Extra To Protagonist-Chapter 81: Test of Swords

The window caught a bit of moonlight, pale streaks stretching across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, the training bells rang once. Then again. Someone sparring late. Probably chasing a ghost of someone better.

He didn't get up.

He didn't undress.

He just pulled the blanket back, climbed under it, and closed his eyes.

Not to sleep.

Just to rest.

No dreams came.

Not yet.

—

Next Morning the practice all reeked of oil, sweat, and too many students trying too hard.

First-years were scattered into loose lines across the sand-dusted floor. Half wore brand-new gear. The other half wore the kind of stiff nervousness that came with trying not to look like they belonged in a different class.

Merlin stood at the edge, arms crossed, back straight, waiting.

He hadn't taken a formal sword lecture since before the breach.

Since before everything.

And yet, here he was. Still here. Still standing. Just… quieter now.

He didn't speak as Reinhardt entered.

The man didn't need to announce himself.

He just stepped into the hall, black coat trailing behind him like a banner of discipline and old bloodshed.

"Form a line," he said.

They did.

Merlin joined at the far end.

Reinhardt's eyes swept the room like he was already disappointed in everyone. "Today we will learning what you should have already known."

Some students shifted awkwardly. Nathan elbowed Adrian. Adrian grinned.

Merlin didn't move.

He didn't need to.

He was watching the rack of training weapons being rolled in by two assistants.

Simple. Functional. Standard.

He stepped forward and took the longsword before anyone else could reach for it. Not Keryx. Not this time.

This blade felt unfamiliar in a way that made his skin itch.

'Weight's off. No resonance. Just dead steel.'

That was fine.

Reinhardt split them into pairs.

Liliana and Elara went off to one side. Nathan paired with a twitchy-looking lightning affinity boy who kept muttering under his breath.

Merlin found himself standing across from a girl with short-cut hair and sharp green eyes.

She blinked.

Then swallowed.

"You're the one who—"

"I'm not here for questions."

She shut up.

They raised their swords.

"Begin," Reinhardt said, without looking.

The girl lunged first. Eager. Too much momentum.

Merlin sidestepped. The edge of her blade scraped the air in front of his chest, nowhere close to a hit.

He let her follow through, watched her center fall out of balance. Then tapped the flat of his sword gently against her hip.

"Point."

She blinked again. Stunned.

He stepped back.

Reset.

The next round she was slower. More focused.

Good. It still wasn't enough.

Merlin's body remembered the movements. Even if the strength hadn't fully returned, the habits had. Pressure. Timing. Positioning. It wasn't about force, it was about intent.

He struck low this time. Hooked her blade with the guard. Stepped in and turned.

Her sword clattered to the floor.

"Again," he said.

She picked it up.

Across the room, he caught Nathan watching.

He didn't smile. Neither did Merlin.

'He's gauging me. Wondering how much I'm holding back. Don't look too strong. Don't look too weak. Just enough.'

The rest of the class blurred.

Different partners. Same result.

He won every match.

Never fast enough to draw suspicion. Never slow enough to let anyone land a hit.

By the end of it, sweat clung to the back of his neck. His legs ached. His shoulder twinged.

But he stood.

And when Reinhardt made his rounds, he paused.

Looked at Merlin's stance. The sword.

"You never use that kind of blade."

Merlin didn't flinch. "Trying something different."

Reinhardt stared a second longer.

Then grunted.

"Next time, use something with weight. Stop pretending you don't know what you're doing."

Then he moved on.

Merlin exhaled quietly.

'So he noticed.'

He didn't change weapons. Not yet.

He stayed through the full class. Didn't ask to leave early. Didn't speak unless required.

And when the bell rang and the students began to pack their gear, Merlin remained behind a little longer.

Wiped the blade clean.

Hung it back on the rack.

The steel didn't thank him. But it also hadn't betrayed him.

That was enough.

—

Reinhardt didn't bark commands. He didn't need to. His presence alone bent the room into shape. His voice, low and firm, echoed once across the stone walls.

"Switch partners."

No complaints. No hesitation.

Just movement. Weapons sheathed. Eyes shifting.

Merlin stepped back from the girl he'd just disarmed for the third time. She gave him a half-apology, half-bow. It didn't matter. He didn't remember her name.

Nathan waved from across the hall, already locked into a bout with Seraphina. Elara was paired with some wide-shouldered boy who clearly thought footwork was a suggestion.

Merlin made his way to the weapon rack again.

His hand didn't move toward the rapier.

Not this time.

Instead, he reached lower.

Longer hilt. Broader crossguard. A heavier blade, it was single-edged, slightly curved, with an uneven temper line burned deep into the steel.

A bastard sword.

Not elegant. Not subtle.

Just honest.

He gripped the hilt.

The weight pulled at his wrist in a way Keryx never did.

Keryx sang.

This blade practically dragged.

'Good. Let's see if you've got anything to say.'

His new partner arrived. Male. Tall. Maybe from the northern provinces by his accent and the fur-trimmed uniform jacket. Confidence in the way he rolled his shoulders.

"I was hoping to get you," the boy said.

Merlin glanced at him. "Why."

"You're the Everhart, right? The one who jumped into the rift. Want to see if the rumors are true."

Merlin tilted his head. "They're not."

The boy grinned. "We'll see."

Reinhardt's voice again, from across the hall. "Begin."

The boy moved first.

Fast.

Wind-affinity. He wasn't subtle about it. His blade whistled, curved with air pressure, driving straight toward Merlin's side.

'Not bad.'

Merlin didn't sidestep.

He stepped forward.

The bastard sword wasn't light enough to flick. It had to be pushed, driven, carried through each stroke like a piece of gravity.

He twisted his core. Met the boy's swing mid-arc.

The impact sent a jolt up his arm.

But the angle was perfect.

Their blades slid apart, not clashing, but glancing. Friction bit at the steel. The boy's stance broke half a step.

Merlin followed.

Two steps forward. One upward slash.

The boy barely raised his sword to parry.

Steel clanged.

Wind cracked between them.

Merlin spun the hilt in his palm and reversed the swing. Brought the edge down against the boy's bracer and knocked him back two full paces.

Not magic.

Just movement.

Just muscle.

'Feels like I'm dragging dead weight through molasses.'

But it worked.

The boy coughed once. "You're better than they say."

Merlin didn't respond.

They went again.

This time, the boy didn't try to win.

He tried to analyze.

Changing rhythm. Changing footwork. Testing.

Merlin let him.

Let the weight teach him.

The sword wasn't a dance partner. It was a burden.

And it only made sense if you bore it without complaint.

He adjusted.

Lowered his stance.

Didn't think of Keryx.

Didn't think of flow, or elegance, or how Reinhardt once said the wrong sword made your instincts lie to you.

He let his instincts bleed out anyway.

He swung with the body he had. The strength he had left.

And slowly, the bastard sword stopped feeling foreign.

It wasn't his.

But it wasn't a stranger either.

Across the hall, Adrian was watching now.

So was Seraphina.

Liliana had stopped mid-parry.

'Too visible.'

He broke off from his partner and turned to the rack again.

No final exchange.

No bow.

Just silence.

He hung the sword back.

Didn't say a word.

The metal clinked softly as it settled against the other blades.

His palms were raw, bleeding even.

Calluses long since torn and rehealed were sore again.

'Not bad. But not right.'

He turned from the rack.

Walked toward the far wall. Past the other students. Toward the exit.

Reinhardt's voice stopped him.

"Everhart."

He looked over his shoulder.

"Not what you're used to," Reinhardt said.

Merlin nodded once. "No."

"Didn't look like it."

Another pause.

"But you made it work."

Merlin didn't smile.

Didn't speak.

Just nodded again and walked out.

The rest of the class watched him go.

No fanfare.

Just his back retreating down the corridor.

And a lingering silence in the wake of something none of them could name.

—

The training hall doors shut behind him with a heavy echo. Too loud for how slow he moved.

Merlin didn't stop walking until the corridor curved away from the noise. Until the sound of footfalls faded and the thrum of practice vanished behind thick walls.

There was an alcove near the old archive wing. Barely used anymore. An arched window looked out across the outer yard, cracked open just enough to let in air. Old stone. Crumbling bench. Dust.

He sat there.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he needed to.

His arms ached. The bastard sword had left a trail of tremors in his shoulders, like the weight still clung to his bones. A phantom heaviness.

Merlin leaned forward. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped.

And for a while, he just stared at them.

Pale. Scarred. Callused in all the wrong places now.

'It's all slower.'

His mana still hadn't returned. Not a flicker. Not a pulse. Just silence.

He flexed his fingers once. Slowly. Like he expected something to hum beneath the skin.

Nothing answered.

He exhaled.

The bastard sword had responded to force. That was the point of it. No elegance. No grace. Just power and timing and balance. You couldn't finesse a weapon like that. You couldn't cheat with it. You had to hold it like it mattered.

'I didn't hate it.'

That was the strangest part.

He didn't hate the weight. The drag. The ugly, unrefined rhythm of it.

He just hated that he had to consider it.