My new mother forbade me from drawing runes on my body.
That was a bummer.
I spent the next two years scribbling on empty papers and breathing to myself in our little backyard like a fake-ass monk. I got quite good at it, though, and by the grand age of 5 I could draw more than five runes in a single day.
Quite the accomplishment, right?
But it was nothing in the face of my birthday gift.
"We start tomorrow," Mother said on a sunny morning, holding in her hands a wooden sword carved in perfect detail. It even had a hand guard.
I couldn't stop staring at it.
A damned sword!
Finally!
We're doing this!
"Thank you, mum," I said as I reached and grasped the wooden hilt. It felt smooth in my hands. I could heft it with ease since it was clearly made for a child around my age. "I'll make good use of it!"
"You are to keep that sword well and clean. You are to take care of it like it is your child," Mother said, looking down at me with a surprisingly deep impression. "Keep it under your pillow at night. Always keep it somewhere close where you can reach. Understood?"
I… nodded eagerly, although a part of me wondered if this training I was supposed to go through would be something different than I thought.
Mother looked strangely serious at that moment, and I felt as if I was about to enlist in some sort of child military.
Was this experience talking? Were my mother's deep insecurities finally showing themselves? Or was this a Celestial Knight's approach to sword training?
I didn't know which one it was, but I wouldn't ignore the advice of a woman who had earned herself the name Butcher of the Dawn.
That night, I slept with the sword tucked safely under my pillow, the last two years of utter boredom flashing before my eyes. I wasn't quite ready to draw Grade 2 Runes yet - since even a single one of them demanded about ten Grade 1 Runes worth of soul energy - but with Grade 1 Runes I was a complete menace. There were Strength, Speed, Agility, Endurance, and even Mana Runes in my growing collection, and I couldn't make use of them on my own.
Not quite yet, at least.
It was something about my body's natural growth. Mother had told me that my training would have me face certain difficulties, and bypassing these through use of Runes would be sort of cheating. I had asked her what was the point of studying runes if I couldn't cheat my way through things like these, but with one glare, she shut me up right away.
Later I could see her reasoning. There was a good chance that I would breeze my way through different Rune Grades in the future, meaning the external help I would be getting from them would constantly change. To adapt and adjust myself to those changes, first I had to be my body's own master.
Hence why a grueling training arc awaited me. No magic. No runes. No nothing. Just the sword and the famous Butcher of the Dawn for a tutor.
I clenched the tips of my pillow tight, squirming over the bed with excitement.
It didn't get any better than this, right?
Of course it didn't.
...….
"The sword is versatile. It is not the king of weapons. It is not the king of anything. It's just that, a weapon useful in a great variety of circumstances, which makes it practical."
Mother stood in the backyard clad in leather clothes, holding one moderate-sized sword in her hands unlike the greatsword she'd often practiced with. Her blond hair was set free and fell across her shoulders in glistening curls.
The muscles on her bare forearms, and the way she stood—right foot out in the front, knee slightly bent—made it look as though she was ready for a lunge. I could see a feline ferocity in her eyes, which doubled my expectations.
Her commentary about the sword, on the other hand, was surprising.
"Does this mean I will get to train with other weapons?" I couldn't help but ask.
In most of the MMOs or even the novels I read, people often used the same type of weapon until the end. I'd thought I'd be the same. A sword in my hand, then I wouldn't have to worry about a weapon ever again.
"This isn't the Sword's Path, Leo. A Knight is a master of all weapons," Mother said, running the tip of her finger across the sword's gleaming surface. "In war, and in many a battle, you will lose your weapon. In the center of chaos you can't count on a singular mastery. You have to know how to make use of things around you. A spear or even a rock can be just as effective as a sword in the right circumstances."
"Is that why we start with the sword, then?" I asked, glancing down at my little wooden weapon. "Because it's the most versatile?"
That brought a proud smile to my mother's lips.
"Exactly. Using a sword will teach you many things, of which the most important one is the balanced way of utilizing your body. Then, slowly, you'll begin to learn how to change that balance to your own merit. Make it sharper when you're stabbing with a spear, make it tougher when you're aiming for a parry, make it flexible and insidious as a snake when you're reaching with a whip, and so on."
Blood boiled in my veins. Somewhere deep in my stomach a sense of expectation grew to take me into its arms.
I was too innocent. Too naive to believe this would be a basic training session.
Mother looked intent on making a Knight out of me.
And, on a side note, they used whips here?
"Plant your left foot on the ground. Make it as steady as you can. You're a righty, so you will instinctively favor that side. I want you to grasp the sword like this—" She showed me her own grip and waited patiently as I adjusted my chubby fingers, "Good. Now, we will start with overhead swings. Try to keep the sword as straight as you can manage."
I raised the sword over my head, pausing when the hilt was just above my eyes, then gave it a downswing with all I had.
It made a poor whooshing sound on its way down, dragging me stumbling a step forward with its momentum.
I knew that was a mistake before Mother clicked her tongue.
"Steady," she reminded, sounding still patient. Good. I wouldn't be smacked across the head for a single mistake. "You're learning your balance. The feeling of a sword in the palm of your hand. The momentum it carries on with each swing. The way it reacts to your strength. Don't let it drag you around. You're the one holding it. Force it to heed to your commands."
I did that. I swung the sword once again and forced it to a stop with my arms straining and feet pulling my weight down. This time, I didn't stumble, but my fingers stung dully from the effort.
"Not bad. But be better," Mother said, then reached forth with the tip of her sword and nudged gently at my hilt a few inches upward so it stood just before my waist. "Now, give me a thousand swings."
"Okay," I said.
I swung my sword a few times, giving it my all, drops of sweat dotting my face. It was around the twentieth swing that I paused to gather my breath. I was deeply proud of my performance. A five-year-old kid swinging the sword twenty times right away!
How good was that?
"Why did you stop?" Mother said.
I blinked.
"I didn't tell you to rest. Go on. Work those hands. You have about nine hundred more to go."
"What?" I glanced up at her, hoping to see that loving smile once again. Surely she was joking. Such a prankster, my new mother was, playing with her five-year-old son. Her ONLY son!
What greeted me was an impassive, ice-cold face of a warrior, seeming strangely disappointed and angry at the same time. The second our eyes crossed she gave me a nudge with her chin.
"Seriously?" I blurted out. "A thousand times? I have to swing this thing a thousand times? How?"
I thought it was one of those things personal trainers told their new customers. Give me a bazillion push-ups or something. They never meant it. They just wanted you to give it your all.
The ground cracked as the tip of my mother's sword stabbed through the grass. She leaned on the hilt, staring me dead in the eyes, waiting, daring me to say another word.
I gulped.
Who was this woman?
Where did my anxious, loving mother go?
My arm straining, I pulled the sword back and managed my stance. I gave it a swing. That cold face barely reacted. There was no pride anymore. No satisfaction. Just the painful expectation of a Knight who happened to be my mother.
Damn it.
Once again, I took her too lightly!
I cried my tears into my heart as I kept the swings going.
...….
It wasn't until a month after our first training session that the feeling returned to my arms. Such a random thing, really, since I'd just woken up and was about to eat breakfast. That was when it occurred to me that I could feel my fingers again.
Whew!
My jolly mood soured shortly after since I knew what this meant.
It was time for the spear.
This would be the next two years of my life. Mother made that very clear to me. Two years of weapon and body training, after which I would start my internal energy practices.
Two years of suffering.
Two years of hardship!
My new mother didn't love me anymore. She was a cruel warrior clad occasionally in everyday clothes. It was like living with two people at the same time.
One of them cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Read me stories from the books and caressed my now shoulder-length hair tenderly. She stitched me new clothes with her hands.
The other one was a battle-hardened drill sergeant who refused to take my pleas seriously. Teary eyes didn't work on her. Pained grunts hardly changed her impression. The bruises around my formerly smooth arms did nothing to ignite some sense of motherly love in her heart. She was cold. She was, in a sense, my commander.
And I was the worst soldier ever to study under her flag.
This oddly forced me to work harder. In my old life, I'd evaded such difficulties because… well, I could. Here, though, I couldn't do that. I didn't want to do that. And I seriously doubted tears would be enough to change a damn thing.
If I wanted this to be over, there was only one way.
I needed to get better.
Better than my new commander thought possible.
So, I picked the spear up from the ground without a word. It was a wooden thing, of course, carved by none other than the woman who stood before me. I hefted it with both my hands. Felt its weight and adjusted my grip.
In a way, holding a spear felt completely alien compared to holding a sword. The second I stabbed with it, though, muscle memory kicked in. The stabs I practiced with the sword guided my hands as I managed to complete the move. Then I settled a step back and braced myself.
Mother had that look about her, again.
A thousand stabs.
I sighed.
...…
We never went out. That was one constant in our ever-changing lives. In a way, I was a complete shut-in in this life too, except for different reasons. I didn't know why, but there seemed an invisible barrier between our house and the rest of the village that my mother refused to let me cross.
That changed when I was six years old.
Mother took me to the forest. Fresh air, and so forth. Green scenery and the birds. Towering trees and whatever. It was a forest. There was a footpath running through it, dotted with little goat feces which suggested it was used by the village people.
I was to run for two hours every day under my commander's strict eyes.
Physical training.
Working the body.
I sucked in an exhausted breath. Knowing this would come didn't change anything. My motivation about becoming a great Knight was fast dwindling as Mother kept providing me with bigger and worse challenges at each growth point.
You're good with the spear? Nice, then take this flail. How about the axe? Why don't you cut a thousand logs for us? What's with that face?
I was mentally drained. Worse, I found myself missing my peaceful practices with ink and paper. I still did those, of course, but there was a difference between eating a rich breakfast and lying on the lush grass of our backyard with my books and ink bottles than having my fingers tremble after a cruel session of morning training.
My formerly relaxed life was now divided into strict, painful lessons.
More were on the way.
At one point, I had nearly convinced myself to talk to Mother about the long-lasting harms of child training. I mean, training rigorously at this age couldn't be healthy, right? Surely there must be some strong point that I could argue to force her to give me some leeway.
If only internal energy wasn't a thing.
The energy that all human beings held in their bodies had miraculous recovery effects once trained.
Or so my mother had told me.
Anyway, I ran. Because believe it or not, parents hardly paid attention to their children's opinions. They had their own schedules, or scenarios with which a child had to abide. In the case of my Mother, my eagerness to become a great Knight—I was what, three years old when I said that?—seemed enough of a justification to push me to the brink.
I ran like somebody chased me with an RPG in their hands. I ran across the footpath and through the barbed bushes as though monsters were out on this particular morning to feed on a six-year-old's flesh.
Completing those hours took everything from me. Meanwhile, my Mother barely sweat as she kept pace with me, a guardian who refused to peel her eyes from her only prisoner.
I was breathing like a wasted bull through my nose when we were done. Mother smiled lightly and took something from behind a tree. Wrapped in a cloth, I didn't know what it was, but at this point I was done trying to guess what sorts of torture she'd prepared for me.
"You're making good progress with the sword and the spear. This, however, will be a change of pace for you," she said, unfolding the cloth and revealing what was underneath it. "This will be your lifeblood in the wilds."
"A bow?" I blinked.
"Mm," Mother nodded deeply. "We live in the age of chaos, Leo. We live in times where peace is a scarce commodity. Here, in the outskirts, this reality may feel distant, but there will come a time when you will be forced to feed yourself. That's when you will find the bow is a hunter's only friend."
I wrapped my hand around the bow's gleaming surface. It wasn't wood. Or rather, it wasn't of the same wood my mother made the sword and most of my weapons from. It was rigid and tough, but it felt strangely elastic at the same time. The string was also weird. It glistened underneath the sunlight.
"First, we have to make sure you can shoot things that are in front of you. Then we can move on to perception and tracking. We will start with the easy. We will start with things that can't move."
She pointed a finger at one of the trees in the distance, a close one that had a thick bark. I was then handed a quiver, which I strapped to my back. Its weight pulled my back down, but thanks to a year-long training I was more than well-equipped to handle a bunch of arrows.
With that, the second phase of my training had begun. There was only one year left before I could tap into my internal energy, but at least now I would get to taste fresh air every so often instead of being a prisoner of my own backyard.