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Chapter 6
The sharp thread of concentration Dante had been immersed in suddenly snapped apart with a quiet pop.
“Ah…”
A small sound.
Dante slowly turned his head, still feeling the fading resonance of his sword.
Sir Milleon.
His young teacher stood there, eyes wide open, mouth agape, staring at him.
From that expression alone, Dante could tell—Milleon had grasped the level of the strike he had just unleashed.
It wasn’t strange.
Within less than ten years, Milleon would be hailed as the First Knight of the House, a man of overwhelming talent.
Though his full blossoming had not yet arrived, his eyes surely saw countless things in Dante’s sword.
“Lord Dante. That was… what in the world was that?”
Startled out of his trance, Milleon stammered as he approached.
“Nothing. Just a sword. I was loosening my body, that’s all.”
Just a sword?
Loosening his body?
Milleon shook his head violently.
The movement he had just witnessed was far beyond such trivial words.
Yes, the cut lacked intention and will, it was only a simple swing.
But it was not merely simple.
Even from behind, it was enough to blur one’s mind, to drown him in a boundless sea of swordsmanship.
Milleon had felt something like this once before.
The Lord’s sword.
It was slightly different, though.
The Lord’s sword had been complete, flawless—while Dante’s seemed a touch rougher, freer, as though it flowed where the heart led, not by measured lines.
Yet within that freedom lay enormity.
If anything, it felt deeper, higher, broader.
At least, that was how Milleon felt.
But how can this be?
It was not simply unrealistic—it was impossible.
To have reached such heights at that age…
For Milleon, it was incomprehensible.
“Out early, are you?”
Dante sheathed his sword, attempting to change the subject.
He had no answer ready for questions he could not possibly explain.
After all, what could he say? That he had died, only to awaken in the past?
“That’s not what matters right now. Where did you learn such a sword?”
Of course, the attempt failed.
The shallow trick was useless against the overwhelming shock Milleon had felt.
“Hm.”
Dante frowned.
What should he say? Countless thoughts flashed through his mind, but no fitting answer appeared.
At last, he could only choose one path.
“I don’t know.”
Feign ignorance.
“You… don’t know?”
“Yes. I simply swung the sword, that’s all.”
It was embarrassing, but Dante resolved to brazen it out.
Whatever question Milleon asked, he would simply insist: ‘I have no idea.’
After all, Milleon was a knight of the house. If Dante said so, he would have no choice but to accept it.
Yet Milleon’s expression shifted strangely.
His face grew abruptly serious.
What’s this?
Was that really the kind of answer that should summon such gravity?
As Dante’s eyes flicked toward him, Milleon finally spoke with a determined tone:
“Very well. I shall make a separate report of this matter.”
A report?
To whom? And of what?
Dante blinked, unable to understand.
“You are… far too much for a vessel like me to contain, Lord Dante.”
“W-wait.”
Caught off guard, Dante stammered.
“What are you saying?”
“I mean that my skills are not worthy to instruct you. It would be better for the Commander himself to guide your sword.”
That was an unexpected turn.
Milleon had just declared his own surrender.
Of course, in Dante’s previous life, Milleon had indeed taught him both the basics and advanced forms of swordsmanship.
But now, Dante had far surpassed him.
At this point, no knight alive could dare to teach Dante the sword.
Not even Xenon himself.
With his father, he would not learn so much as debate—he stood already at that level.
And yet… Dante panicked.
The sword is not all I need.
What he desperately needed was the use of mana.
And in that field, among the household, Xenon Aquites stood unrivaled—save perhaps only one man.
Milleon.
If Dante let this slip away, it would be a grave loss.
No. I can’t let him back down.
“I refuse.” Dante cut him off. “It has to be you, Sir Milleon.”
“…Pardon?”
Milleon blinked rapidly, bewildered by the unexpected words.
“I’m grateful for your high opinion, but why me…?”
At this stage, they shared almost no personal bond.
Not yet master and pupil, not even comrades who often crossed paths.
Just heir of the house and a young knight of promise. Nothing more.
So why insist on him?
Realizing his words sounded strange, Dante hurried to explain.
“Because you’re closer in age. I’d be more comfortable learning from you.”
A weak excuse.
“But above all, my father chose you as my instructor. Surely there was good reason for that, no?”
“…Hm.”
Fortunately, that addition was convincing enough.
Milleon nodded slightly.
Whew.
Dante exhaled a silent breath of relief.
I can’t let him go. Milleon himself is too important.
Not only as a master of mana, but as someone who would grow into the foremost knight of the house.
More than a teacher—he was a man Dante could entrust his back to.
“…Very well. Though my skill is lacking, I shall do my utmost.”
It worked.
Invoking his father’s name had been effective.
“Then, may I see your sword once more? To teach you, I must first know your exact level.”
Just as he had tested Dante’s stamina the day before.
“Of course.”
Dante raised his blade without hesitation.
Huuu…
A calm breath. The sword moved.
The exact same path as before, drawn in the air without a fraction of error.
Yet still free, flowing.
Like a fish swimming through water.
Sometimes a stern, straight line.
Sometimes a supple curve.
Slow but infinite—the sword carved its trace into the world itself.
Milleon did not speak.
No foolish interruption, no clumsy words of awe.
Only a face filled with reverence, watching every motion to the end.
Time stretched.
Then, the sword halted midair, pointing skyward.
“Ah…”
At last, Milleon exhaled the breath he’d held.
This time, not a cheap gasp—but words of weight.
“Lord Dante… you are a genius. Without doubt.”
It could not be otherwise.
To display such a sword at only twelve years old—at any age—was absurd.
He ran through countless possibilities, but only one answer fit.
A genius. Heaven’s chosen.
“Is that so?”
Dante replied flatly.
He had heard such things far too often in his past life, and knew well how meaningless they were.
“To be honest,” Milleon said gravely, “I doubt I can teach you anything of the sword.”
What could he teach? The basics? The imperial forms? Even the knightly secret arts?
None of them compared to what Dante had just shown.
If anything, he wished to learn from Dante.
“No. There is something you can teach.”
Dante shook his head.
“I need to learn to wield mana properly.”
“Mana!”
Milleon’s eyes lit up.
That, at least, he could teach.
“Yes. That much I can manage,” he said quickly, relieved to be of use.
“Is that so?”
“Indeed. First, you must sense mana through a basic breathing method. After that, learn the operational formulas from the Commander, and then gradually…”
Words flowed rapidly, as if he had already prepared this lesson.
Dante clicked his tongue inwardly.
Mistaken.
“…And then, once you’ve reached a certain level, you may prepare to awaken your Stigma. With your talent, within three years—perhaps even two.”
Two years.
That was outrageously fast by normal standards.
Xenon had awakened his stigma at thirteen, after all.
But Milleon, seeing Dante’s sword, judged that his talent might exceed even Xenon’s.
Still, he was wrong.
“I’ve already awakened my Stigma.”
“At twelve? Impossible. No one across the continent has ever—wait, what?”
He hadn’t heard properly.
“I awakened it two days ago. So what I need isn’t to feel mana, but to use it.”
Milleon froze, blank-faced.
“That’s… not possible. The Stigma does not manifest like that.”
Naturally he couldn’t believe it.
It defied all common sense.
How could one awaken the Stigma without even first sensing mana?
His face said plainly: Dante is mistaken.
So Dante showed him.
He released a fragment of the mana that enveloped his heart.
Threads of energy unfurled like shining filaments, baring their presence.
Fwoooooosh—!
The wind howled.
A storm of mana.
Milleon’s eyes bulged wider than ever.
Wider even than when he had seen Dante’s sword.
The disbelief in his gaze gave way to uncontrollable trembling.
Dante clumsily poured mana into his sword.
The nameless blade let out a raw cry—less a clear chime, more a wild beast’s roar.
Because his mana control was still that crude.
“Kh!”
Mana and supreme swordsmanship collided, birthing a devastating strike that split the air.
KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-BOOM!
The training ground’s hard floor was carved through, deep gouges like the claw marks of a savage dragon.
“Now you understand. I have awakened the Stigma—and what I need is the skill to wield this power.”
“…Heavens…”
Milleon whispered, voice heavy with awe.
“Just what manner of being are you, Lord Dante?”
Unfathomable.
Unthinkable.
Unreal.
That was the only way to describe what Milleon had witnessed today.
