As soon as my father signaled his readiness, I surged forward, leading with a straight left and the edge of my shield aimed directly at him. I wasn’t worried about hurting him; since he had joined the system, the most I could do was bruise him. His level and stats were so high that, no matter what I did, I wouldn’t be able to harm him. This dynamic allowed us to spar with full force, emphasizing skill development and tactical experimentation without the fear of serious harm.

As my father ducked the blow, I planted my foot firmly, the crunch of dirt grounding me as I turned with measured precision. The edge of my shield cut through the air with a sharp, whistling sound, aimed directly at the spot he had just vacated. My muscles strained to maintain balance as the momentum carried me forward in a fluid, deliberate motion. Still crouched, my father twisted sharply, his movements effortless and precise, narrowly evading the shield's edge as it whistled past. With a calculated push against the shield, he tried to use its weight to throw me off balance, his counterattack as swift as it was strategic.

I twisted sharply, leveraging the weight of the other shield to steady my momentum, the movement flowing like a coiled spring unwinding as I spun fully around and delivered a slicing strike with the shield on my right arm. Unfortunately, I didn’t anticipate how quickly I would turn and ended up off balance, stumbling slightly as my shield's weight dragged me forward. This misstep left me wide open, and my father capitalized instantly, forcing me to regroup and rethink my approach. My father punished the mistake, punching just hard enough to break my Arcane Armor, and tripping me, ending the round.

“Dang it! I thought I had you with the spin, but I didn’t realize how much the shield’s momentum would pull me off balance,” I said with a smile, though my voice carried a hint of frustration. The realization of how much I still had to learn was humbling, forcing me to confront the weaknesses in my technique. Wielding two shields was both a blessing and a challenge—while the power and versatility they offered were undeniable, maintaining control during fluid transitions between offense and defense tested my coordination to its limits.

Each misstep, no matter how frustrating, sparked a determination to refine my movements. I began to see every stumble as an opportunity to adapt, focusing on the subtle shifts needed to master this style. Although I hadn’t managed to truly push my father, wielding two shields felt far more natural than handling a sword. With consistent practice and a willingness to learn, I was confident I could shape this approach into a fighting style that was not only effective but uniquely mine.

“You almost did, to be honest. But never turn your back to an opponent like that. If they’re fast enough, you won’t be able to stop them from hitting something vital,” my dad said, and normally, I would have agreed with him, but not this time.

“Actually, the only reason I did that was because of my new skill. As weird as it sounds, picking up the second shield and twisting like that wasn’t just instinct—it felt like someone else’s instinct passed on to me. I think my class is giving me insights on how to best utilize it,” I explained.

“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that. On that note, you have an ascended class. It’s currently more powerful than most others will have, but talents can break what most consider fact. Your skill stops all damage, but what if someone has a talent to bypass all protections? The likelihood of that happening is slim—I can’t think of a single talent that narrow in scope—but you should plan for the possibility. That way, you won’t be caught off guard—or worse, dead,” he warned.

I trusted my father’s words. His fighting experience far surpassed mine, even with the knowledge I carried from my previous life. While my class might provide instinctive guidance, that didn’t mean it was infallible now. With his advice in mind, I resumed sparring, consciously incorporating his warnings into my movements. Each time I prepared a spinning attack or left my back exposed, I forced myself to pause and reevaluate, shifting to smaller, more deliberate movements.

As our matches continued, I became increasingly aware of my positioning and how to leverage my shields without sacrificing my defenses. During one particularly intense session, I angled my left shield slightly outward, prompting my father to overextend his strike. The opening allowed me to counter with a precise jab from my right shield’s edge, a maneuver that reinforced the importance of precision and adaptability. Moments like these revealed how minor adjustments could decisively shift the momentum of a fight.

This deliberate application of his guidance marked a turning point in my approach, blending instinct with strategy in a way that felt natural. One session stood out: I feinted left with my shield, baiting my father into shifting his stance. Seizing the moment, I spun to the right and used the momentum to deliver a calculated strike with my second shield. Although he blocked it, the approving look in his eyes confirmed I was beginning to master the balance between instinct and tactical decision-making.

These small victories gave me a clearer vision of what my fighting style could become, pushing me to refine and perfect it further with every match.

I tried my hardest to push him and make him work for his wins. I also began to suspect he was intentionally training me not to rely on my skill. Every time he struck me, it would break the skill—sometimes barely, leaving me time to escape, and other times with overwhelming force, ending the round outright.

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For the rest of the week, we sparred. Each day brought its own challenges and insights. On one day, I struggled to maintain my balance while practicing a shield strike, repeatedly overcompensating and falling. On another, I learned the importance of timing when using the shield offensively, as my father exploited every opening I left. During one sparring session, I overcommitted to a forward strike, leaving my left side exposed. He immediately stepped in, using the blunt edge of his training sword to tap my ribs—a move that would have been devastating in a real fight.

That single moment taught me to better balance aggression with defense, ensuring I didn't sacrifice one for the other. These moments pushed me to analyze and adapt, deepening my understanding of how to refine my movements and strategies. On one particular afternoon, my father focused on countering my shield strikes with rapid footwork and precise jabs, forcing me to rethink my offensive strategies. I found myself adjusting my stance repeatedly, experimenting with angles and timing, and though I didn’t always succeed, I felt my movements growing sharper.

"You’re learning," he said with a satisfied grin after disarming me for the third time that day. "But don’t forget, a shield is also heavy. Use its weight to your advantage in your movements." His advice lingered in my mind as I practiced late into the evenings, refining not just my technique, but my understanding of how to make this unique style my own.

The next morning, I asked my father if we should visit Marian, thinking she might help me refine my two-shield style and skill, but he recommended against it for now. “We’ve been sparring with her for months,” he said. “If you suddenly show up with a new skill, it might be too much for her to ignore.”

Instead, we stopped by for a quick chat to let her know I’d be attending Ascension in a week and would no longer be hunting boar, though I promised to visit. As we were leaving, a surge of emotion overtook me. Grateful for everything she had taught me, I ran up to her, threw caution to the wind, and gave her a big hug, whispering, “Thank you for everything, Grandma.”

“Who are you calling Grandma? Want me to teach you another lesson—this one in manners?” she said, smacking me on the back of the head.

At that moment, my Panoptic Sense seemed to level up. It was as if a new layer of awareness had been unlocked—her outline became sharper, her movements more precise, and I could even sense subtle shifts in her posture and intent. This enhancement wasn’t just a change in perception; it fundamentally altered how I approached combat, allowing me to predict and react to threats with a newfound clarity. It felt like the culmination of my training and instincts, merging into something far greater. As I dodged her swats, her outline became more detailed—I could see slight curves, like the smile she wore while looking at me.

After that, my father and I spent the week preparing for my departure. Thanks to my Inventory, he was willing to buy items I might not typically be allowed on campus, like ten small magical knives that delivered an electric shock to stun opponents.

He also bought me two identical buckler-sized shields, pointed at the edges so they could double as weapons, and a set of leather armor. His reasoning was that, while my skill protected me, having extra protection over my vital areas was just smart planning. It reflected his cautious and strategic mindset, emphasizing the importance of preparing for unforeseen threats. I recalled a moment during one of our hunts when this mindset had paid off.

My father had insisted we set up a secondary escape route, a precaution I had initially dismissed as overly cautious. But when we found ourselves cornered by a rogue pack of boars, his foresight allowed us to slip away unscathed. That experience stuck with me, showing how small preparations could mean the difference between safety and disaster. By instilling this habit in me, he not only reinforced the value of defense but also highlighted how small measures could tip the balance in high-stakes situations.

We discovered I could equip items from my Inventory on our way home. I placed the armor in my Inventory, and I only had to think about wearing it for it to materialize on my body. My dad grumbled about unfair abilities for hours after that. It even motivated him to choose the Guard Captain profession, hoping it might include an ability to see into inventories. While it didn’t, it did provide a 25% stat boost while performing guard duties.

Meanwhile, my mom ensured I had plenty of food. We realized food stored in the Inventory came out exactly as it went in, so she cooked a variety of dishes to make sure I’d always have something good to eat.

When I wasn’t sparring or shopping, I spent time with Ayla. She acted like I was leaving forever, insisting we play every game we could. At bedtime, she bawled her eyes out, clutching my arm and begging for just one more game, her small voice breaking between sobs. Her tear-streaked face and quivering lip tugged at my heart, making it impossible to say no. In that moment, I felt a profound gratitude for my family—a love so overwhelming it left me silently vowing to protect this happiness no matter the cost. The love my family was showing also strengthened my resolve to ensure they never got hurt.

I began incorporating their safety into my decisions, whether it was practicing relentlessly to improve my combat skills or researching defensive strategies to prepare for potential threats. This resolve drove me to think strategically and anticipate dangers, ensuring I would always be ready to protect them no matter what challenges arose. These feelings became a driving force behind my decisions, shaping how I approached every challenge. Whether it was mastering my fighting style or preparing for the unknown dangers that lay ahead, the thought of protecting them gave my efforts greater purpose and focus.

The night before my departure, I sat with my mom and sister, the weight of the upcoming change settling over us. My mom hugged me tightly, her voice steady but tinged with emotion as she whispered, "We’re so proud of you. You’re going to do amazing things." Ayla, on the other hand, clung to me like a lifeline, her small hands gripping my arm as she pleaded, "Promise you’ll come back soon, okay? You have to tell me all the cool stories!"

Her teary eyes and quivering lip made it hard to keep my own emotions in check, but I managed a reassuring smile. "I promise, Ayla," I said softly, ruffling her hair. The room was filled with unspoken love and pride, a moment of quiet connection that made leaving just a little bit harder. My mom, of course, was awake the next morning and saw me off with a hug and a kiss, making me promise to come home that weekend. With farewells done, I set out for my first day at school—or rather, my first day at magic school.