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Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category:
F/M
Fandoms:
Warhammer 40.000無職転生 異世界行ったら本気だす - 理不尽な孫の手 | Mushoku Tensei: Isekai Ittara Honki Dasu - Rifujin na Magonote (Novels)無職転生 ～異世界行ったら本気だす～ | Mushoku Tensei: Isekai Ittara Honki Dasu | Jobless Reincarnation (Anime)
Relationships:
Paul Greyrat/Zenith GreyratLilia Greyrat/Paul Greyrat
Characters:
Ciaphas CainRudeus GreyratPaul GreyratZenith GreyratRoxy MigurdiaLilia GreyratSylphiette (Mushoku Tensei)Ghislaine DedoldiaEris GreyratPhilip Boreas Greyrat
Additional Tags:
CrossoverParodySlice of LifeIsekai and TransmigrationReincarnationPoliticsWarAI-TranslatedOriginal TextSurvivalMagicguanoWorldbuilding
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:2026-02-28Updated:2026-06-10Words:212,710Chapters:29/?Comments:145Kudos:240Bookmarks:70Hits:13,522
Alaric Greyrat: Hero of Six-Faced World (crossover Mushoku Tensei / 40K)
KsiadzRobak21
Chapter 6: Training
Chapter Text
A year had passed since Roxy moved into their home.
A year of intense lessons.
A year of experiments with mana.
A year of arguments, rivalries, and quiet observation.
Both of them were developing quickly.
Too quickly.
The morning was crisp. Rosa still clung to the blades of grass as Paul stood across from Alaric, wooden sword in hand.
"Again," he said with a smile.
Alaric adjusted his grip.
The wooden sword was light. Too light.
Too balanced.
It lacked the vibration of an engine.
It lacked mass.
For many years, he had fought with a completely different weapon — brutal, heavy, toothed. The chain sword forgave no mistakes but rewarded decisiveness. It cut, tore, crushed.
Here, he had a piece of polished wood.
But a fight was a fight.
Feet — stable.
Shoulder — relaxed.
Eyes — on the opponent's chest.
Paul moved first.
A quick, fluid swing from the side.
Alaric parried almost instinctively, shifting the blade at a minimal angle, using his father's momentum to deflect the line of attack.
Counterattack.
Short. Simple.
Paul blocked, stepping back half a pace.
Acknowledgment appeared in his eyes.
"Good," he muttered. "But too stiff. You rely too much on strength."
Alaric narrowed his eyes.
Too stiff?
He had fought in battle armor. In mud. In ruins. In smoke- and blood-filled corridors.
Stiffness saved lives.
Paul attacked again, this time changing the rhythm. A feint, a spin, a low cut.
Alaric jumped back; the wood whistled just in front of his knees.
His father took the moment to tap him lightly on the shoulder.
"Point for me."
Alaric lowered the wooden sword and rubbed his shoulder.
"Maybe… we could train later?" he suggested cautiously. "I'm only four years old."
Paul chuckled softly.
"And you are more determined than your brother," he replied calmly, nodding toward the garden where the young boy helped their mother with the beds. "He has a heart for work. You have a fire for combat."
Alaric glanced that way.
A fire for combat?
If only he knew what kind of "combat."
He sighed heavily and took his stance again.
Style of the God of the North. Style of the God of the Sword. Style of the God of Water.
Gods, really?
Swordfighting was swordfighting. The blade either entered the body or it didn't. End of philosophy.
No "secret flows," no "reading intentions in a drop of sweat," no forbidden arcanes. There was mass, timing, brutality, and decisiveness.
Once, he had held something that made sense.
A heavy, growling chain sword. Vibration running through the hilt. The smell of burnt air. The grind of teeth into the opponent's armor.
And at his belt, a laspistol.
A quick flash. A hole in the target. Simple. Honest.
Now?
A stick.
Paul moved again. This time faster.
A series of strikes — high, low, changing tempo.
Alaric parried instinctively, with minimal movements. Not beautifully. Not according to any style. Simply effectively.
He didn't dance.
He calculated.
At one point, he closed the distance sharply, entering his father's space, shoulder to shoulder — just like in the narrow corridors of ships long ago.
Paul stepped back, surprised.
"Too aggressive," he muttered. "The Style of the God of Water teaches patience."
Alaric frowned.
The style of any god wouldn't stop a Tyranid charging at you with four claws.
But the wooden sword rose to guard again.
Fine. If I'm going to play this feudal game…
He attacked first.
No feints. No rituals. Short, direct, focused on the center.
Paul blocked, but felt the impact.
He smiled.
"See? You're learning."
Alaric snorted inwardly.
He wasn't learning the Style of the God of Water.
He was learning how to survive without firearms in a world that stubbornly lacked them.
And really — was that too much to ask?
A small, proper submachine gun.
Surely not an unreasonable dream.
They fought for a long time.
Minutes stretched, wood clashed against wood, footsteps slid over the damp grass. Paul changed rhythm, tempo, height of strikes. Tested. Checked. Provoked mistakes.
Alaric responded sparingly.
No unnecessary movements. No "style." No finesse.
It didn't look like a textbook God of Water school or any other deity from the local pantheon of techniques.
It looked like survival.
Finally, Paul lowered his sword and laughed briefly.
"That's enough. Done for today."
Alaric set his weapon down almost immediately, though his heart still raced. He breathed evenly. Controlled.
Paul smiled broadly and extended a hand.
"Good work."
Alaric looked at the hand, uncertain for a split second, then high-fived it.
"Thank you, Father."
Polite. Calm.
As if he weren't simultaneously analyzing fourteen different ways real steel would have ended this fight in the first ten seconds.
Clouds gathered in the distance.
Roxy stood at the edge of the field, stick raised, chanting softly, confidently.
The air thickened. Moisture gathered above the crops.
After a moment, the first drops fell from the sky.
The farmers looked up and shouted in joy.
Rain.
Simple, even, controlled.
Alaric watched with narrowed eyes.
A psyker… using her power to water the field?
The purest absurd sight in his life.
In his previous life, psykers ended up in two ways: either as useful but dangerous tools of the Imperium… or as open gateways to something far worse.
The Academy of Magic, they said.
Training. Control. Discipline.
Maybe that was exactly what they were doing here — "taming" her power. Teaching frameworks, formulas, incantations, so no one accidentally tore the veil of reality and invited something from the other side.
No demons.
No whispers from the void.
No reality warping.
Just… rain.
Alaric sighed quietly, wiping sweat from his forehead.
If he had to live in a world without a laspistol, without a chain sword, without even a shabby submachine gun…
At least the sky wasn't trying to devour him.
For now.
"Hm?" Alaric murmured slowly, turning his gaze to a small stone wall. He noticed immediately.
Rudy stood by the low stone wall, fingers tightly gripping the rough edge. On the other side of the field, a group of children played — laughter, shouting, running between freshly watered beds.
Rudy watched.
Longingly.
Then one of the children looked his way.
Their eyes met.
Rudy froze.
A second later, he disappeared behind the wall, as if shot by an invisible arrow.
Alaric could only see his brother crouching low, shoulders trembling, breathing rapid. Too fast. Too shallow.
Alaric frowned.
He didn't fully understand it.
As a commissar, he valued solitude. Moments when he didn't have to be a symbol. When he didn't have to pretend to be the fearless hero of the Imperium. When he could stop being the face of propaganda, and just be human.
But this was different.
It wasn't a need for quiet.
It was fear.
He knew one thing — such moments never lasted forever. The moment to return always came. To duty. To the fight. To a reality that wouldn't wait.
In the Imperium, there was no place for escape.
You fought for the Golden Throne.
For humanity.
For survival.
Duty was simple.
But this wasn't the Imperium.
This was a small, damp world with fields and wooden swords.
Alaric approached calmly. No hurry. No sudden movements.
He sat next to the wall, not looking directly at his brother.
"All right?" he asked quietly.
Rudy didn't answer immediately.
He breathed rapidly. Shoulders rose and fell unevenly.
"They… are watching," he whispered at last.
"Yes," Alaric replied calmly. "That's normal."
"No…" Rudy shook his head, curling in on himself. "When they watch… it's like back then…"
He trailed off.
Fingers dug into his shirt sleeves.
Alaric remained silent.
He didn't understand the details. He didn't understand why his brother exhibited such fear of a crowd.
But he knew a soldier's trembling before their first battle. Knew the moment when the body remembers something the mind refuses to summon.
"You don't have to go there," he said finally. Simple. No moralizing. "Not today."
Rudy looked at him, surprised.
"No…?"
"You're not at war," Alaric added dryly. "No one will tear you apart for standing behind the wall."
The boy swallowed. His breathing slowly steadied.
"But… I should be normal."
Alaric chuckled softly.
"'Normal' is strategically useless."
Rudy blinked.
"What?"
"That is — everyone fights something different. Some fight monsters. Others fight… the gaze of others."
A pause.
"Can we just sit here?" Rudy asked quietly.
Alaric nodded.
"We can."
He settled more comfortably by the wall, looking ahead, not at the children, not at his brother. Just sitting.
Sometimes the greatest courage isn't stepping into the attack.
Sometimes it's not fleeing from your own breath.
And that — even a commissar could respect.
…
…
…
…
…
They sat in silence.
Beyond the wall, the children laughed again, as if the world had never held anything threatening. Wind rustled through wet leaves. Raindrops still shimmered on the grass.
Alaric looked ahead.
How the hell do you start a conversation with a four-year-old?
In the army, it was simple. Command. Response. Sometimes a joke. Sometimes a threat.
Here… it was awkward.
He cleared his throat.
"You know… one day, we'll have to leave this home."
Rudy stiffened.
"What?!" he raised his head sharply. "No! We have to help Mom and Dad! We have to stay! We have to—"
"No," Alaric interrupted calmly.
Rudy stared at him with wide eyes.
"Of course, we'll take care of them," Alaric continued matter-of-factly. "As well-bred sons. But that doesn't mean we have to be tied to this place like… like a slave chain."
Rudeus frowned.
"But it's our home…"
"Yes. And a home exists to leave it," Alaric replied calmly. "We are children. Young. Strong. Curious."
He glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye.
"Have you ever wondered what the whole land looks like?"
Rudy hesitated.
"Well… a little…"
"What's beyond those mountains?" Alaric pressed, pointing to the horizon. "What cities? What monsters? What libraries full of dusty books? What ruins?"
Rudy lifted his head higher.
"Do you think… there are other races?"
"Certainly," Alaric answered without hesitation. "Other people. Other languages. Other customs."
He paused briefly.
"And other women."
Rudy blinked.
"W-women?"
Alaric nodded, though in his mind he smiled slyly.
He had the hook.
"Of course," he said in an expert tone, as if discussing logistics for a campaign. "Different in every region. Different hair. Different eyes. Different gaze. Maybe a warrior from the north. Or a scholar from a great city. Or…" he grimaced slightly "…an elf from the forest…"
Rudy blushed lightly, but didn't look away.
"Do you think… we could really go there?"
"Someday?" Alaric shrugged. "Why not?"
He looked at him more seriously.
"I'm not saying: now. I'm not saying: tomorrow. But when we're ready."
Rudy was silent for a moment.
"And if… if it's scary there?"
Alaric rested his elbows on his knees.
"It will be."
A simple answer.
"But you know what's more interesting than fear?"
Rudy looked uncertain.
"What?"
"That you can overcome it."
A pause.
The children beyond the wall laughed again.
Rudy slowly, very slowly, peeked over the stone.
He didn't step out.
But he wasn't shaking anymore.
Alaric leaned back comfortably.
You don't shove a soldier into the fire.
You give him a reason to take the step himself.
And time.
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