**Chapter 13: The Weight of Steel **
The cool morning breeze carried the scent of wet earth across the private courtyard, but Lucien barely noticed it. Having just finished his brutal physical exercise, every fiber of his body screamed for rest, yet he refused to stop.
Only three months left to prove I’m not weak.
His gaze swept across the courtyard—the estate’s primary training ground—where estate knights were running drills in neat formations. To his relief, no one paid him any mind. He was spared the nuisance of having to put up a fake front.
His eyes scanned the perimeter until they locked onto the far corner of the courtyard: the grand armory, where racks of silver-trimmed weapons glistened under the morning light.
Even with the System’s full-body recovery actively restoring his stamina, the psychological fatigue of surviving a hellish workout lingering like a heavy fog. His mind still remembered the agonizing burn in his lungs and the raw, torn blisters on his palms.
‘Ada,’ Lucien called out internally, stretching his aching arms. ‘If the system healed my physical damage, why do I still feel like I got hit by a carriage?’
[ The recovery feature restores physical integrity and clears muscle fatigue, Host. However, mental exhaustion and muscle memory require time and practice. ]
"Figures," Lucien grumbled under his breath.
He walked over to the weapon racks, ignoring the ornate rapiers and decorative broadswords crafted for noble display. Instead, he reached for a basic wooden training sword. But the moment his fingers gripped the leather-wrapped hilt, a bitter realization hit him.
It was heavy. *Absurdly heavy.*
His new body possessed zero muscle memory for martial arts, and his weak wrist wobbled instantly under the weight of the simple wooden blade.
Across the yard, two estate knights in polished silver chested plates stood watching him with their arms crossed over their chests.
"Look at the young master," one whispered, chuckling softly under his breath. "First he runs around the estate until he passes out, and now he’s playing with a wooden sword."
"Give him ten minutes," the second guard replied with a smirk. "His hands will blister, and he'll go running back inside crying for the servants to bring him wine."
Lucien heard every word, but he didn't care. In his past life, people had doubted him, mocked him, and brushed him aside just the same.
He had learned long ago that reacting to petty insults was a waste of energy—the best response was results.
Gritting his teeth, Lucien assumed a basic high-guard stance.
‘No high-tier sword arts yet,’ he reminded himself. ‘Just the basics. Swing, reset. Swing, reset.’
"One!"
He brought the wooden sword down in a heavy vertical strike. The momentum pulled his frame forward, causing his footwork to stumble awkwardly.
"Two!"
He reset his stance and swung again. Pain shot up his forearms instantly. Even with the +1 Strength and Stamina +2 gained from his daily quest, swinging a dense wooden sword continuously demanded core stability he simply didn't possess yet.
"Fifty!"
Sweat pooled around his neck, soaking through his fresh shirt. His shoulders burned as if doused in oil and set ablaze, every single repetition feeling like trying to lift a block of solid stone.
‘My form is terrible,’ Lucien thought bitterly, catching his reflection in the tall glass windows of the estate. His hips were off-balance, his wrists were limp, and his strikes lacked all power. ‘Ren Blackwood probably mastered the sword in a day with his stupid legendary potential. But I don't have legendary potential. I only have stubbornness.’
"One hundred!"
His arms shook uncontrollably. He tried to raise the blade for another strike, but his shoulders locked up completely.
"Young Master Lucien," a cold, smooth voice called out from the courtyard entrance.
Lucien paused, lowered his blade, and turned around, his chest heaving heavily.
Standing there was Sir Brandon, the estate’s Head Instructor—a tall, scar-faced veteran knight who had served the family for decades. He looked down at Lucien with a mixture of mild surprise and strict indifference.
"I observed your swings," Brandon said flatly, stepping closer. "Your stance is weak. Your wrist is limp. If you struck an armored opponent like that, the blade would bounce off and break your own arm."
Without waiting for a response, Brandon reached out. His iron-like grip firmly adjusted Lucien's elbow and tilted his hips slightly to the left.
"If you are going to waste time swinging a stick around my courtyard, at least do it properly," Brandon added, his voice devoid of warmth, but remarkably precise. "Keep your core tight. Drive the power from your legs, not your wrists."
Lucien stared at the veteran instructor for a second before nodding firmly. "Understood."
Sir Brandon raised an eyebrow in slight surprise, clearly expecting the spoiled young lord to throw a fit at being corrected. Instead, Lucien immediately readjusted his posture, aligning his body exactly as instructed.
"Again," Lucien muttered to himself.
He raised the sword high above his head, locked his core, and drove his feet firmly into the stone floor.
"One hundred and one!"
*Swish!*
The blade cut through the air with a noticeably cleaner, sharper sound.
Sir Brandon watched quietly for a few moments, his eyes narrowing slightly, before turning on his heel and walking away without another word.
Lucien didn't stop. He swung again, and again, and again—filling the empty courtyard with the relentless, rhythmic sound of striking wood long into the late afternoon.