The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wood polish as the apprentices lined up. Standing beside ten other boys, Henry felt the weight of Dante's gaze—a sharp, analytical stare that missed nothing.
The drill began.
"Begin the Cycle!" Dante barked.
Henry moved instinctively. When the command for the overhead downward strike came, he was a blur of efficiency. The wooden sword whistled through the air, stopping exactly an inch above the ground with a bone-jarring snap of power. It was perfect—the result of thousands of repetitions in the garrison and the back courtyard.
But then came the rest.
Horizontal Strikes: Henry was stiff, his elbows tucked too tight.
Rising Strikes: He lost his balance, his center of gravity swaying like a drunkard's.
Diagonal Counters: His blade moved in a jagged, unsure arc.
Dante stopped directly in front of him, his brow furrowed. "Young Master Henry," the knight said, gesturing for the others to continue. "Your downward strike is very advanced. It's heavy and precise. But you're horizontal? It looks like you've never held a sword in your life. Explain."
Henry wiped a bead of sweat from his nose. "I haven't," he admitted honestly. "Until today, I only practiced the overhead strike. It's the only strike I've ever known."
Dante stared at him, genuinely stunned. He let out a short, huffing laugh. "You're a madman, young master. Most boys get bored after fifty strikes of the same move. Judging by your proficiency, I don't doubt you've practiced it thousands of times," Dante said, impressed at Henry's dedication but confused as to why he never sought someone to teach him other strikes.
As the group was split by experience, Henry found himself alone in the novice corner. To his surprise, Howard didn't follow the senior knights. He jogged over to Henry, his own practice blade resting on his shoulder.
"Sir Dante sent me to teach you the ropes, little brother," Howard said with a smirk.
As Howard guided him through the footwork, Henry began to analyze the Sinclair Sword Style. The intent of the style was clear: overwhelming force. Every step was designed to put the entire weight of the body behind the blade. It was about breaking the opponent's guard, shattering their will, and crushing them.
It lacked elegance. There were no feints, no nimble dodges. It was a style for titans like his father—bulky, powerful men who could eat a hit and give back ten times the damage.
As Henry mimicked Howard's heavy-footed lunges, his mind drifted to Adar, his mentor from the garrison. Adar's style had been different—tactical, precise, and fluid. Adar didn't break guards; he bypassed them. He moved like a shadow, striking the gaps in armor.
'I'm not as big as Father or Howard,' Henry thought, his muscles burning as he forced a rising strike. 'The Sinclair style fits them like a glove, but it feels like I'm wearing shoes two sizes too small.'
For now, he suppressed the urge to change his stance. He needed the Sinclair foundation to keep up appearances and build raw power, but he decided once he met Adar again in this life, he would weave that precision into his family's brute force.
The weeks that followed were a descent into madness. Henry's addiction to progress became a fever. He continued to sharpen his sword skills with Howard's help from dawn until 10 AM, followed by a short break, and then right into his 30 laps, during which he increased the distance per lap to 2 miles, followed by his body weight exercises, which he now wore a 100-pound vest for, and although redundant, he continued his 1000 overhead strikes.
He stopped having time for dinner. He stopped seeing his mother. He told Mia to leave his meals in the back courtyard, grabbing a bite of cold meat between sets like a starving animal.
By the end of the second month on the torturous schedule, he had surged to Foundation Establishment Level 8. But a month after the second, his extraordinary progress suddenly stalled. Another month and he was still firmly in foundation establishment level 8.
His body was thinning out. His sword strikes suffered as he wasn't eating enough to perform the powerful strikes of the Sinclair sword style.
One afternoon, during his 28th lap, the world began to tilt. The grass turned a sickly shade of grey. He felt a sharp, electric pop in his left calf, followed by a total loss of sensation in his thighs.
'Not yet,' he thought, his vision blurring. 'One more... lap...'
His legs locked. His nervous system, starved of nutrients and hammered by overwork, simply disconnected. Henry pitched forward, his hands failing to even reach out to break his fall.
He slammed face-first into the dirt path behind the castle, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
The heavy fog in Henry's mind slowly receded, replaced by the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through his bedchamber windows. The first thing he registered wasn't the ache in his muscles, but the familiar, delicate scent of pink roses and clean linen.
He groaned, his eyelids feeling like they were weighted with lead. As he finally managed to crack them open, a blur of movement beside him resolved into Mia. She looked frantic, her eyes red-rimmed as if she hadn't slept in days.
The moment their eyes met, she let out a sharp, strangled cry. "Henry! You... you absolute idiot!" she yelled, her voice cracking with a mix of fury and relief. She caught herself a second later, her face flushing. "I mean... You worried us! You worried your mother, and Howard, and the Lord, and—"
Before she could finish the list, she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his lying frame. Henry stiffened for a heartbeat, the sudden contact sending a dull throb through his exhausted body, but her warmth and that rosy scent acted like an anchor, pulling him back to reality.
"What... happened?" Henry croaked, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.
Mia pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still resting on his shoulders. "Your body just gave up, Henry. A patrolling apprentice found you face down in the dirt behind the castle. They said you looked like a ghost."
"How long?" he whispered.
"Three days," Mia said softly. "You've been out for three days. Your father has had the doctor here every single morning, and your mother... she's been a wreck. Howard has been in here every few hours, just staring at you like he could wish you awake."
Hearing about his family's concern warmed a part of Henry's heart that he didn't even know existed.
Henry looked up at Mia, a weak, teasing smirk playing on his pale lips. "And what about you, Mia? Did you just happen to walk in as I woke up, or did you visit a few times?"
Mia's face instantly deepened into a brilliant crimson. She looked away, fussing with the edge of his blanket to hide her shaking hands. "I... I visited enough," she stammered. "A servant has to make sure the room is tidy, after all."
She didn't tell him that she had begged the Head Maid for a reprieve from her other duties. She didn't tell him that she had sat in that very chair for seventy-two hours, holding a basin of cool water and praying to gods she barely believed in.
Henry saw the lie in her eyes but didn't push.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice finally steadying. "I'll be smarter next time."
Mia huffed, finally meeting his eyes with a stern look that reminded him of her earlier outburst. "There better not be a next time, Henry Sinclair. Or I'll find a way to lock you in this room myself."