After a simple wash, Freya left her bedroom.

Although the morning was still early, the servants were already bustling about. As she descended the spiral staircase, she noticed a young maid in a white uniform diligently wiping with a cloth.

"Good morning, Miss Freya," the maid greeted respectfully upon seeing her.

"Good morning," Freya smiled and nodded. Just as she was about to continue, she paused and asked, "By the way, has Father had breakfast yet?"

"The baron left the castle early this morning," the maid replied courteously.

"Oh... I see," Freya nodded, her thoughts momentarily elsewhere.

In the castle's dining room, breakfast was not a communal affair, so only a few people were scattered around. After exchanging greetings, she sat down and quickly ate the food brought by the maids. The head seat, as expected, was empty.

Without lingering, she finished her meal and left the table. Due to her disobedience in going hunting alone and being attacked, Freya was effectively under house arrest in the castle as punishment from the baron.

However, she didn't mind. Considering the turbulent state of affairs outside the castle, venturing out would only bring her danger and worry her father. It was safer and more sensible to stay within the castle and find something to do.

After breakfast, instead of returning to her bedroom, she made her way to a large door deep within the castle, guided by her memories. The door was unlocked and easily pushed open.

The room was spacious and empty, with a red-brown floor reflecting a soft yellow from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Faint sounds of the guards training could be heard from outside.

The room contained some exercise equipment and a row of wooden sword racks, but nothing else. It was a place reserved for special individuals within the castle to train.

In Freya's memories, she had visited this room a few times out of curiosity as a child and had even been taught basic swordsmanship by the baron. However, due to its simplicity, her playful younger self had soon abandoned it.

Now, Freya understood that the basic sword techniques her father had taught her, though simple, were the most practical and effective for building strength.

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She walked to the sword rack and picked up a wooden sword. The brown wooden sword was somewhat heavy, deliberately made to simulate the weight of a real sword, about a meter long, with a cross-guard forming a standard cruciform shape, a common design for cross swords.

The hilt had intersecting grooves for a secure grip, and it felt reasonably comfortable in her hand. Freya closed her eyes, letting her mind recall past lessons.

In the vivid depths of her memory, a robust man with a thick beard was smiling as he demonstrated sword techniques to a little girl standing nearby. His movements, though seemingly casual, were precise and deliberate, whether chopping, slashing, or thrusting.

Though basic, these techniques quickly gave Freya an understanding of the proper force and movements.

Snapping her eyes open, she mimicked her father’s movements, swinging the wooden sword in a downward chop followed by a horizontal slash.

Despite the weight causing her movements to falter slightly, she knew that with continuous practice, her body would adapt to the correct motions ingrained in her memory.

After these initial movements, she adjusted her stance.

"Thrust!"

A faint swoosh echoed as her sword pierced the air, her hair glinting gold in the morning light.

"Uppercut!"

The wooden sword swished through the empty room, each swing gradually becoming more fluid. Soon, a fine layer of sweat appeared on Freya's forehead.

Switching the wooden sword to her left hand, she acknowledged the physical strain of using her entire body for these simple movements.

Despite inheriting her father’s strong constitution, she found the exercise tiring. She shook her slightly sore right hand.

"If only the sword were lighter."

She knew, however, that most weapons in this world were made of iron, with only a few high-quality steel weapons reserved for top warriors in major families. Durability and weight mattered more than sharpness here.

Complaints wouldn’t solve anything; training had to continue.

After a brief pause, the faint swoosh of the sword resumed. This simple training wasn’t about immediate results but required perseverance and determination.

As time passed, Freya’s movements became increasingly fluid and swift. Her swordplay, once hesitant, began to flow seamlessly, each strike carrying a sense of grace.

The wooden sword sliced through the air, creating a continuous stream of motion. Freya found herself growing more attuned to the sword, a response rooted in her early training.

Perhaps she truly had a knack for swordsmanship. Lost in practice, even the sweat soaking her clothes went unnoticed.

After a particularly intense flurry of movements, Freya finally halted, panting.

She was covered in sweat, her body aching from the unaccustomed exertion. The fourteen-year-old felt a lightness in her limbs, a subtle but real sensation.

Freya wiped the sweat from her forehead, a small smile playing on her lips as she eyed the wooden sword.

"This training method is indeed effective! But overdoing it could be detrimental. I need to make a plan."

With the increasing number of vagrants in the territory, the baron was often away, sometimes for days. Each return saw his sword stained with blood, leaving little time for Freya.

She didn’t mind. She established a routine: morning sword practice in the training room, followed by running exercises in the open grounds, and evening reading in the library.

Gradually, this routine became known to the castle’s inhabitants, and even the baron occasionally offered guidance.

This life continued for half a month.