Yano flipped open the notebook, glanced at it for a moment, then closed it and set it on the millstone. He picked up his knight sword and stepped onto the ground.
He took a deep breath of the cold air, warmed up his limbs, and slowly assumed the starting stance for sword practice.
He remembered that Boss had once said that after he became an Official Knight, he seemed to have acquired a passive ability called "Heart of the Sword Knight."
At the time, Boss had used a rather strange phrasing to describe it, saying that from then on, all of his strength training would yield extra results, while also enhancing his comprehension of sword techniques, and that when executing any sword skill, its power and precision would receive an invisible boost.
Back then, he hadn't fully grasped the meaning of those words. He only felt that holding a sword felt lighter than before, and some sword moves that he had struggled to master in terms of timing suddenly clicked.
After half a year of continuous battles, he was increasingly able to feel that heart, which beat only for sword techniques.
Whenever his fingers wrapped around the sword's hilt, his body would unconsciously heat up, and his muscles would automatically remember the angle and force of each slash. The sword moves he had practiced repeatedly in his mind before going to sleep the night before could be executed flawlessly at the training ground the next day.
He learned the same sword skills much faster than Galvin.
He lowered his center of gravity and thrust his sword forward.
A straight thrust—the simplest starting move in knightly swordsmanship. No fancy changes in trajectory, just pushing the sword tip forward from the waist.
But when this thrust was executed, the sword tip cut through the air, and the resulting wind pressure swept past the low stone wall across the yard, peeling off the old plaster from its surface with that seemingly insignificant force.
He withdrew his sword, adjusted his breathing, gripped the hilt with both hands, pulled the knight sword diagonally backward to the right to build power, then slashed horizontally.
【Sword Hum】
The blade left blurry afterimages in the air, followed closely by the sound of a sword hum. Several sword marks of varying depths instantly appeared on the ground.
This was a technique he had originally derived from the "Sword Scripture" and refined through actual combat.
As the blade trembled violently, it could split into several blurry afterimages at the moment of the slash, effectively stacking multiple strikes. Its power far exceeded that of ordinary skills.
But he knew very well that while these sword techniques seemed terrifyingly powerful, it was mostly the terrifying strength attribute granted by his Gargoyle bloodline that was playing the dominant role.
Even if he casually swung a blunt weapon, he could produce similar destructive marks.
He withdrew his sword and stood still, lowering his head to look at his sword-wielding hand. His knuckles were thick, covered in calluses honed from years of gripping a sword.
A question arose in his mind: For a knight, which was more important—strength or technique?
Most knights would probably answer "strength" without hesitation.
The strength attribute directly determined the damage of skills, and the path to increasing strength was more straightforward, with a clearly visible upper limit.
Training and combat—each step brought a definite numerical increase.
Technique refinement, on the other hand, was both arduous and time-consuming, and its effects were often less noticeable than strength.
He had thought the same way before.
The Gargoyle bloodline had given him a solid boost in strength, and it had indeed lifted him straight into the ranks of Extraordinary professionals.
But the Sword Scripture was the exception.
He had found that the book also seemed to focus on practicality at first glance, with each chapter explaining how to temper the body and refine specific sword techniques.
However, above all these practical chapters, there was a single chant that ran through the entire text.
Whenever he practiced swordplay to the point where his body heated up and his breathing could no longer keep up with his movements, this chant would automatically rise in his mind, as if etched into his memory.
"With the fist, grasp the sword; with the sword, drive the fist. A thousand hammers, a hundred refinements—transform intent into the blade. The sword is not an external object; the body itself is the edge. Without thought, without self—strike like breathing."
Every time he practiced swordplay and silently recited this chant, he felt as though everything around him was gradually fading away.
The sound of the wind, the noise from the distant town, the occasional chirping of birds passing over the wheat fields... these sounds were completely shut out by his focus, as if an invisible barrier separated him from them.
His body and the sword in his hand seemed to be leaving this world together. He was simply swinging the sword, swinging again, and swinging again, each strike attempting to break through that elusive barrier.
Yano suspected that there might be a higher realm beyond the four stages of the Sword Scripture.
The original owner of the book had vaguely hinted at its existence between the lines, but even that original owner had only touched the threshold, never crossing it.
And now, he was facing the same problem.
Yano slowly exhaled a puff of white mist, adjusted his body again, scuffed his feet on the snow, and raised his sword tip once more.
This time, he used no skills at all—just pure sword swinging.
A diagonal downward slash, a reverse upward flick, a straight thrust, a turning backhand cut, a lunge and sweep downward... These were all basic sword training moves, the kind that every knight in the Border Corps practiced repeatedly.
But at the same time, he silently recited the chant of the Sword Scripture in his mind.
"With the fist, grasp the sword; with the sword, drive the fist. A thousand hammers, a hundred refinements—transform intent into the blade. The sword is not an external object; the body itself is the edge. Without thought, without self—strike like breathing..."
Gradually, he felt his spirit and soul sinking into the knight sword in his hand.
The texture of the wrapped cloth on the hilt, the recoil of the blade cutting through the wind, the solid feel of his feet on the snow—all of it disappeared.
The sound of the wind, the distant barking of dogs, the rumbling of carriage wheels passing by outside the yard... one by one, all external sounds were stripped away. He had once again entered that peculiar state of focus.
There was not a single distracting thought in his mind. He just swung the sword, swung again, and swung again.
Until his body was red-hot, sweat dripping from his forehead, melting small craters into the snow beneath his feet before being quickly covered by fresh snowfall.
He simply took off his shirt and threw it onto the millstone. His bare upper body steamed with white vapor as he swung the knight sword.
A gap was cut into the wall by the sword wind. A large patch of withered grass in the backyard was flattened by the blade's pressure. With him as the center, the snow was crisscrossed with sword marks.
Lola came once with the nanny that Nilly had found for her.
She was holding a meal basket covered with a cloth. She stood quietly watching him for a long time, then bent down to set the basket beside the millstone. She turned and, supporting herself on the nanny's arm, silently went back inside.
Yano didn't notice Lola had come. What he also didn't notice was that as he practiced, his movements were changing.
His sword techniques gradually shed deliberate control, becoming fluid and natural, as if each move and stroke was executed automatically by his body.
The reverse-hand sword block, which he rarely used, combined with a turning downward slash, now came out instinctively.
Those sword moves that he had only used a few times on the battlefield, or had never used in actual combat at all, flowed out smoothly in this near-unconscious state of sword swinging.
In the past, he relied on muscle memory from repeated training to swing his sword. Now, he relied on instinct.
The sun slowly shifted westward, and dusk descended.
The snow in the backyard was dyed in layers of cold gray. The outline of the distant mountains gradually blurred in the twilight.
Snowflakes began to fall—at first just a few scattered flakes, then heavier and heavier. They landed on his head, his eyelashes, and his bare shoulders, melting from his body heat.
He swung his sword one last time, and his body slowly withdrew from that selfless state.
He lowered his head to look at the sword in his hand, then raised it to look at the snow-covered backyard wall, a look of regret on his face.
It was a pity. In the end, he hadn't been able to break through that barrier.
It didn't seem to be directly related to the number of practice sessions.
This afternoon, he couldn't remember how many times he had swung his sword—perhaps more than he had in the past half-month combined.
But that barrier remained unmoved.
It seemed he was missing a flash of insight.
Perhaps the original owner of the "Sword Scripture," when he wrote that chant, had also been like him, swinging his sword to the point of exhaustion in some forgotten corner countless times. Perhaps he, too, had stood before the same finish line, facing the same problem, but ultimately couldn't cross that threshold.
That was why he left the chant to future generations, hoping that those who practiced his swordsmanship might take one step further from where he had fallen.
But unfortunately, Yano couldn't solve this puzzle either.
Maybe he was too dull. Or maybe something was still missing.
Could it be that he needed to practice those Dao techniques that Boss had mentioned to break through this barrier?
But he remembered Boss saying that he didn't have something called a "dantian," so he couldn't use Dao arts at all.
As far as he knew, the only ones who could master Dao arts were those Slime Mages who specialized in studying Arcane Arts theory at Slime City Academy.
If the problem really lay with the dantian, then he truly could never break through this barrier.
Yano let out a slight sigh. He sheathed his knight sword, stood for a moment in the twilight and snow, then picked up the meal basket from the side and went inside. He washed himself with cold water, changed into a clean set of cotton-linen shirt and trousers, and then returned to the main house for dinner.
For the next half-month, he followed the same routine every day.
He would get up at dawn to practice swordsmanship. At noon, Lola would bring him a meal. At dusk, he would put away his sword, bathe, and have dinner.
At the dinner table, he would chat with Lola about trivial matters in the town, but she could tell he was always distracted.
Sometimes he would stare blankly at her, only coming back to his senses when she called out to him. He would smile apologetically, then fall silent again.
One evening during dinner, his fork had been stuck in a baked potato for a long time without moving. His eyes were fixed on the dark wheat field outside the window, lost in thought.
Lola put down her spoon, reached over, and took his hand. She asked softly, "You seem troubled. Have you encountered a difficult problem?"
Yano snapped out of it, startled for a moment, then nodded. "I really do have a problem."
He didn't brush her off with excuses because she didn't understand swordsmanship. Instead, like telling a story, he slowly narrated everything from the moment he received the Sword Scripture to the deadlock he still couldn't break, bit by bit.
He spoke slowly, occasionally pausing to choose his words, trying his best to use metaphors she could understand.
After listening, Lola looked at him with her still-bright and gentle eyes and said, "I don't know anything about sword techniques, and I can't give you any profound advice. But since this book was given to you by His Majesty, maybe His Majesty knows how to solve it."
"Why don't you go ask him?"
Yano opened his mouth, instinctively looking for an excuse. He wanted to say that His Majesty was very busy, that such a small matter wasn't worth troubling him, and besides, he hadn't been to the Royal Palace in a long time.
But he swallowed all those words.
"Right now?" he asked.
"Why not?" She smiled slightly. "I think His Majesty would probably like to see you too. It's been so long since you last visited him."
Yano felt as if warm water had washed over his heart. Those unspeakable feelings of shame, awkwardness, and some inexplicable sense of pride suddenly seemed incredibly ridiculous at this moment.
When had he become so concerned about saving face?
He had reached a point where he needed his wife to find a reason for him to go see his own liege.
He really should go back to see Boss. Just simply go back and visit, tell Boss that he was doing well recently, that Lola was pregnant again, and that there was a whole field of wheat visible from the backyard.
"Alright." He tightened his grip on Lola's hand. "I'll pack up the day after tomorrow and go back. I'll have Auntie come over to take care of you for a few days."
"Miss Nilly contacted me at noon," Lola said, blinking. "She said she had something to discuss with you, but you were still practicing swordplay in the backyard at the time and didn't notice."
"Auntie is looking for me?" Yano was a little puzzled.
"Mmm. She might even arrive tonight."
"Don't need tonight. I'm here now." A familiar voice came from the shadowy corner of the room.
Nilly strolled out of the dark corner of the wall. She stood by the dinner table, looking down at their meal tonight—creamed stew, grilled sausages, a few thick slices of buttered bread, and a small dish of pickled cucumbers that Lola had made herself.
She patted her stomach and let out a sound of approval. "Hey, this is pretty lavish."
Lola slowly stood up, supporting herself on the back of her chair, and smiled. "Would you like some, Miss Nilly? I'll have the nanny prepare a portion for you."
"That would be great. We'll talk business after eating. As expected, Lola is the best!" Nilly beamed, without any hint of refusal. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the opposite end of the dinner table.
After the nanny brought her portion of dinner, she picked up her fork and began wolfing it down, her cheeks stuffed full. She mumbled incoherently while chewing.
"I'm starving. I haven't eaten all day. I left Slime City this morning and have been traveling nonstop. Didn't even have time for a glass of water."
Yano was long used to her casual manner. He poured her a glass of milk and asked, "What's so urgent? Is there an enemy?"
Nilly took the glass, downed half of it to clear her throat, then spoke seriously.
"Not that serious. But this time, it does concern both of us."
"You remember what I told you before, right? The ancestors of our Belmont family originally wandered here from overseas."
Yano nodded.
Nilly had indeed mentioned this before. On the day he officially decided to inherit the Stone Descendant's Belmont surname, she had sat by the fireplace in the old Gore mansion and rambled on about family history for an entire afternoon.
"Well, they've come knocking," Nilly spread her hands. "There's a Stone Descendant clan called the Stoneheart family from the archipelago. They sent an envoy across the sea to ask for help."
"The specifics haven't been clarified yet. His Majesty wants the two of us to go check things out—see what kind of relationship this Stoneheart family has with us, and what kind of trouble they've gotten themselves into."
To be honest, Yano didn't have much interest in his so-called ancestral origins.
He had grown up in the Kingdom of Hima, and it was only after getting to know Nilly and the others that he gradually developed an identity as a Stone Descendant.
He didn't have much emotional attachment to that distant homeland across the sea, a place he had never visited. Compared to some Coral Stone, what he cared about more were the living people around him.
Still... he reconsidered. Since Boss himself had personally named him for this mission, it wouldn't hurt to make the trip.
Afterward, he could go to Slime City to report back, and on the way, he could ask Boss for advice on the problem that had been troubling him.
"Then let's go back." He drained the milk in his cup, stood up, and glanced at the fine snow still falling outside the window.
"I'll take the guest room tonight. We'll set off together tomorrow morning."
"...Alright. Tomorrow, I'll have Elara come over to take care of Lola for a while." Nilly stuffed another piece of sausage into her mouth.