyzing each motion, even the smallest imbalance was noted and corrected. Subtle shifts in weight, posture, timing—all adjusted in real time. Slowly, the mechanical rhythm of his practice began to smooth into something that felt… alive. Controlled. Dangerous.
After two hours, the chip reported: Basic footwork proficiency increased from 60% to 74%.
Lucien allowed himself a faint smile. "Not bad," he murmured. "Not bad at all."
By the time the sun stood high above the courtyard, Lucien's shirt clung to his back like a second skin. His limbs trembled from overuse. He finally gave in and made his way to the college cafeteria.
The food was simple—roasted grains, a thin stew, and coarse bread—but Lucien ate with the appetite of someone who had earned every bite. His body, half-starved from exertion, devoured the meal before his mind could even taste it.
Afterward, he returned to his dormitory, bathed in hot water until the ache in his muscles dulled to a faint hum, and collapsed briefly on the edge of his bed.
But rest was never his strong suit.
By the time the warmth left his skin, Lucien was sitting upright again, his thoughts already turning to the biochip.
There had to be more to it than simple analysis. More than recording data and reporting progress.
"Optimize basic swordsmanship and footwork," he whispered aloud.
A soft chime resonated in his consciousness.
Optimization process initiated. Estimated time required: fifty minutes.
Lucien frowned, intrigued. A faint, translucent bar appeared in his mind's eye—glowing softly, progressing in steady increments.
The chip's monotone voice continued: Optimization removes redundant motions and maximizes efficiency according to host's physiology and cognitive patterns.
"So… you're refining centuries of knightly technique?" he asked, half in awe, half in disbelief.
Correction: the chip responded. Basic swordsmanship and basic footwork are traditional foundational systems, optimized for general apprentices. Marginal improvements possible through host-specific calibration.
Lucien chuckled softly. "So even ancient tradition can be improved by a bit of logic."
Fifty minutes slipped by quickly.
Optimization complete. Basic swordsmanship updated.
A brief pause.
Optimization complete. Basic footwork updated.
Lucien rose immediately, feeling a strange anticipation crawl beneath his skin. He picked up his wooden sword once again.
The first swing startled him.
It was… different. Smoother, yes, but heavier with intent. The motion no longer felt like an exercise—it felt like a strike. The blade sliced the air with precision, its path instinctive rather than rehearsed.
His steps, too, had changed. The new rhythm of his body was faster, more aggressive—stripped of all the ceremonial grace he'd practiced for years.
What once resembled the disciplined elegance of training drills now carried the sharpness of a killing art.
It was like the difference between a dance and a duel.
Lucien paused, staring down at his trembling hands. "Just a few adjustments," he whispered. "And it feels like an entirely new style."
He smiled faintly, though the expression held an edge of disbelief. "Basic swordsmanship—changed. Basic footwork—changed."
The chip responded to his next thought before he even voiced it aloud.
"Can you merge the two?" he asked silently.
Negative. Skill integration failed. Insufficient data in host's database.
Lucien sighed. "Of course. You can't create fusion techniques out of thin air."
Still, the possibility lingered. The chip's ability to synthesize—to merge techniques into something greater—was a potential beyond anything he'd imagined. But for now, he lacked the raw material. He'd only learned a handful of combat forms, far from the variety the chip required to begin such fusion.
That would change, he promised himself. In time.
For now, there was something more urgent—strength itself.
Julian's words from earlier echoed in his mind.
Without power, skill is nothing but a showy trick.
He had seen that truth before—on Earth, in another life. The super-soldiers of the previous regime, born from chemicals and ambition, were the ultimate proof. The human body could be reshaped—pushed beyond its limits through serums, gene edits, and brutal training.
And in this world, that same dream of transformation existed in another form: magic potions.
Lucien reached beneath his bed and drew out a small, weathered leather case. Inside were the remnants of his old life—a few folded shirts, a sharpening stone, and a small black pouch that jingled faintly when he lifted it.
He loosened the string and poured the contents into his palm.
Thirty-four gold coins gleamed in the dim light, stamped with the stern visage of the founding monarch on one side, and the iris of the royal house on the other. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each coin heavy with the weight of value and privilege.
"This is everything," Lucien murmured. His father, Baron Rufu, had been generous—perhaps too generous—but even this small fortune could vanish with a single foolish choice.
He weighed the coins for a long time, then set his jaw. "Time to make an investment."
Half an hour later, Lucien returned, his steps lighter and his purse significantly lighter too.
In his hand he carried a tiny crystal vial, no taller than a finger. The glass shimmered faintly, refracting light into ribbons of crimson and rose. Inside, a single ounce of viscous liquid glowed with a pale, living red.
"A low-grade power potion," Lucien said softly. "Twenty gold coins for this."
He turned the vial between his fingers. The potion glimmered like molten ruby. "No wonder they say alchemists grow rich faster than merchants. Magic truly rewards those who understand it."
It was a potion most common among the sons of true nobility—those born into privilege and guided by powerful mentors. For Lucien, it was nearly half his entire fortune.
He did not drink it.
Instead, he placed the vial carefully back into the leather box, nestled among his few remaining coins, as though storing away a sacred relic.
"Not yet," he whispered. "Not until I'm ready."
He would need to study more—learn what the potion would do, how best to prepare his body to receive it. Otherwise, the effects could be wasted—or worse, turn against him.
With that thought, he stood, strapped on his sword belt, and left the dormitory once more.
The Orland Knight Academy stood at the western edge of the sprawling campus, while the Orland Magic Academy lay to the east. Between them stretched a cobbled square lined with stone benches and maple trees that glimmered silver under the noon light.
The two academies were rivals in philosophy but partners in function. They shared the same cafeteria, the same courtyards, and most importantly—the same library.
Lucien walked beneath the silver maples, their leaves whispering above him. He crossed the square, passed the magical fountain whose water danced in midair, and finally approached a tall building crowned with blue and white domes.
The college library.
Its great double doors opened with a low groan. The air inside was cool, touched by the faint scent of parchment and ink. Shafts of light streamed through the arched windows, painting gold lines across the polished floors.
Lucien paused, momentarily awed. Towering shelves stretched upward into shadows, filled to bursting with the written history of two disciplines—knighthood and sorcery.
The ceiling above was painted a deep blue, its swirling design evoking the night sky. For a moment, Lucien felt as though he stood beneath the stars.
He walked slowly between the shelves, scanning the leather-bound spines. Titles gleamed in silver lettering: Elemental Theory for Beginners, Heraldry and Blade Technique, The Philosopher's Flame.
"Where are you…" he muttered, eyes roaming.
Then he saw it—a thick volume bound in dark brown hide, its edges worn smooth by years of use. The title read simply: Basic Magical Materials.
Lucien reached out, pulled the book from the shelf, and carried it to a nearby reading table. The weight of it felt reassuringly solid in his hands.
He opened to the first page. The scent of old ink rose faintly, mingling with dust and age.
"Store information," he whispered.
The chip hummed softly.
Recording initiated.
A faint blue bar appeared before his eyes once again, inching forward as he turned the pages one by one. The chip absorbed every line, every illustration, every formula related to the properties of magical substances.
To anyone watching, Lucien appeared to be reading intently—perhaps a bit too quickly. His fingers turned the pages in rapid succession, faster than any normal reader could manage, yet his expression remained calm, almost serene.
He didn't notice the soft footsteps echoing through the rows of shelves.
Didn't notice the whisper of skirts or the faint murmur of two voices drawing nearer.
Two girls had entered the library, their gazes curious, their steps unhurried. From across the aisle, they saw the young knight apprentice bent over his book, his profile sharp against the dim light.
Lucien remained unaware, the faint blue glow of the progress bar reflected in his eyes as he read on.
Outside, the afternoon light was fading, but inside the library—the quiet hum of discovery had only just begun.