It had been a few years since I'd been reincarnated.
A new chapter began as my legs finally allowed me to walk.
I was now able to communicate in this world's language.
With a newfound commitment to living authentically, I knew a plan was essential.
What did I realize I had lacked in my previous life? Simply put: study, exercise, and technique.
As an infant, my world was quite limited. Beyond seeking comfort, little else occupied my time. When held, I often buried my face against a chest, a simple act of seeking reassurance. I remember doing this with the maid, and her undisguised delight always struck me; she clearly adored babies.
Prioritizing intellectual pursuits over physical activity for the moment, I started to decipher the books I found around the house. The significance of language was clear to me. The near-perfect literacy rate in Japan served as a strong example. Moreover, their proactive approach to learning English and engaging with people from other countries underscored the inherent value of foreign language ability. Therefore, I decided to tackle this world's writing system as my initial subject of study.
The sheer number of books in our home—hundreds, at least—prompted a question: were books readily affordable here, or were Logan and Laurima voracious readers? It was probably a combination of the two. Having been accustomed to a personal library of several thousand volumes, albeit mostly light novels, this situation felt surprisingly different.
With this collection, I had enough to start deciphering the written word. The language of this world shared a significant similarity with Japanese, which thankfully allowed for a swift initial understanding. Although the script was completely foreign, the grammatical structure echoed what I already knew, meaning my main task was building vocabulary—something my father's reading aloud had already begun to address. My enhanced learning capabilities in this new life undoubtedly played a role in my progress too.
Once literate, I found myself genuinely absorbed in the books around the house. It was a novel experience, as studying had always been tedious in the past. But upon closer examination, I recognized a parallel with the excitement of researching online games. Viewed through that lens, it wasn't so unpleasant after all.
It crossed my mind whether my father realized his infant son was absorbing the information he was reading. While I was perfectly content, I imagined that a typical baby my age would be fussing and crying about it, so that's precisely what I made sure to do.
Of all the books in our house, these five were the ones that most profoundly filled my mind with wonder and intrigue:
Journey of the Eldon, a reference guide to the various countries
of the world and their unique characteristics.
The Biology of Fittoan Monsters: This leans into the scientific study of their life processes and how they function within the Jota Region.
A Textbook of enchantment, a sorcerer's manual, a comprehensive guide to offensive magic ranging from basic Beginner spells to powerful Advanced techniques.
The Legend of Flardax, a fairytale, a grand adventure following the summoner Flardax and his allies as they confronted a powerful demon in a timeless struggle to protect the world.
The Swordsmen and the Crystal, offered a captivating blend of action and adventure, featuring a gathering of master swordsmen from diverse fighting disciplines who delve into the mysterious Crystal Labyrinth to claim its legendary and mythical crystals.
While the final two books were clearly works of fantasy, the other three offered intriguing avenues for study. "Journey of the Eldon," in particular, seized my attention. Having originated from a world where concepts like chivalry and swords were confined to fiction, the prospect of reading actual documentation on them held immense appeal. The book began to illuminate some of the core tenets.
My initial draw to this world was "The Swordsmen and the Crystal," with its tales of swords and adventure. However, my interest steadily moved towards magic upon learning of its potential for healing people and animals, and even for repairing broken objects.
For the time being, the allure of swordplay completely captivated me.
First, swordsmanship came in 4 types: Aggressive Swordsmanship, to attack and overwhelm the opponent; Counter-Offensive Swordsmanship, prioritize blocking, parrying, and evading attacks; Finesse Swordsmanship, focusing on precise blade manipulation, intricate footwork, and tactical maneuvering; Balanced Swordsmanship, incorporate a blend of offensive and defensive principles, aiming for adaptability in various combat situations. These systems often train both aggressive attacking and solid defensive techniques, allowing the swordsman to switch approaches as needed.
Second, you needed speed, technique, strength and hand-eye coordination in order to use swordsmanship---meaning, anyone could use swords so long as they had agility.
This could be achieved through dedicated physical and mental discipline, or by gaining experience in actual combat. Both methods seemed effective. My impression, though it wasn't explicitly detailed, was that the former approach cultivated an internal wellspring of power, whereas the latter relied on absorbing power, much like using a battery.
According to the kobalt age, the time period saw swordplay fueled largely by personal physical power. But with advancements in swordsmanship research came increasing sophistication. As a result, consumable sources of physical energy were developed at an unprecedented pace. Those with substantial inner reserves could manage, but individuals with limited power found themselves unable to perform even fundamental maneuvers. This prompted the old sword masters to innovate, creating ways to draw power from external objects and direct it into their sword techniques.
Third, swordsmanship offered two primary approaches: forms and sparring. This distinction requires little elaboration: it simply refers to practicing specific sequences of movements or engaging in direct combat with an opponent, respectively. In earlier eras, mastering forms was the principal path to swordsmanship prowess, but in modern practice, sparring has become far more prevalent. In ancient times, even the simplest sword forms demanded a minute or two to execute flawlessly – hardly practical in the thick of a duel. However, once a swordsman had internalized a form, they could draw upon its techniques repeatedly.
Forms began to take precedence when one master swordsman achieved significant reductions in their execution time. The most basic forms were condensed to around five seconds, and as a result, became the standard approach for offensive techniques. However, for more intricate sequences involved in advanced disciplines, where such efficiency couldn't be achieved, dedicated sparring drills remained the primary method.
Fourth, a swordsman's inherent potential was largely established from the outset. Unlike the progression often seen in other pursuits, where skill increases linearly with practice, in this discipline, an individual's natural aptitude for the blade was mostly fixed. For the vast majority, their foundational talent remained constant.
Almost everyone, then, suggested the possibility of personal evolution.
I wondered where I would ultimately land.
The book also said that one's level of sword technique was
inherited. I knew my father was able to use agressive swordsmanship, so maybe it was all right to have some expectations for myself. Still, I was uneasy. Even if my parents excelled at this sort of thing, I wasn't sure my own genes would be up to the task.
For the moment, I resolved to try my hand at the most fundamental sword techniques I could find. The training manual detailed both basic forms and more involved sparring drills. Given that forms were now the standard starting point, and lacking a training partner for complex drills, I chose to begin by studying the forms. As I understood it, as the complexity of a technique increased, the corresponding forms became more elaborate, eventually requiring dedicated sparring practice to fully grasp. But since I was starting with the basics, I should be alright.
The most skilled swordsmen, the manual explained, could execute techniques without needing to go through the full, deliberate forms – or at the very least, significantly reduce the time spent on the initial movements. I wasn't entirely clear on why training allowed one to bypass parts of the form, though. After all, a swordsman's inherent talent didn't change; there was no 'leveling up' and no increase in their fundamental abilities. Perhaps with rigorous practice, the amount of energy or precision required for the technique decreased?
But requiring less effort wouldn't necessarily make the technique less complex, would it?