You might wonder how the illustrious Ashur Astrea failed to notice his own mother’s pregnancy. The truth is… Mom always looked rather graceful, even with the sudden wight gain.

Okay, fine— I had no clue she was pregnant.

It was the exact same doctor who delivered me, making her round today for my sister. I waited outside the bedroom, and hearing the wailing and grunting didn’t exactly make me eager to step inside.

The keening cries gradually subsided with the door creaked open, and out stepped Father, a rather tired smile tugging at his lips.

“Ash,” he murmured, “come on. Let’s go meet your sister.”

Walking in was… well, it was something. The sight her— my tiny sister, red-faced and wailing— I froze. It was a visceral assault on my senses, but beneath it all was a warmth that was familiar to me.

Mother looked exhausted, beckoned me closer with a soft smile. I climbed up beside her, being mindful not to jostle the bed, and looked down at the quet bundle now nestled in her arms.

“Her names Claire,” she said soothingly.

I leaned in, whispering, “Hi Claire. I’m your big brother.”

Compared to her, my hands looked massive, but I lightly placed one over her swaddled belly. She twitched— then what felt like using force, wrapped her little fingers around mine.

It was enough to make a now adult tear up a bit.

Time moved quickly after Claire was born.

Between long afternoons learning about this world and secretly improving the flow of mana, the months quietly went up one after another— until now.

Yeah, today is my third birthday.

This world strangely resembled so much of my old one. The seasons were almost exactly the same, with autumn rolling around the corner. Strange, I expected something otherworldly or unique that differs, but it felt so normal.

I woke up to the sound of cheerful voices and rustling paper. My family gathered early to surprise me for the big day.

“A cake?” I mumbled groggily— until it hit my nose confirming otherwise. This… this… was gingerbread cake! Rich, chocolatey scent, with hints of spice. No complaints from me for the rest of the day if this is my treatment.

Besides cookies being my favorite and most lovable treat, gingerbread was high up there in the sweets department.

The presents came next. There was an abundant stack of small toys and picture books set up on the table, nothing over the top or fancy, but meaningful all the same.

“Ash, that’s not all! Look over there!” Mother said, pointing toward another bundle of gifts.

This one was different.

Gloves, boots, training trousers, basically practical gear for a child. This looked like the kind used for dodging and training. Never have I trained in my life before, but it wasn’t hard to figure out what they were hinting at.

I couldn’t help but look at my sister, who sat upright watching me with her usual quite demeanor. Her usual reaction was smiling softly and clapping her hands together whenever I did something.

The time for play was ending.

The following day, Father and I were in the back gardens, practicing swordplay. At three years old, my body was a bit more accustomed to moving around— no more wobbling like a duck. My parents decided it was time to start teaching me both physical and magical combat.

Father stood across from me, looking at me with certainty to watch him carefully.

“Now, Ash,” he said, planting his feet firmly. “The most important part of using any weapon is posture. Swinging your sword frantically will only cause the enemy to take advantage of the situation.”

He shifted into position. “Watch my form, son.”

His stance was rather simple really: feet shoulder-width apart, toes were angled just slightly outward. One hand gripped the sword just below the… uh… the cross-looking part—
I think it’s called a guard?
The other hand rested at the very bottom of the hilt.

Hey, at least I know that much.

He had let the flat part of the blade rest lightly along his forearm, casual, but ready.

So cool… seeing Father like that reminded me why he was a Silver Knight, and not some country bumpkin.

Well, let’s try to match his form.

I mimicked his stance as best as I could recall, but it was easier said than done with my balance being off. My legs also wobbled, and my grip felt uneven.

Looking at Father, he could tell it wasn’t properly done and stepped in with a nod.

“This is called a Schlussel Stance,” he explained. “It’s really great for defending and then switching to another form. I think it’d be best for you on the first week to practice swinging your sword down from this stance, until you get the feeling for it.”

I nodded; lips pressed tight, and hefted the wooden blade. Swung it down with full force, and repeated that a few more times.

After a few more times, my balance had been shaking and I fell to the ground, wiping the sweat off my brows,

Father laughed, clapping his hands in admiration at my effort. “Keep it up Ash. I’m teaching this to you now because it is important to understand posture while maintaining a rhythm.”

Father sat down next to the wooden stairs leading back to the house, arms resting on his knees. “Y’know, a lot of adventures like to brag about all the skills they’ve picked up overtime, but it doesn’t mean much when you can’t master one. Stretch too thin, and you end up half-good at everything, but great at nothing.”

Huh… that actually makes a lot of sense.

Scratching my chin in awe, it reminded me of the school sport fanatics that would play every season in sports without taking the time to fully master just one. I guess it makes sense that when in combat, learning too many becomes a burden as well if not properly trained for.

Father stood up, brushing the dust from his trousers.

“Well, since you understand, keep swinging till lunch is ready. We got about four more hours to go,” he said arrogantly with a huge grin on his face.

I couldn’t help but smile back. “Yes father!”

Several hours have passed with my body aching all over. The simple regimen routine was dreadfully painful and exhausting.

By the time the sun was high overhead, I decided it would be best to head back inside for a little break. My arms felt like gel, and the repeated position has made me sore all over.

Mother was sat by in the kitchen when I trudged in. Her expression looked worrisome, but she handed me a steaming bowl of soup, loaf of bread, and a jug of milk. With a sly smile, I nodded and took my seat.

The following day played out the same. More downward swings, more aching muscles, and the never ending draining of stamina. This, however— was working— at least it felt that way.

Days passed into weeks— weeks into months. In the timeframe, my swordplay had become swift enough that I could swing my wooden blade downwards in less than a second. The force behind my strikes was enough to scatter the dirt and grass beneath my feet.

Of course, this was a wooden sword which was extremely light— but still— the results showed.

Breathing heavily, my hands still ached and tingled from the repeated swings. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced toward Father, who for the better half of the months had been diligently observing and pointing out flaws throughout the way.

He stood there, arms crossed, watching in complete silence, but there was no hiding that grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“This is great!” Father exclaimed, clapping once. “You’ve really come a long way my boy!”

“A-are you sure, Father? I’ve gotten fast, but only with one move.”

He stepped forward and brushed my hair in my current confusion. “That’s all you need. A single, devastating strike is all it takes to win a fight.”

I nodded, but the feeling of uncertainty was always dwelling. It felt like there was still more I could do, more to prove. The endless urge to grow and push the boundaries only crept deeper into my soul.

Then his hands clapped again, drawing my attention. He looked almost amazed.

“It took me a long time to swing effortlessly and even with training, I would still tire at some point.”

I chuckled. “Well, I do have a wooden sword, Dad.”

He laughed with me, then gave me a firm nod, “You picked up faster than I expected. I think pretty soon I can teach you some different stances… but let’s work on that stamina, shall we?”

It felt good. Like I was finally earning it.

Father’s grin turned sly.
“How about a little bit of adversarial sparring?”