The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and fresh grass. Birds chirped in the distance, completely unaware of the war that had yet to happen.
I stood in the backyard, my breath steady, my fists clenched.
Mana training was important. Crucial.
But it wasn't enough.
In my past life, I had wielded swords, daggers, polearms—anything that could kill. I had fought on battlefields, in duels, in ambushes. And yet, the one weapon I had felt most natural with was something I had barely taken seriously before.
The cane.
It had started as something simple. A wooden cane my father used to carry, something he taught me to use when I was younger. A walking stick that doubled as a weapon.
He had trained me in the Cane Arts as a boy, always saying, "A real warrior makes any weapon deadly."
Back then, I hadn't thought much of it. It wasn't a knight's sword, nor was it a warrior's spear. It was just a cane.
So I had abandoned it. Focused on what I thought were "real" weapons.
But on the battlefield, when my sword had shattered and my daggers were lost, I had instinctively grabbed a fallen staff and fought with it.
And it felt right.
More than the sword. More than anything else.
This time, I wasn't making the same mistake.
I could use swords. I could use other weapons. But the cane would be my core.
And I had two days to refine it.
I grabbed a wooden cane, testing its weight. It wasn't the one my father had given me, but it would do for now.
I planted my feet firmly on the ground, letting my body settle into a familiar stance.
Then, I moved.
The cane struck forward—fast, precise. A simple thrust, but if aimed correctly, it could cave in a rib or crush a throat.
I followed with a sweeping strike, meant to take out an enemy's legs. Against an armored foe, it would at least stagger them. Against an unarmored one? A broken knee.
I spun the cane, adjusting my grip, and delivered a quick jab to where an opponent's temple would be.
The motion was fluent. Clean.
I could still feel it.
My body wasn't what it used to be, but my instincts were.
That was an advantage.
I kept going. Over and over, I repeated the forms. Striking. Sweeping. Dodging.
Each time, the movements felt sharper. More controlled.
But that wasn't enough.
In my past life, I had used many weapons. I couldn't afford to forget them.
I grabbed a wooden training sword next.
Swords were standard—reliable, deadly, but predictable.
A simple overhead slash. A quick counter-thrust. A parry followed by a riposte.
The basics came back easily. My body was weaker, but my technique remained.
Then, I moved to daggers. Short, quick stabs. A reverse grip for close combat. A throwing motion—though I didn't actually let go.
Spears were next. Long reach. Thrusts and sweeps. Keeping an opponent at bay.
One after another, I moved through each weapon, letting my body remember.
I wasn't a master at all of them. Not even close. But I had experience.
And that alone put me above most beginners.
Still, the cane was the most natural.
I returned to it, feeling the smooth wood against my palms.
If I could use both sword and cane…
I would be unpredictable.
That was an edge I needed.
Hours passed. My muscles ached, my breath was uneven, and sweat dripped down my back.
I sat down beneath the oak tree, inhaling deeply.
Now… mana.
I closed my eyes, reaching inward.
Mana existed everywhere—in the air, in the earth, in me.
But feeling it… controlling it… was another matter.
I searched for that small flicker I had sensed the day before.
There.
It was weak. Unstable. Flickering like a dying ember.
I grit my teeth.
In my past life, this had taken me months to learn. But I didn't have months.
I had days.
So I forced it.
Slowly, I tried to guide the mana through my body. It was like trying to cup water in my hands—it kept slipping away.
But I didn't stop.
I focused. Controlled my breathing. Cleared my mind.
And then—
A spark.
A faint warmth in my chest.
Small. Weak. But real.
I opened my eyes, exhaling slowly.
It wasn't much. But it was progress.
And I wasn't stopping until I mastered it.
The sun was higher now, its warmth cutting through the cool morning air. My arms ached, my breath was uneven, but I kept moving. Training wasn't about comfort—it was about endurance.
I tightened my grip on the cane, feeling the weight of it in my hands. It was familiar. More than the sword. More than anything else.
And it all started with my father.
I could still remember the day I told him I wanted to go to the military academy.
I expected a lecture. A warning. Maybe even disappointment.
But instead, he only nodded and said, "Then we start now."
That same evening, he spoke to an old friend—a carpenter who lived on the edge of town. Within a week, a wooden arsenal had been made just for me.
Swords. Spears. Daggers. A training axe, even a wooden bow. Everything a soldier might need.
But I only ever used the sword.
Back then, I thought it was the best weapon. The most honorable.
I had ignored everything else.
Until one day, my father walked into the yard, carrying a simple wooden stick.
I had laughed when he handed it to me. "What am I supposed to do with this?"
He only smiled and said, "Figure it out."
I had scoffed, gripping it like a sword. Trying to swing it like one. But every time, my father corrected me.
"It's not a blade. Don't treat it like one."
"Flow with it, don't force it."
"A weapon is an extension of you. If it feels wrong, you're holding it wrong."
At the time, I didn't listen.
I humored him for a while, but in the end, I left the stick behind.
Only later, on the battlefield, did I realize how right he was.
I exhaled, adjusting my grip on the wooden cane. This time, I wouldn't throw it away.
I settled into a stance, remembering the movements he taught me.
Strike. Feint. Redirect.
A sword required precision. A cane required adaptability.
A sword relied on edges. A cane relied on momentum.
I flowed through the motions, my body moving on instinct.
This felt right.
I switched to the training sword, testing how it felt in comparison. Not bad. I had spent years using it. But my grip… my stance… it didn't feel as natural.
I glanced at the wooden cane.
In my past life, I had forced myself to become a swordsman.
This time, I would be both.
I tightened my grip.
This time, I would master everything.
And I had two days to get started.