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Chapter – 14
Just a feather duster.
To face a wooden sword with something like that was absurd—but…
‘It makes sense.’
Carlisle wasn’t ashamed in the slightest; he knew full well how skilled Maranello was.
A powerhouse like Maranello could probably knock down someone like Carlisle, even if Carlisle were holding a real sword and Maranello only had his bare fists.
It was only out of courtesy, to help Carlisle train, that Maranello was using something like that feather duster at all.
“Since it’s your first day, we’ll take it easy, young master. Heh heh.”
“I don’t plan to overdo it either.”
Having picked up a sword for the first time in both his current and previous life, Carlisle knew it would be reckless to push himself.
“Please, come at me first, young master.”
“All right.”
Carlisle gripped the sword, recalling his memories.
‘So that’s how it’s done.’
Fragments of the real Carlisle’s swordsmanship surfaced in his mind.
“Here I come.”
He swung the wooden sword following the Sigmund family’s sword technique.
Swish! Swish!
The wooden blade sliced through the air, aiming at Maranello.
Whip, whip.
Tap, tap.
Maranello casually deflected Carlisle’s blows with light flicks of his feather duster.
Zzzt!
‘What?’
A shock like an electric current ran through Carlisle’s grip.
Maranello looked like he was just giving the sword a light tap, yet Carlisle’s palm felt as if it were being torn apart.
“You’ve left this part open the entire time, young master.”
Maranello’s feather duster tapped Carlisle’s upper pelvis.
“…I’m dead.”
Carlisle frowned.
“Yes, young master. Just now, you would have lost a kidney. And next time…”
“My heart gets stabbed or my head gets cut off. Or I’m sliced in two.”
“Precisely.”
“Again.”
“Come.”
They resumed the spar.
But the result was the same.
“You’re dead again.”
“…”
The difference in skill between Maranello and Carlisle was like heaven and earth.
Even though Maranello was holding back to match Carlisle’s level, it was difficult for Carlisle to last even ten exchanges.
After about seven bouts, Carlisle could no longer continue.
“Huff, huff, huff…”
He was so out of breath he couldn’t calm his breathing.
A metallic tang rose from his throat; his stomach churned.
His arms trembled, his shoulders throbbed, and his legs were about to give out.
The reason was simple: stamina.
[Alert: No stamina left!]
[Alert: No stamina left!]
(…shortened…)
[Alert: No stamina left!]
His body, ruined by years of indulgence and pleasure, was in abysmal shape.
“S-stop… huff… let’s rest… huff… for a bit…”
“Yes, young master.”
“Huff… haahh…”
“Here, take this.”
Maranello handed him a towel and a flask of water.
It took Carlisle over five minutes before his breathing steadied.
“Young master.”
“Yeah?”
“I think you must start with physical training first. To be blunt, with your current stamina, swordsmanship is meaningless.”
“…You’re right.”
“The soldiers would only laugh at you.”
Carlisle was of noble birth and had studied swordsmanship and military strategy since youth. He was slated to serve as an officer.
But how could he lead men when he didn’t even have the strength to stand among them? He’d be a burden even to the lowest soldier.
“You still have some time before enlistment. I recommend focusing solely on building stamina for now.”
“Fine, I’ll do that.”
“Shall we end today’s training, then?”
“Seems so.”
Carlisle reluctantly dropped the wooden sword.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest; he couldn’t go on.
The next morning.
“Ugh!”
Carlisle dragged his aching body to the training ground.
“One, two! One, two! One, two, three, four!”
Even at dawn, countless knights were already engaged in their morning exercises.
“Young master, please run with us.”
“Yes, I’ll join too.”
Evangelin, who had just moved in and joined them, also took part in the stamina training.
Thus began the run.
“Huff, huff, huff, haah, huff!”
Within five minutes, Carlisle fell behind.
“Young master, get up!”
“J-just a minute… huff, haah…”
“You can do it! Come on, get up! I’ll run with you!”
“You… how are you… huff… not even tired…?”
Evangelin, for a commoner, was remarkably fit.
Having supported her younger siblings as a seamstress, herb gatherer, and washerwoman, she had built up considerable stamina.
“Young master, please stand. Many eyes are watching. You can’t show weakness.”
“…I don’t care.”
Carlisle didn’t care if others mocked him.
After all, the real Carlisle’s disgraceful behavior was far worse than any embarrassment now.
That kind of shame didn’t matter.
But being openly ridiculed was another story.
“Tired already? Haha!”
“So weak. Huffing and puffing from just a little jog!”
The Gunter and Hector brothers approached, sneering.
They had already run dozens of laps and were drenched in sweat, but looked fresh.
“With that stamina, how will you fight barbarians?”
“Pfft! Carlisle, fight barbarians? He’ll just trail behind the troops and fall out!”
They mocked him without hesitation, clearly enjoying themselves.
They were younger than Carlisle, yet far more athletic—and their sword skills had long surpassed his.
They often bullied him, mocked him, and picked fights.
Though Carlisle once tried to resist, he eventually gave up as they grew stronger, choosing instead to avoid them.
In short, the old Carlisle had been a bully to those beneath him but a coward before his own kin—a pathetic figure indeed.
He had only himself to blame.
But now, things were different.
“Stop buzzing around like flies and get lost.”
Carlisle snapped.
“Oh~”
“Maranello’s here, huh? Heh heh.”
They weren’t intimidated at all.
To them, Carlisle was still just a toy.
Whenever they caught him alone, they would harass him mercilessly.
“Young masters,” Maranello interjected with a calm smile, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb the young master’s training.”
His smile was gentle—but the two brothers knew better.
Provoking Carlisle in front of Maranello could end badly.
“Fine, fine. But watch your back at night, brother.”
“Yeah, don’t trip in the dark.”
They left, laughing.
“Maranello.”
“Yes, young master.”
“How long will it take before I can crush those two?”
“In what sense?”
“Stamina. Swordsmanship. Either.”
“For stamina… at least a year, I’d say.”
“And swordsmanship?”
“If you train earnestly, perhaps two or three years.”
Maranello actually smiled faintly as he said it—
Because in Carlisle’s eyes, he saw a flicker of fighting spirit.
“That’s a long time.”
“You’ve wasted many years, young master. Meanwhile, Hector and Gunter…”
“I know what you mean.”
Carlisle cut him off.
“I’ll stop here.”
“Pardon?”
Maranello frowned.
How could he be quitting already?
“Young master, if you give up so easily, you’ll never— Young master?!”
“What.”
“Are you truly giving up already?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Please, be patient. You must at least build your stamina. Otherwise—”
But Carlisle didn’t listen.
“Prepare my bath when I get back.”
“Yes, young master.”
He abandoned the training and headed to his room.
“Of course.”
“Couldn’t even last thirty minutes.”
“As expected.”
The knights watching him leave nodded knowingly.
For them, even calling him a three-day wonder was too generous.
That night.
Just before bed—
“Good night, young master.”
Maranello’s tone was unusually cold and formal, stripped of his usual warmth.
He was clearly disappointed.
After all, Carlisle had given up after barely ten minutes of running.
But Carlisle didn’t care; he rolled himself in the blankets and went to sleep as usual.
A few hours later—
Rustle.
Carlisle quietly slipped out from under the covers.
“Young master? Where are you going?”
“For a walk.”
“I’ll accompany—”
“I’m going alone. Don’t follow.”
“But—”
“I said don’t.”
The guards at the door reluctantly let him go.
Carlisle made his way toward the garden.
“Did you hear about young master Carlisle?”
“Yeah, that spoiled brat collapsed at training, right?”
“Never seen anyone so out of shape.”
He overheard patrolling knights gossiping, and ducked behind the bushes.
Avoiding their patrols, he arrived at a secluded corner of the garden.
‘It should be around here somewhere.’
He scanned the wall.
The moonlight was bright, making it easy to see.
‘There.’
His eyes gleamed as he found a slightly discolored section of the wall.
He brushed his pale fingers over the faded brick.
The wall shimmered—and his fingers sank into it.
‘Got it.’
Without hesitation, Carlisle stepped forward.
The scenery shifted, revealing a long passageway lit by torches on either side.
[Alert: Entered .]
Ignoring the notification, Carlisle walked down the corridor for several minutes.
Eventually, he reached a small basin and, behind it, a massive stone gate.
Carved upon the basin were the words:
“Only those of Sigmund blood may enter within.”
