Chapter 292
A little spar
Henry was in the middle of his training, and he was completely absorbed in it—so focused it bordered on intoxication. Every part of him moved with purpose as if his entire body had been honed alongside his sword.
His movements were filled with intent, each transition from one strike to the next smooth yet deliberate. It wasn't only the fluidity or flexibility that made it striking; it was the way his technique seemed to cycle through states. One moment it flowed like liquid, seamless and adaptable. The next it hardened into something solid and forceful, every step grounded with weight and precision. Then, without warning, his form would shift again—lightening, thinning, almost vapor-like before condensing back into liquid motion once more.
The constant cycling made his attacks unpredictable and difficult to read. There was no fixed rhythm, no pattern to fall into. Instead, everything felt refined, sharpened by repetition. It carried the unmistakable air of someone who had drilled the same motion thousands of times until it carved itself into instinct.
His entire presence felt like the embodiment of sharpness.
He thrusted at the air in front of him, the motion sharp and precise, before seamlessly twisting his wrist and guiding the blade to the right in a slicing arc. The movement flowed into the next without pause.
In the same breath, he pushed off the ground, twisting his body mid-air before snapping out a heel kick—perfectly aimed at where an opponent's head would have been.
As a swordsman, the sword was always the heart of his strength, but even he knew that relying solely on it would make him predictable.
A swordsman without adaptability was a swordsman who could be read—and once someone could read you, they could kill you. Adding other elements was essential.
When he landed, his feet touched the ground with a soft thud, yet his stance was already set. His sword rose instinctively, angled to defend himself before his body even fully steadied. A heartbeat later, he struck out with a sweeping arc, the blade slicing through the air as cleanly as if it were cutting through butter.
His next movement blurred for a second—so quick that, to the naked eye, his sword seemed to vanish entirely before reappearing mid-motion. From there he flowed into another attack, and then another, each transition seamless.
It looked less like a person practicing techniques and more like a dancer performing a routine he had memorized down to his very bones.
His rhythm was perfect, unbroken, every action tied into the next as though the sword itself were guiding him.
Then, with a particularly fierce horizontal slash that sent a pale gust of wind rippling across the room, he brought the sequence to a close.
Henry returned to his original position, exhaling he let out a turbid exhale that fogged the air for a moment before fading.
His extremely well-built body was soaked in sweat, every muscle tight beneath the sheen, yet his expression remained calm.
Henry's eyes stayed closed as he centered himself, clearly reviewing every action he had just performed. From the subtle shifts in his posture, it was obvious he was running through each strike and transition in his mind, correcting, refining, and preparing to push himself back to the highest level of concentration so he could start the entire sequence again from the beginning.
Just as he took a step to resume his routine, IAM's voice cut through the quiet.
"Are you just going to ignore me?"
Henry's body froze mid-movement. His eyes snapped open, and he turned toward IAM with an apologetic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. In truth, he had already noticed IAM the moment he walked in, but he had forced himself to finish the set before breaking his flow.
"You really are a beast with the way of the sword," IAM said, his tone carrying a mix of admiration and disbelief. With his recently improved understanding of swordsmanship, he could now see far more within Henry's movements than ever before. It was a depth that he had never been able to fully appreciate until now.
And with that newfound clarity, IAM could finally take a proper look into Henry's raw sword talent.
Even with all his years of experience—years far beyond what Henry currently had—IAM could confidently admit that Henry's pure skill with the sword was still higher than his. Not just slightly higher, either. Significantly. Terrifyingly.
It was almost unnatural how talented Henry truly was.
"And what exactly are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in a hospital bed? And why do you look like a homeless bum?"
A barrage of quick-fire questions shot out of Henry the moment he grabbed a towel and began drying himself, his expression shifting between concern and disbelief.
IAM met his gaze with an almost defensive look. "I recovered… Look, I was hoping we could have a little spar."
Henry paused mid-wipe, eyebrows rising in genuine surprise. "What are you talking about? You're nowhere close to even think about that. You can barely swing a sword."
"Well… I've had time to gain a little bit of experience," IAM said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small smile.
"What?????" Henry's voice cracked with an incredulous mix of disbelief and shock, his expression twisted.
From his perspective, IAM had literally passed out yesterday and only resurfaced after… what, a handful of hours? There was simply no possible universe where IAM could have gained any meaningful improvement in that amount of time.
Henry stared at him hard with uncomfortable scrutiny, checking whether the other person had smacked their head on something on the way in. His eyes narrowed slightly, shifting over IAM's face as if searching for cracks in logic, sanity, or both.
"…Are you sure," Henry finally said slowly, "that you didn't damage something while you were unconscious?"
He looked genuinely concerned—but also deeply judgmental at the same time, as if bracing himself for IAM to start claiming he'd awakened a divine sword spirit while napping or something equally ridiculous.