The Extra Who Stole the Hero's System
Chapter 51: Blunt Sword

Chapter 51: Blunt Sword

I was in my room, when a soft groan escaped my lips, a low, reluctant sound. The Sword Knight entrance exam. It’s closer than ever and I had promised Lady Sapphire I would take it, she gave a desperate plea to bring some semblance of hope back to the family. But the thought of the rigorous training, the sheer physical exertion, felt utterly exhausting after the emotional and physical trauma of the past few days.

I contemplated whether I should rest today or train tomorrow. But a quote from a show I watched in my past life, as Alex Miller. It helped me warm up for training. It went like this: "Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today."

I flickered my hand, and the system’s inventory screen materialized.

INVENTORY

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Obleric Diary

Blunt Training Sword

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My gaze fell on the Blunt Training Sword. It was a simple, heavy piece of steel, designed for practice, not for killing. I materialized it with a soft pop, the familiar weight settling into my hand. I needed to see how well I truly fared. My actual swordsmanship was still rudimentary, based on a few basic forms and desperate instinct. I couldn’t rely on the system since I had used up all my override points.

I walked out of my room, the blunt sword held loosely in my hand. The manor hallways were quiet, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of servants and maids. My footsteps echoed softly on the polished floors. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but my feet seemed to lead me instinctively.

I stopped outside Evelina’s room. The door was cracked open just a bit, letting a thin line of light stretch into the hallway. I pushed the door open gently and stepped inside.

She lay in her bed, utterly still, her face pale against the white pillow. Her blue hair fanned out around her, a stark contrast to the stillness of her body. Her breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible. She looked fragile, vulnerable, utterly helpless. The bandages on her chest stood out—bright white against her pale skin. They were a harsh reminder of the corrupted elixir... and everything it had taken from her.

I walked to her bedside, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. I sat down on the edge of the bed, the blunt sword resting across my knees. I reached out, my hand gently taking hers. Her skin was cool, almost lifeless.

I knew. I knew that if she woke up, her world would be utterly destroyed. She would learn that her mana core, the very essence of her ambition, was irrevocably damaged. She would never be a Mage Knight. She would never achieve her revenge for Prudee. And she would learn that her father, Lord Sapphire, was dead, brutally murdered, his head severed. And I, her adopted brother, the one she believed in, would probably be leaving for the Academy soon, drawn into a conflict she could no longer fight.

The thought hit hard. She had already lost so much. And now, she would lose even more. The guilt—always there—dug in deeper. Sure, I tried to warn her. But was it enough? Could I have done more? The "what ifs" wouldn’t stop. They just kept coming, louder and sharper, tearing through my head.

I squeezed her hand gently, a silent farewell, a silent apology. "Evelina," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, "I know you can’t hear me, but... I’m sorry. For all of it." My eyes burned. "Thank you. For all the days you spent with me. For your kindness. For your concern. Even though I always looked ungrateful, always seemed distant... it’s nice knowing someone cared. Truly cared." It was a genuine moment of raw emotion, a rare crack in my carefully constructed adopted brother persona. She was a fictional character, yes, but she was also a grieving, vulnerable girl.

I stayed there for a long moment, holding her hand, watching her still, silent form. Then, with a heavy heart, I released her hand. I stood up, the blunt sword feeling heavier now, a grim reminder of the path ahead. I glanced back at her one last time, then turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind me.

My destination was the manor’s training hall. The same hall where Evelina had pushed herself to her limits, where she had screamed in despair, where her dreams had been shattered. It felt like a fitting place to begin my own journey.

A lone guard, one of the older, more experienced ones, was standing near the entrance, polishing his armor. He looked up as I entered, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He quickly straightened, offering a respectful bow.

"Young Master Kai," he said, his voice quiet. "Are you... feeling well enough to be out here?"

"I am," I replied, my voice firm. I raised the blunt sword. "Guard, I require a sparring partner. Will you indulge me?"

The guard’s eyes widened slightly, then a look of understanding, almost respect, entered them. He knew about my upcoming exam. He knew about the need for training. "As you wish, Young Master," he said, putting his polishing cloth away. He walked to a rack of practice weapons and selected a blunt sword for himself.

He took a basic stance, his movements practiced and efficient. "Whenever you are ready, Young Master."

I took my stance—the Front Guard—feet shoulder-width apart, sword angled low and steady. The weight of the blunt training blade was familiar, but my grip was tighter than usual. Across from me stood the guard, he returned my stance with a calm, neutral posture, eyes watching, not me, but how I held myself. Judging.

I made the first move. A textbook thrust aimed at his chest—clean, balanced. He knocked it aside like he was swatting a fly, barely lifting his blade. I reset quickly and came again, this time with a rising diagonal slash. He parried that too, stepping sideways, relaxed, like it was all just a slow dance.

Our blades clacked a few more times, light blows exchanged in a rhythm that felt too rehearsed. I was hitting air, and he was letting me. There was no challenge—only indulgence.

I pulled back, breathing a little harder, sweat forming at my brow. "You’re holding back."

He raised a brow. "You want me to stop holding back?"

"I’m not going to learn anything if you’re just babysitting me."

His gaze sharpened. Something in his stance shifted. The ease melted away, replaced with a weight that wasn’t there before. The air felt thicker.

"You asked for it," he said.

The very next moment, his sword was a blur. I barely brought mine up in time to catch the slash aimed at my shoulder. The impact jolted through my wrists, rattling my bones. Before I could recover, he was already stepping in, pivoting on his heel, and slamming his blade down in an overhead arc. I ducked, scrambled back, feet slipping on the packed dirt.

He gave me no room to breathe. A low sweep nearly took my legs out. I jumped, landed off-balance, and stumbled to the side. His follow-up came instantly—a thrust, a diagonal slash, a spinning feint that I fell for. His real strike came from the opposite angle, and it slammed into my blade so hard I nearly dropped it.

I backed off, chest heaving now, arms burning. My muscles screamed with each block. Sweat trickled down my temple and into my eye, blurring my vision.

"Come on!" he barked. "Front Guard stance is only good if your guard actually holds."

I gritted my teeth and lunged again, this time aiming low. He sidestepped, twisted, and slammed the flat of his blade against my back as I passed. I hit the ground hard, gasping, dust in my mouth.

"Again," he said calmly. "Get up."

I groaned, pushed myself to my feet, sword dragging behind me. Every part of my body ached—but I wasn’t done.

I reset into Front Guard.

He smiled faintly. Not unkindly. "Good. Now fight like it matters."

This time, I didn’t lunge. I waited, watching him the way he’d been watching me. He came first—an arcing slash from above. I blocked, braced, turned my shoulder into it. The next few seconds were chaos—steel clashing, feet sliding, instincts screaming. I didn’t win. I never stood a chance. But I lasted longer.

And when I finally dropped to one knee, gasping for air, He gave a nod of approval.

"That’s more like it," he said. "Now we can actually begin."

After a few minutes, I called a quit— I was panting, my muscles aching, my technique ragged. He, however, remained calm, his breathing even, his posture unruffled. He had barely broken a sweat.

He lowered his sword. "You have strength, Young Master. And speed. More than I would have expected." He paused, a faint smile touching his lips. "But strength and speed alone do not make a knight. They are merely tools. The blade... it is an extension of the mind, of the will. It requires discipline. Finesse. And patience."

I sighed, a reluctant groan escaping my lips. My path to knighthood, to survival, was going to be longer, harder, and far more demanding than I had anticipated. I needed improvement. Significant improvement. My swordsmanship, I acknowledged, was still far from where it needed to be.