Walking outside with Kazuma leading the way, Hajime could feel his heartbeat quicken. Kazuma, clearly eager to begin their training, strode confidently ahead, his long coat fluttering behind him with each step. Reaching the massive training yard, Hajime took in the sight before him. The field was mostly barren—just a wide expanse of sunlit dirt and trimmed grass—but at its center stood a solitary weapon rack. Upon it rested an impressive collection of arms: spears, swords, daggers, and bows, each gleaming in the light as if freshly polished. Hajime's eyes lit up with anticipation, his gaze drifting longingly toward a sleek silver longsword that practically begged to be swung.
But to his dismay, Kazuma walked straight past the shining arsenal and grabbed two worn wooden swords from a rack at the side. He tossed one to Hajime, who caught it clumsily.
"A wooden sword…?" Hajime muttered, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.
Kazuma chuckled as he walked a few paces back. "What? You thought I'd hand you a real blade on your first day?"
Hajime took a good look at the wooden sword in his hands. He gave it a few clumsy swings, the blade wobbling in his grip as it cut through the air with no form or grace. Frowning, he glanced back at Kazuma, who stood a few feet away, silently observing him with crossed arms and a thoughtful expression.
Kazuma narrowed his eyes slightly, then asked, "Hajime, do you know what the essence of the sword is?"
Hajime furrowed his brow, caught off guard by the question. He looked down at the wooden blade in his hands, the smooth grain catching glints of sunlight. His mind raced.
The essence of the sword…What do I do with a sword? Protect? Defend? No… wait. They kill, don't they? A sword is made to—
He looked back up at Kazuma, uncertainty clouding his eyes.
"Would it be… murder?"
The word hung in the air like a heavy fog. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Kazuma let out a slow breath and walked forward, placing a hand gently on Hajime's shoulder.
Kazuma gave a faint smile at Hajime's answer, then shook his head.
"Yes… and no," he said calmly. "You do kill with a sword—more often than not. But it's more than that."
He stepped closer, resting his hand lightly on the wooden blade in Hajime's grip.
"The sword is an extension of your body, Hajime. Of your will. You won't just fight with it—you'll struggle with it. You'll cry with it. And one day… you might even die with it."
Kazuma stepped back, his eyes now sharp and serious.
"That's why you must respect it. Because once you pick up a sword, you're choosing a path. And that path is never easy."
A chill ran down Hajime's spine as Kazuma's words settled in. The weight of what it truly meant to wield a sword—what it could take from him—pressed against his chest like a stone. And yet, instead of backing down, he stepped forward.
His fingers tightened around the wooden hilt until his knuckles turned white. He looked up, meeting Kazuma's gaze with unwavering eyes.
The lightness in his tone faded just as quickly as it came. His stance shifted slightly, the casual air around him sharpening.
"I know, Father," he said, voice steady. "But I'm prepared for that."
Kazuma, even a little startled by Hajime's response, let out a slow, thoughtful sigh.
"You know," he said with a faint chuckle, "sometimes you don't act your age."
"Well then, Hajime… why not try attacking me?"
Hajime blinked. "You want me to attack you?"
"Yes," Kazuma said, taking a casual stance. "Now come on. Stop hesitating."
Hajime's grip tightened around the wooden sword, his knuckles pale. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. There was still hesitation in his eyes, but he swallowed it down, drew a long breath, and planted his feet.
Then—he charged.
Dust kicked up beneath his heels as he sprinted forward, wooden blade raised high. His form was rough. His steps were unsteady. But his intent was clear.
With all the strength he could muster, Hajime brought the sword down in a powerful—yet sloppy—arc.
The blade cut through nothing but air.
Where… where did he go?
Eyes wide, Hajime looked left, then right—his chest heaving, confusion washing over him.
Then—tap.
A light touch landed on the top of his head.
He spun around.
Kazuma stood behind him, calm and unbothered, his wooden sword resting casually over his shoulder.
"Looks like you lose," he said with a small grin.
Hajime's brows furrowed, but his voice remained steady. "Father, may I have a rematch?"
Kazuma's grin widened just slightly. "Of course."
Without wasting a second, Hajime gripped his sword once more and dashed forward, determination blazing in his eyes.
This time, his feet moved with more purpose. He planted each step with care, his form still rough—but sharper than before. He raised his sword and brought it down in a clean arc, Kazuma fully in his sights.
But almost as fast as the strike came, Kazuma moved. His wooden blade snapped upward with precision, parrying the blow with a sharp crack. The force of the counter sent a jolt through Hajime's arms and knocked him clean off his feet.
With a surprised grunt, he landed flat on his backside.
The sky above him swirled in silence for a moment before Kazuma's face leaned into view.
"Better," he said simply, extending a hand. "But don't rush. Strength without control is wasted movement."
For the next few hours, Hajime continued to spar. He stumbled, improved, adjusted, and endured under his father's careful eye. Each strike came with a lesson, each mistake with a correction.
Then—footsteps.
Hajime turned at the sound and saw Rin approaching across the training yard, her robes swaying lightly with each step.
His posture straightened instantly. A wide smile spread across his face, and without a second thought, he dropped his wooden sword and ran toward her.
"Hi, Mother! Are we going to begin magic training now?"
Rin smiled warmly. "Yes, we are. I hope you're ready."
"I am!" Hajime beamed.
Behind him, Kazuma stood silently in the middle of the yard. His eyes followed the abandoned sword lying in the dirt. For a brief moment, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
But then he sighed, stepped forward, and picked up the wooden sword. Dusting it off, he turned away without a word and walked back toward the manor.