On this bright and sunny day, Anastasia and Paul stood face to face, wooden swords in hand.

  Something felt very wrong.

  Why did this so-called training feel like she was already sparring with her idiot of a father on day one?

  "Attack me with all your might, Anastasia! Don’t worry, I’ll hold back," Paul said, fshing a confident smile.

  Anastasia stared at him, her expression unreadable—like someone looking at a man who had negative wisdom stats.

  "...Father," she said slowly, her tone dangerously polite. "With all due respect, please expin why I, a complete beginner—who has had no prior body training, no swordsmanship experience, and not even a single warm-up—am supposed to spar against you, a fully trained swordsman, who has warmed up, has years of experience, and also has superior physical strength?"

  She smiled at him with closed eyes, as if desperately trying to either comprehend or ignore the sheer ck of logic in his actions.

  Paul paused for a moment, scratching his head sheepishly. "Now that you mention it…"

  Anastasia let out a long, suffering sigh. "Father, as your daughter, I must say—you are truly a special case…"

  Paul puffed out his chest, beaming. "Of course! I am your father, after all!"

  Anastasia stared at him. She had meant that as an insult, but watching him take it as praise made her frustration nearly unbearable. Swallowing her irritation, she waited for him to eborate.

  Paul, however, was at a complete loss.

  Teaching? Instruction? Structure? None of these concepts existed in his approach to swordsmanship. He recalled his own early days—just grabbing a sword and swinging it at a dummy for days until his father noticed and had someone train him properly.

  But hiring a swordmaster for Anastasia? No way.

  Then again… he did know someone—an acquaintance far better at teaching than him, even as an S-rank adventurer. But still… wasn’t it too early for Anastasia? She hadn’t even started training yet.

  And then—ding!

  A bright idea struck Paul.

  "Let’s just spar, and I’ll point out what you’re cking!" he said enthusiastically, fshing a carefree smile.

  Anastasia went completely speechless.

  For a split second, she seriously considered shifting into Velvyr and beating Paul until he became normal for once. But instead, she exhaled slowly, pushing down the urge.

  Think, Anastasia. If she was going to do this, she needed a sword style that was beginner-friendly yet fit her aesthetic—elegant, noble, light, and agile.

  Ah, there’s one…

  A sword style that fit her preferences—elegant, noble, light, and agile.

  But there was a problem.

  It relied on one-handed techniques, and with this clunky wooden sword, her bance was completely off. She would just have to wing it.

  Normally, that would be a reckless idea. But thanks to her cheat—being a former master of magic—her body was unconsciously enhanced, tempered by continuous mana reinforcement. Compared to normal children, she was already stronger, faster, better.

  Fine. She could make this work.

  Gripping the wooden sword with one hand, she positioned it parallel to her chest, tilting it slightly downward. Paul gave her a puzzled look.

  Then—she moved.

  Leaning forward, she dashed toward him.

  Paul’s eyes widened slightly. Fast!

  Using her momentum, she pushed off the ground and swung upward in a rising ssh. Paul reacted quickly, blocking the strike—but the force behind it surprised him. His arms tingled from the impact.

  She’s strong…

  His momentary shock cost him. Anastasia swiftly swapped her grip, adjusting her stance, and with gravity on her side, she reversed the swing—bringing the sword down in a sharp, controlled arc.

  Paul backed up, barely deflecting the strike in time. The wooden bdes cshed with a sharp crack.

  Anastasia didn’t hesitate. Pressing forward, she supported the sword with her other hand and lunged, thrusting toward Paul’s torso.

  Paul’s instincts kicked in—he knocked her attack aside, redirecting it with his bde.

  But before he could counter, Anastasia twirled the sword in her hand, smoothly regaining control. Shifting back into a ready stance, she fixed her gaze on Paul, stance firm, grip steady.

  Paul let out a low whistle. "Not bad…"

  Anastasia frowned slightly. My movements are too rigid…

  The wooden sword felt bulky in her grip. A slimmer bde would suit her better. I should request one ter… but for now, she had to work with what she had.

  She adjusted her approach. Instead of constantly cshing head-on, she switched to a hit-and-run strategy—a powerful strike followed by an immediate retreat.

  Paul, who had been comfortably on defense, suddenly found himself confused.

  What the—?

  Her swordpy had changed. Whenever he tried to pressure her with brute strength, she didn’t push back—she redirected, using his own momentum to retreat before circling around him.

  She wasn’t just attacking randomly—she was making him overextend, forcing him to adjust while she stayed just out of reach.

  She’s keeping her distance on purpose… Paul realized, his brows furrowing. Smart.

  There was no clear winner in their exchange. Paul was too busy trying to comprehend her approach, and Anastasia was still refining her movements.

  But in his opinion? She had solid strength—just as expected from his bloodline.

  Still, something about her movements made him chuckle.

  Even while fighting, Anastasia clearly cared about her appearance. She restricted certain movements, making sure not to mess up her hair or dirty her clothes.

  Paul sighed internally. If I can just teach her proper form… she’ll become a damn good swordswoman.

  Anastasia focused, calcuting the angle and strength of her next swing when—

  CRASH!

  A loud explosion shattered the air.

  Both she and Paul snapped their heads toward the source—Rudeus' room. Or rather, what used to be his room. A whole wall was missing, now blown open, exposing the inside like a stage for the entire world to see.

  Anastasia’s eyes flicked toward the massive water sphere now soaring toward the fields.

  Paul wasted no time. "Rudy!" he shouted, sprinting into the house.

  Anastasia, however, remained where she was. She narrowed her eyes at the remnants of the magic, analyzing the situation.

  Misfire… probably an overload, a ck of control, or just an incomplete spell.

  Well, whatever.

  She turned back to her training, approaching the dummy once more.

  She resumed her strikes—basic sshes at first. But an idea began forming in her mind. What if…

  What if swordpy could be woven like a dance?

  If she could integrate that concept, her attacks wouldn’t just be powerful—they would be graceful, overwhelming the enemy with seamless motion.

  She experimented, trying to add fluidity to her swings. Her footwork lightened, her body moved in rhythm. It wasn’t perfect yet, but it had potential.

  Then—

  "Ahh! Our son will become a great magician, Paul!"

  Zenith’s voice rang out in excitement from inside the house.

  Anastasia froze.

  Her grip sckened. The wooden sword slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

  For a long moment, she stood in silence, processing the words.

  Her first thought?

  Should I spite Rudeus by showing that I’m better at magic too?

  A petty thought, perhaps, but one that briefly entertained her.

  But in the end, she let it go.

  The greatest magician to ever live was standing right here—trying to become a swordswoman.

  And that was enough.