Nascent Soul Rebirth: Starting as a Wizard

"It's not too late to say those things after you beat me."

Before he finished speaking, Solo suddenly spun his sword, using the force against him, and then lunged forward like a cheetah.

With a slight slump in his shoulders, a clean, crisp, yet powerful "Iron Mountain Lean" strike landed squarely on El's chest as he hastily raised his arm to block.

"Bang!"

El felt a tremendous force coming from him, and he staggered.

Losing his balance, he fell backward onto the cold, hard ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

"You!" El was both shocked and furious. He quickly got up, ignoring the pain. His first reaction was to brush the dust off his body, his face turning red.

Solo did not pursue, but stood with his sword drawn, a very faint smile playing at the corners of his lips:

"Oh? It seems you're a clean-loving young master."

His tone was flat, revealing little emotion, but to Al, this flatness was nothing short of the greatest irony.

It was as if deliberately reminding him of the predicament of being an orphan who had to maintain a respectable appearance.

"I'm not some young master!"

Al was filled with shame and indignation, and his pitiful reserve was completely ignited, turning into a brute force.

He let out a low growl, said no more nonsense, and gripped the wooden sword tightly with both hands.

Using his most proficient and confident basic swordsmanship, he launched a fierce attack on Solo.

His only pride was his swordsmanship, which he had practiced diligently since childhood and dreamed of becoming a mighty knight like those in chivalric novels!

Faced with El's sudden barrage of attacks, Solo did not use any techniques beyond the scope of his knight training.

He responded with only the most basic knightly sword techniques taught by Instructor Patton.

His movements weren't even particularly skillful; his blocking, dodging, and counter-attacks all had a beginner's awkwardness.

However, it is precisely this "clumsiness" that allows him to defuse El's attacks at the most critical moments.

After more than a dozen rounds, El couldn't gain any advantage. Instead, he became impatient and his breathing became heavier due to the prolonged failure to break through.

"We've warmed up enough."

Solo suddenly spoke, his voice still steady.

"I'm going to get serious."

The next moment, El felt a blur before his eyes. Solo's sword speed hadn't increased much.

But the rhythm suddenly changed, and the swordplay became tricky and unpredictable.

The originally "clumsy" sword moves now seemed to come alive, carrying a kind of concise and ruthless efficiency.

The force of the block was heavier, the angle of the counterattack was more vicious, and with each step, El's offensive lines were completely blocked.

The situation took a sharp turn for the worse!

El felt his sword becoming increasingly heavy, as if it were sinking into mud.

He desperately tried to recall the training content and crack it, but Solo's sword was always one step ahead of him.

They might tap his wrist, press down on the spine of his sword, or directly target the flaws in his moves.

With a crisp "clang!", El's hand went numb as the wooden sword was skillfully deflected.

He wanted to turn around and fight again, but a cool touch gently pressed against his Adam's apple.

Solo's wooden sword tip was as steady as a rock.

El's pupils contracted, and his hand gripping the sword trembled slightly from the force, still in a half-slashing posture.

"You lost." Solo's voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable sense of finality.

The taut string snapped suddenly.

The stubborn light in El's eyes dimmed, his fingers loosened, and the wooden sword fell to the ground with a clang.

He lowered his head, panting heavily, his chest heaving violently.

I don't know if it was because of physical exhaustion or because of the unbearable frustration.

Solo sheathed his sword and casually leaned against the training doll next to him, which had been slashed countless times by El.

The wooden sword in his hand twirled and played nimbly between his fingertips.

"If you grip the sword too tightly, your wrist won't be flexible enough, and you'll have fewer options."

Solo began to comment, his tone like that of a drill instructor, yet with a touch of detached indifference.

"The footwork is out of sync with the sword techniques. When attacking, one forgets to defend, and when defending, one loses position. The power is generated only by the upper body, and the power of the legs is not coordinated at all."

Every word struck a nerve with El, and his face grew increasingly grim.

"You must be very proud of your swordsmanship, right?"

Solo changed the subject and looked at El.

"I can feel that 'pride' in your sword, or rather, it's all emotion."

He was resentful, wanted to prove himself, and thought everyone else was useless.

He paused, then said, "Unfortunately, the sword techniques contained nothing but emotion."

El suddenly looked up, wanting to refute, his lips moved, but he couldn't utter a single word.

"However," Solo continued, his tone unreadable, whether it was a consolation or a deeper blow.

"Let me tell you straight, the reason you think your swordsmanship is better than most of your peers here is because..."

It's simply because your 'perspective' is too narrow.

Their practice was mostly just going through the motions; they were only going through the motions without putting in any real effort.

And you, you are quite diligent, and you happen to have a little bit of talent for using a sword.

So, being among this group of lazy people, you develop the illusion that you are "very strong."

"I..." El's face turned so red it was almost bleeding, the humiliation burning his nerves.

Do you know why they're able to "get by"?

Solo's gaze swept across the empty training ground, his expression suggestive.

"Because their surname is 'Fran,' or because they found 'Fran' who was willing to accept them early on."

They had a way out, someone to rely on, and they could hide in a room with a fireplace in this freezing weather.

"And you have to come out and practice because you have nothing else, this is all you can rely on."

These words were like an ice pick, piercing through El's last psychological defenses.

He bit his lower lip hard, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails almost dug into his flesh.

Yes, that's reality—cold and cruel.

He angrily bent down, wanting to pick up the wooden sword from the ground, wanting nothing more than to escape this place immediately.

Escape from this man who has ripped away all his pretense and pride.

Just as his fingertips were about to touch the hilt of the sword—

Do you want to become stronger?

Solo's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced the cold wind and reached El's ears clearly.

It's almost an instinct, without any thought.

El blurted out, his voice hoarse yet unusually loud:

"Yes! I want to so much!"

He seemed to have used all his strength to shout these words, his chest heaving as he looked at Solo.

This was the first time he had truly made eye contact with Solo.

The other person's eyes, as black as night, were unfathomable, containing neither mockery nor pity.

Only a calm, deep pool, like a frozen pond, reflected his own disheveled yet yearning figure.

That gaze made him feel a sudden, inexplicable unease, and a sense of unease creeping over him.

"Look at you," Solo suddenly laughed, not a sneer, but a hearty laugh with a hint of mockery.

"Your eyes are unfocused and you're feeling panicked. Go out to the icy plains and make eye contact with those hungry magical beasts a few times, and you'll naturally stop being afraid."

El was even more embarrassed by the laughter, and the little hope that had just risen plummeted. He turned his head away and said in a muffled voice:

"If Master Solo is just here to mock me, then I'll head back now." With that, he turned to leave.