Cycle of Destiny

After ending their life as pageboys, the two of them also entered the stage of serving as servants.

At this point, learning martial arts became crucial.

Harry's father started teaching him martial arts from a young age. Although he could tell that Harry never slacked off in his training and always worked very hard, it was far from the results he wanted.

Sometimes he even felt that his son's talent was worse than that of other children.

He could only console himself that perhaps there was something wrong with his teaching methods, and that things would be better once Harry went to the Knights Academy and received proper instruction.

When Harry turned fifteen, his parents returned to the capital for their summer vacation.

After a year's interval, their son began to formally learn martial arts at the Knights Academy, and they were eagerly anticipating a surprise from Harry.

At their home in the capital, they also invited Veranika and her mother, wanting to witness the two of them grow up together.

In the afterglow of the setting sun, fifteen-year-old Veronica took a deep breath and stepped into the center of the courtyard where everyone's eyes were meeting.

She raised her hand, the tip of her sword slightly lowered, a standard knightly salute.

Immediately afterwards, with a swift movement, the sound of the wooden sword slicing through the air was crisp and continuous, without the slightest hesitation.

She unleashed a set of basic knightly sword techniques—thrust, parry, block, slash—each movement clear, crisp, and fluidly connected.

Her steps were steady and agile, with a coordinated rhythm beyond her years, as if the granite beneath her feet was a dance floor she had long been familiar with.

What's most breathtaking is that, in certain moments when she swung her sword with all her might and spun around to defend herself, a faint, morning-like light seemed to flow from the edge of her simple wooden sword.

The halo, though not dazzling, was stable and pure, a sign that she had stepped into the threshold of becoming a second-level warrior. The light illuminated her focused face as she drew her wooden sword in a perfect arc and sheathed it at her side.

The fine beads of sweat on her forehead glistened, her breathing quickened noticeably, and her body rose and fell slightly, but her eyes shone with a bright and satisfied light.

As Veranica's mother watched her daughter's near-perfect performance, she clenched her hands, an uncontrollable smile spreading across her face, her eyes filled with pride and tenderness, with tears welling up in them.

After Veranica's father died, her life felt like living in a dark, sunless cellar, breathing in a suffocating, rotting atmosphere all day long.

Now, Veranica finally opened the locked door for her, and the sunshine and fresh air once again graced her.

Veranica's fighting spirit has already begun to take shape. Once it is fully formed, she will be able to become a level three warrior, and she is only fifteen years old!

At this rate, Veranika could easily reach the level of a fifth-grade samurai before she turns twenty-five!

While the gods filled her with despair, they also bestowed upon her hope!

Veronica perfectly inherited her deceased father's talent, and the glorious noble crest will be passed down, never to fade. All those years of hard work and perseverance have finally paid off!

Harry's father, the most authoritative seventh-level warrior present, couldn't help but nod repeatedly in approval of Veronica's performance.

Her demonstration was entirely a performance. Her swordsmanship might lack the fierce and ruthless aura honed on the battlefield, but its precision, fluidity, and excellent control over her body spoke volumes. Especially her clean and decisive straight thrust at the end of the stance, as steady as a rock.

Vera Nika is like a seedling that has just broken through the soil. Although she is still very weak, her smooth growth path clearly contains the infinite possibility of growing into a towering tree in the future.

Veranika used her wooden sword and her sweat to tell them that her glory had begun, and she walked with a steady and powerful stride.

Harry was the only one present who wasn't surprised. He spent all his time with Veronica at the Knights Academy and already knew how far she had come.

The difference was that he didn't have the smiles of his parents and Veranica's mother; he always had a tense expression, and it was unclear what he was thinking.

The old oak tree in the courtyard filtered the last rays of the sunset into fine gold leaf, and the air seemed to still retain the fluid and graceful aura of Veranica's swordsmanship, a light and ethereal tremor full of potential.

This subtle contrast made Harry, who then stepped into the center of the courtyard, appear particularly somber.

He was fifteen years old and more robust than his peers, or rather, he was obese in a way that lacked sharp lines.

The tight-fitting academy training uniform only outlined his rounded shoulders and back, and before the game even started, fine beads of sweat had already appeared on his forehead.

When he, like Veranica, raised the wooden sword in front of his body in the starting position of the knightly salute, his movements revealed an unconscious stiffness—unlike Veranica's, which was the beginning of a dance between sword and man, it was more like clumsily lifting a heavy tool.

Next came a demonstration of the same basic sword techniques used by the Knight Academy as Veranika.

Veronica's thrust was as natural and fluid as a stream flowing into a river, the tip of her sword pointing steadily forward; Harry's arm, however, seemed to be pulled by an invisible rope, the movement broken in two, his shoulder shrugging first before his arm could barely extend, the tip of his sword even trembling slightly at the end.

Veranica's sword thrust carried an upward, skillful force, as if the wooden sword itself had come to life; Harry, on the other hand, used brute force to "pry" upward, causing his entire upper body to lean back, and he staggered half a step before regaining his balance, appearing to have an unsteady foundation.

As for the combos, which are the most challenging to coordinate and connect, Veronica's movements were seamless, and the arc of the wooden sword was almost perfect in the transition between blocking and counter-attacking.

Harry, however, was completely out of sync: he used too much force when blocking, causing his entire body to tilt to the right, and he had to hastily swing his slash afterward. In order to make up for the loss of balance, his movements were distorted, as if he were frantically chopping firewood.

Not to mention any rudimentary form of fighting spirit, not even a trace of it. The wooden sword was just a wooden sword, heavy and silent in his hand.

His breathing quickly became heavy, not the exhilaration of exercise, but the awkwardness of struggling to maintain his posture. Sweat quickly soaked his temples and slid down his round cheeks.

If Veronica's performance was like a light dance following the score, each step precisely on the rhythm and breath, then Harry's subsequent appearance was like the score being brutally torn apart and scattered—all the coherent imagery lost its weight and fell in an instant, dispersing into a mess of lingering echoes.

The entire presentation felt like a clumsy, flawed replication of Veranika's performance. Every movement was there, but the "soul" was gone.

The rhythm that should have been inherent in the muscles and bones has vanished without a trace, replaced by a sluggish, almost rigid patchwork.

His arms and legs seemed to be commanded by different wills. When he thrust, his shoulders exerted force before his wrists. When he blocked, his waist was as stiff as a wooden stake. In the moment he turned to defend, his center of gravity swayed between his two feet, almost tripping him.

The fluid, flowing movements became sluggish and incoherent; precision and stability turned into wobbling and instability. There was no faint glow of fighting spirit, no resonance between breath and sword stance, and not even the rough yet vigorous "strength" of a beginner.

The wooden sword in his hand was more like a heavy block of iron, and the sound of the wind it cut through when swung seemed hesitant and scattered.

You could see the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, hear his increasingly heavy breathing, and sense that he was trying to recall what his next move was—all his attention seemed to be focused on chasing the steps in his memory, rather than wielding the sword in his hand.

That captivating vitality inherent beneath the fluidity has completely vanished from him.

It's like a famous painting being drawn crookedly with charcoal. All the lines are there, but the charm, brilliance, and vitality have long since dissipated in the clumsy strokes.

You see no warrior with a future, only a boy struggling to learn the moves, yet unable to truly integrate them. The air still seems to hold the clear, melodious echoes of the previous dancer, now silenced by heavy, scattered footsteps.

Although his mother was not a warrior, she was of noble birth and had seen many highly skilled swordsmen, so she could tell how Harry was performing just by feeling.

Her face couldn't hide her surprise. Her eyes had been on Harry, but she quickly lowered them, spending the rest of the time looking at the granite beneath her feet.

It was as if she wasn't watching a meticulously prepared performance, but rather witnessing a heartbreaking hanging at a street corner; her heart was too soft to bear the sight of the prisoner's suffering.

His father, the baron who had placed fifth in the tournament twenty years ago and was a powerful warrior who had reached the seventh level of martial arts at a young age, stood still the whole time, staring at his son.

His gaze initially held a habitual scrutiny and expectation, but soon the warmth in his eyes faded, leaving only an almost icy calm. The color in his face seemed to be sucked away by something, turning deathly pale, leaving only a gradually cooling iron statue.

As a high-ranking warrior, he understood all too well that Harry's clumsiness due to his obesity was merely a facade.

As he had always known, Harry's body had always had a natural defect of poor coordination.

Harry's control over different parts of his body seems to be disjointed. His hands move but his feet don't, his waist doesn't turn, and each movement is completed sequentially by different body parts, failing to form a smooth, integrated chain of force.

This is the "disharmony between body and mind" that samurai fear most, an inherent weakness that is difficult to cure even with arduous training.

Veronica's performance possessed an inherent rhythm. Harry's movements existed in isolation, with awkward pauses and adjustments between the end of one movement and the beginning of the next. Without rhythm, there is no soul in swordsmanship.

He also lacks a sense of balance.

A samurai's foundation lies in the exquisite control of footwork and center of gravity. Harry's legs seemed unable to support his body; every step felt like walking on cotton, and any movement requiring a shift in his center of gravity would cause him to sway. This prevented him from ever performing advanced techniques that required perfect balance and explosive power.

Not to mention the generation of battle aura. Battle aura originates from the keen perception and precise guidance of the energy within the body.

Harry's aura was scattered; his mind was unable to focus, let alone guide any energy outward. He was merely going through the motions.

Harry's father let out a reluctant sigh. He recalled the faint, chilling blue aura that first condensed on his sword when he was young, and the hope of passing on his swordsmanship and glory.

At this moment, he clearly felt that the thread of inheritance had been broken gently yet definitively with Harry.

As everyone expected, Veronica felt sorry for her good friend. The smile disappeared from her eyes, and her eyebrows furrowed inward, a sigh of heartache.

Harry finally finished his last pose.

The wooden sword fell, and his head followed suit. His chest heaved violently, his face was flushed, and sweat almost blurred his vision. He didn't cry or roar; he just bit his lower lip tightly, very tightly.

His jaw was clenched, his lips pressed into a taut, pale line, almost bleeding. The bitten flesh was deeply sunken, bearing all the unspoken sobs and resentment.

He dared not look at his parents, nor did he want to look at Veranika beside him.

He felt a buzzing in his ears, and every clumsy, broken movement he had just made kept replaying in his mind.

Although he already knew the outcome, he never expected to feel so much pain when it actually happened.