Two years had flown by since my reincarnation, and I was now three years old. I could walk, talk, and wander around the house on my own. My speech had become fluent, and my once-garbled words were now full-fledged conversations. With my newfound mobility, I spent most of my time exploring the halls of our medieval-style home, or running about outside, full of energy and curiosity.

It was a bright afternoon when my father, Michael Caddel, approached me with a gleam in his eye. He looked every bit the warrior—strong and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that fell just past his ears and a determined, yet kind, expression etched on his face. He motioned for me to follow him outside, his grin widening as we reached the training yard.

“Duke,” he said, his deep voice carrying both authority and warmth, “you’re growing fast, and it’s time you learned something important. Today, I’m going to start teaching you the basics of swordsmanship.”

I blinked up at him, my heart leaping. Swordsmanship? I’d watched him practice for months, his blade slicing through the air with precision and grace. However, there was a part inside me that wanted to get on working with magic. I want to shoot out fire orbs, manipulate wind and water and finally become the world’s best mage in some sort of fantasy story. I closed my eyes, face heading above, and visualized those scenes with my cheeks turning red

I looked up at him, barely able to hold back my enthusiasm. “Really, Dad? I can start training. And,.. can I train magic as well.”

He chuckled and ruffled my hair. “Of course. You’ve been watching me practice, haven’t you? I know you’ve been eager to get started. But magic isn’t my field, so you can ask mom about that.” He gestured toward a rack of wooden practice swords. “We’ll start with this.”

He handed me a small wooden sword, light enough for me to handle but sturdy enough to feel like a real weapon. My fingers closed around the hilt, and I couldn’t help but grin as I tried to mimic the stance I’d seen him use countless times. I probably looked ridiculous, but to me, I felt like a warrior already.

My father adjusted my stance gently. “Relax your shoulders a bit. Don’t be stiff. And here,” he moved my feet slightly, “you want a solid base. Balance is everything.”

“Got it,” I replied, determined to take this seriously.

He stood back, watching me closely. “Swordsmanship isn’t just about swinging wildly. You need to understand the different styles, each with its strengths and weaknesses. You can’t just rely on brute force. A smart swordsman knows when to attack and when to defend.”

“Okay, so… what are the styles?” I asked, eager to learn everything I could.

“Let’s start with the basics,” he began. “There’s the Winddance Blade—it’s a fast, agile style. You move like the wind, striking quickly before your enemy can react. It’s all about speed. People who follow this style usually carry a thin and long blade.”

I nodded, imagining myself moving like the wind. “That sounds amazing. What else?”

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“Then there’s the Stonewall Technique,” he continued, “focused on defense. You plant yourself like a wall, using powerful strikes to hold your ground. It’s slower but stronger. You need to be sturdy, like a rock. You might consider using a greatsword for this style”

I couldn’t help but admire how different the styles were. “So one is fast, the other is strong?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Then you have the Shadowfang Style, a tricky one. It’s based on stealth and deception. You use your footwork to confuse your opponent, making them see things that aren’t there. It’s not just about attacking; it’s about outsmarting your enemy. In this world, there is an assassination association.”

“assasinantion association?” I mature

“They are held somewhere in the south by the Fritz family. They have been working as hitmen for some royal families for centuries. I have met a guy inside the family and have gotten along with him quite well so don’t worry too much about it.” He said while getting a moderate dagger from his belt.

“Anyways, the Shawdowfang Style mainly uses daggers. It’s also an identifying feature and also very good for the style philosophy. They use their dagger and close the gap between them and the enemies and strike them.”

I frowned, trying to wrap my head around it. “That sounds hard… but cool.”

“It takes practice, like anything else,” he said. “There’s also Celestial Swordplay, a magical style. You channel magic into your blade, making your attacks more powerful. It’s rare and requires a lot of skill. Not everyone can master it. Despite the use of magic, the user only needs to pour a small amount of mana inside the sword to create a small magic. After combining it with your muscle and skill, it will be on a higher level.”

At the mention of magic, I raised an eyebrow. Magic still seemed like something out of a fairy tale to me, even though I’d seen my mother heal me with her magic before. “Magic with a sword? That sounds kind of… far-fetched,” I muttered under my breath.

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’ll understand soon enough. And then there’s the Twin Blade Flow—wielding two swords at once. It’s all about speed and precision, attacking from two angles. It’s incredibly difficult to master but deadly when done right.”

As he spoke, I could see the passion in his eyes. Swordsmanship wasn’t just a skill to him—it was an art. I tightened my grip on the wooden sword, my determination growing.

“Each sword style,” my father explained, “comes with its own set of traits. Some are better suited for specific opponents or battle conditions. You need to understand when to use each one if you want to survive on the battlefield.”

I stared up at him, gripping the wooden sword a little tighter. “Survive…” The word lingered in my mind. This wasn’t just training for fun; this was about life and death. Even at three, I could sense the gravity behind his words.

I nodded, ready to start. “I won’t let you down, Dad.”

He grinned. “I know you won’t. Now, let’s begin.”

We spent the next hour going over basic movements. I mimicked his swings, trying to keep my balance as he corrected me with patience. Every time I stumbled or held the sword awkwardly, he’d step in and guide me.

“You’re doing great,” he said after a while, his voice filled with pride. “Remember, it’s not about how strong you are right now. It’s about learning the right techniques. Strength will come with time.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. “This is harder than it looks,” I admitted with a small laugh.

He smiled warmly. “It’s tough, but you’ve got potential. Just keep at it.”

As we continued, I glanced over at my father, watching how effortlessly he moved with his sword. His strikes were smooth and controlled, his muscles rippling with each motion. He wasn’t just training me—he was showing me what it meant to be a warrior, someone who lived by the sword.