Riven’s face lit up the moment he heard Ashtoria agree to train him. His eyes gleamed with anticipation, as though all the pain in his body just moments ago had vanished into thin air.

“You’re sure about this?” Riven asked, needing to confirm.

Ashtoria gave a light nod. “I trained with the knights back in my home. More or less, I know what I’m doing.”

Riven nodded back, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Then… just how bad is my swordsmanship?”

Ashtoria’s expression remained flat. “Very bad.”

Riven turned his face aside at once, visibly stung. He had never once received proper training from anyone, yet he practiced nearly every day on his own.

“You don’t even know how to hold your sword properly,” Ashtoria continued mercilessly.

“What?” Riven choked.

Ashtoria let out a short sigh, then stepped back a pace, raising her sword to chest level. “Try swinging at me again.”

Still irritated but obedient, Riven adjusted his stance, then swung Riftmaker toward her.

Clang!

Steel rang against steel in a sharp clash. But to Riven’s shock, his sword was ripped from his hands and clattered onto the ground. He winced, his fingers aching from the sudden impact.

“How did it slip out?” he muttered in disbelief. His wide eyes darted to Ashtoria, realizing she could have disarmed him at any time she wished.

Ashtoria lowered her gaze to his hand. “You grip your sword too tightly. Ever heard of the eagle’s grip?”

Riven shook his head. “No.”

“It’s the foundation of sword handling,” Ashtoria explained. “Your pinky and ring finger lock the sword firmly. But your index finger and thumb… must stay loose.”

She demonstrated the grip with precision. Riven mimicked her movements, adjusting his fingers as instructed. It felt strange, unnatural.

“Swing again,” Ashtoria ordered.

Riven nodded, slashing forward. The swing felt lighter, but he couldn’t sense much of a difference.

Without warning, Ashtoria struck Riftmaker from the side with the same force as before.

CLANG!

The blade trembled violently, but this time it didn’t fly from his hands. His grip faltered, but he held on.

Riven gaped.

“See?” Ashtoria said, lowering her sword once more. “With the proper grip, you can withstand pressure. No need to force all your fingers. That only makes your muscles stiff and your swings sluggish.”

Riven stared down at his hand, feeling out the subtle shift. A small laugh escaped him, but beneath it lay a profound realization.

Only now did he truly understand the difference between training alone and learning under a seasoned teacher. All this time, he had only swung his blade on instinct, imitating soldiers or fighters he had seen, never knowing if his movements were right. Now he realized, without this woman’s guidance, he might never have discovered how fundamentally flawed his foundations were.

And worse still, perhaps he had never truly been “training” at all.

He drew a deep breath, then lifted his head with newfound determination.

“Aria,” he said, “what else am I lacking?”

She studied him briefly before nodding lightly, as if acknowledging his resolve.

“We’ll start with the most basic thing. Your stance… is a mess.”

She stepped to his side, pointing with her finger as she corrected his posture—tapping his knee, shoulder, and ankle in turn.

“Feet shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. Keep your weight evenly distributed when standing still, but shift it when moving forward, backward, or attacking. Don’t dig your heels too deep, but don’t hover them either. Keep them loose, ready to move at any moment.”

Ashtoria then stood in front of Riven, demonstrating the proper stance.

Her body was steady yet fluid. Her right foot stepped slightly forward, knees bent just enough, while her left foot angled diagonally for balance. Her back remained straight but not rigid, and her hands held the sword before her body, aligned with her shoulders.

“This stance allows you to attack and defend swiftly. Remember, in battle, you must always be ready to move. Never let your body lock into one position.”

Riven mimicked her. Ashtoria patiently corrected him. Straightening his shoulders, adjusting the distance between his feet, and repositioning his sword.

“Good,” Ashtoria said once he looked stable.

“Now we move to footwork.”

She stepped back and demonstrated how to move in sword combat. Her motions were smooth and efficient.

“Short, quick, light steps. Don’t lift your feet like when you walk normally. Slide them. One small step forward, then pull the back foot to follow. Same for retreating. For side steps, move one foot toward the direction, then let the other chase.”

She showed all four directions—forward, backward, left, and right. Each step low, her center of gravity steady.

“This keeps your balance whether you attack or defend,” she explained. “And most importantly, never cross your own body with your steps. You’ll lose balance and expose yourself.”

Riven nodded, imitating her movements. He stumbled a few times, too stiff, but Ashtoria quickly adjusted him.

She stood before him, gaze sharp and focused. The morning air was warming, dew fading from the grass at their feet. Sunlight glinted against Riftmaker’s pale silver blade, raised in Riven’s hands.

“Now,” Ashtoria said, “we’ll train the basic sword strikes. There are four: vertical, horizontal, diagonal, and thrust. Don’t rush them. Feel the shape of each movement.”

She raised her sword slowly above her head, tip pointing skyward, both hands firm on the hilt.

“Vertical strike.”

She brought her sword down in a straight arc from above, cutting through her centerline. The movement was swift yet controlled, the blade singing sharply through the air.

“Keep your arms aligned. Pull from your shoulders, not your wrists. Channel power from your back, let your body lean slightly forward, but stay balanced. Imagine cleaving an enemy from crown to stomach.”

Riven tried. He lifted Riftmaker and slashed downward. The strike was strong, but unstable—his shoulder lifted unevenly, his footing wavered.

“Level your shoulders! Don’t rely on your right hand. Let the left guide the cut!” Ashtoria corrected, adjusting his arms.

Riven tried again. This time, more solid. His blade cut down cleanly, Riftmaker feeling more alive in his grasp.

“Horizontal strike.”

Ashtoria raised her sword to chest height and swept from right to left.

“Keep your elbows close. Rotate your hips to drive momentum. Don’t swing with just your arms. Let your body turn—feet, hips, then arms. Like slicing across an enemy’s belly.”

Riven followed, but his swing was too wide.

“Too broad. You’re opening yourself up. Limit the motion. This isn’t a performance.”

With corrections, Riven found the rhythm. His hips turned with his swing, Riftmaker moving faster, lighter.

“Diagonal strike.”

Ashtoria lowered her sword to her left shoulder, then slashed diagonally toward her right hip. Then the reverse, from right shoulder to left hip.

“This is the most common and flexible strike. It sweeps from above while cutting across the side. But it’s also the easiest to lose balance if your footwork is wrong.”

She stepped forward into the slash, then retreated as she struck the opposite angle.

“Coordinate your step with the swing. From left shoulder, step forward with your right foot. From right shoulder, step with your left. Stay rooted, or you’ll become an easy target.”

Riven followed, stiff at first, but serious. He repeated again and again, sweat dripping down his temple, breath growing heavier. Gradually, his strikes aligned with his steps, Riftmaker flowing more in sync with his body.

“Lastly, the thrust.”

Ashtoria raised her sword beside her head, then shot it forward—fast, like an arrow. The tip aligned squarely with an imaginary enemy’s chest.

“A thrust is the fastest, most direct, and deadliest technique. But also the frailest. If it misses or gets read, you’ll be left wide open.”

She showed the hand position—elbows bent, body slightly turned to narrow her target.

“Step forward as you push. Don’t drive it with your arms alone, but from your shoulders and hips. Pour your body’s weight into the blade’s tip.”

Riven attempted it. His first thrust was weak, hesitant. Ashtoria said nothing. She simply repeated the move, sharper, swifter.

This time Riven focused, exhaled, and drove Riftmaker forward with conviction. The sword cut through the air, strong and straight. He felt the force flow up from his feet, through his waist, out into the blade.

Ashtoria nodded.

“Now, you’re starting to become one with your sword.”

Riven panted, chest rising and falling, but his eyes glowed with excitement.

He wiped sweat from his brow and asked, “Can we go over all of it again from the beginning?”

Ashtoria gave the faintest smile. “Of course. We’ll repeat it until every motion becomes reflex. Until your body remembers what words can never fully teach.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep