There’s a saying that goes, “You can only see the rainbow after the rain.” That perfectly describes my current situation.

  If yesterday was a hellish war, today is as peaceful as can be. After the brawl, the knights and I seem to have reached a mutual understanding—some now respect my “skills,” while others just feel better after beating me to a pulp. Either way, the air feels less hostile, and I’ll take what I can get.

  I sat in the courtyard, savoring the rare calm. My muscles ache like never before, but it was the good kind of pain—the kind that reminds you you’re still alive. The sunlight filtered through the trees, painting dappled patterns on the stone ground. For a moment, I could almost pretend that everything was normal, that I wasn’t a stranger dropped into this world against my will.

  Unfortunately, that illusion shattered as soon as a familiar voice boomed from behind me.

  “Little twerp! You’re up early today, eh?”

  I sighed. So much for peace.

  Marcus, the hulking old knight with a beard that could double as a mop, towered over me like a grizzly bear waking from hibernation. His presence was impossible to ignore, and his voice was loud enough to startle the birds in the nearby trees.

  “Good morning, Sir. How’s the jaw? Did I hit it too hard?” I asked, keeping my tone as innocent as possible.

  This was just a little payback for ruining my peace.

  “You little—!” Marcus roared, his heavy boots thundering as he stomped toward me.

  “Oh, look, Marcus is helping the new kid with his stamina,” came Damian’s voice from the shade of a nearby pillar. He was lounging with that infuriating smirk of his, arms crossed, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. He was the one who had broken my arm in yesterday’s brawl—an experience I didn’t want to repeat.

  These two had become my unofficial tormentors—sorry, mentors—after yesterday’s events. While some knights still seemed salty about losing to the “twig,” I was optimistic they’d warm up eventually. At least, I hoped so.

  “Caught you, you slippery little eel!” Marcus bellowed triumphantly as his massive hand grabbed my collar, hoisting me off the ground like I weighed nothing.

  “To think you’d chase a young boy through a crowd of knights. Do you know no shame?” I asked, feigning disappointment as I dangled helplessly in his grip.

  “Hey, phrased like that, you make me sound like a creep!”

  “That was the goal.”

  “Then let’s go to hell together, you brat!” Marcus’s grin widened as he prepared to slam me down.

  “Don’t be too rough with the twig, Marcus,” Damian interrupted, stepping forward. His voice was smooth as silk, but there was a glint of steel in his eyes. “The commander’s looking for him. Leave the kid with at least one functioning leg, will you?”

  “Hmph, fine. I wasn’t going to actually hurt him anyway,” Marcus grumbled, setting me down, though not without shaking me like a ragdoll for good measure.

  “Well, go on, kid. You owe me one,” Damian said with a wink, his tone almost conspiratorial.

  “Thank you, Sir!” I called out as I sprinted away, not daring to stick around in case they changed their minds.

  As I fled, I caught Damian muttering something about the commander finishing the job. For the sake of my sanity, I decided not to process that.

  The walk to the commander’s office was longer than I remembered, or maybe it just felt that way. Every step gave me a little more time to steel myself for whatever awaited. The echoes of Marcus’s laughter and Damian’s smirk lingered in my mind, making the silence around me feel unnervingly loud.

  When I finally arrived and knocked, the tension in my shoulders was unbearable.

  “Come in,” came the familiar curt response.

  The room was just as I remembered—neat and minimalistic, with just enough decoration to project authority. Commander Henry sat at his desk, his posture straight as an arrow. The sunlight streaming through the window highlighted the sharp lines of his face, making him look even more intimidating than usual.

  “Do you know why I called you here?” he asked without preamble, his tone clipped.

  “About the weapon I requested yesterday?” I ventured cautiously, unsure if I was stepping on a landmine.

  “Partly. But first, reflection.”

  “Didn’t we go over that yesterday? If anything, you called me a sore loser.”

  “Yes, but I haven’t given you feedback yet. I wanted you to have time to process yesterday’s events before I beat you up,” he said with a deadpan tone that sent a chill down my spine.

  “Very kind of you, Sir,” I replied, bracing myself for whatever lecture was coming.

  “You performed well. Your decision-making was superb. But…”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  There it was. The classic build-you-up-then-tear-you-down speech.

  “…it wasn’t a fight. It was an orchestrated dance. You relied on tricks, hit-and-run tactics, and retreats. Effective, but not sustainable with your current ability.”

  “Well, I did land a couple of hits on you when we sparred,” I pointed out, trying to defend myself.

  “Yes, but your approach has limits. Let’s be honest—your head is slow. You’ve got knowledge, but that knowledge bogs you down. You overthink every move. That’s why you retreat—to recalibrate before acting.”

  “So the brawl was meant to get me used to spontaneous action?”

  “Exactly. You predict your opponent’s moves, but when they deviate, you stiffen. The goal was to familiarize you with common patterns and force you to adapt.”

  “I guess it does help me a little.”

  “Good. We’ll focus on improving your decision-making speed. That’s the only realistic improvement we can achieve before the entrance exam.”

  Right. The entrance exam. Only a week away.

  My physique and skills have improved, but “improved” isn’t enough. The academy is full of monsters. The top-class freshmen are stronger than seasoned knights, and even the lowest-ranked students can hold their own against new recruits.

  And then there’s the protagonist—casually waltzing into the top class after his regression. No talent, just a slightly better starting point, and yet the author throws reality out the window for him. Regression stories always exaggerate the differences between lifetimes, but this one took it to another level.

  “Hey, kid! Come back to earth,” Henry interrupted my spiraling thoughts.

  Oh, right. We were having a conversation.

  Trying to cover up my embarrassing mistake, I blurted out something off the top of my head.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about shaving your eyebrows.”

  “What for?” he asked, touching them protectively.

  “For intervening too late. I broke an arm thanks to you.”

  “I was proving a point. You had an advantage early on, but as the fight dragged on, your strategy fell apart.”

  He wasn’t wrong. My strategy relies on analysis, which takes time—time I didn’t have in yesterday’s brawl.

  “But you could’ve made your point without breaking my arm.”

  “I also wanted to reassure you about the medics’ abilities,” he said with a smirk.

  So many excuses just to beat me up.The smugness on his face might just haunt me forever.

  With that out of the way, Sir Henry guided me to the smithy

  When we entered the smithy, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The heat enveloped me like a thick blanket, and the rhythmic clang of hammers reverberated in my chest. The air smelled of molten metal, sweat, and soot—a unique blend that seemed to cling to everything, from the rough wooden beams supporting the roof to the dirt-covered anvils scattered throughout the space.

  Blacksmiths worked in unison, moving like clockwork as they hammered, quenched, and tempered blades in a synchronized rhythm. Sparks flew with every strike, illuminating the room in fleeting bursts of light. I couldn’t help but stare, mesmerized.

  “Hey, Vulcan!” Henry’s voice boomed over the cacophony, snapping me out of my daze.

  A burly man hunched over an anvil glanced up briefly, his soot-covered face marked with annoyance. He didn’t stop hammering, his muscles rippling with every precise strike on the glowing metal. “What is it now, Henry?”

  “The kid needs a custom weapon.”

  At that, Vulcan finally paused, setting his hammer down with a resounding clang. He straightened, wiping sweat from his brow with a rag that somehow made his face even dirtier. His gaze flicked to me, sharp and assessing.

  “Custom, huh?” he said, his deep voice tinged with skepticism. “Why? From what I saw yesterday, he’ll probably just swing it like a club.”

  “Actually,” I interrupted, stepping forward before Henry could respond, “I need a cold-worked blade.”

  Both Henry and Vulcan turned to me, their expressions identical: disbelief mixed with mild irritation.

  “Cold-worked?” Vulcan repeated, narrowing his eyes. “You know what that means, right?”

  “Yes. It’s a blade that prioritizes hardness and sharpness over durability. Perfect for my hit-and-run strategy. I barely clash swords, so I don’t need something overly tough.”

  Vulcan scratched his chin, his expression shifting to one of curiosity. “Cold-working makes the blade brittle. A few clashes, and it’ll shatter. You’re willing to risk that?”

  “That’s why I want a detachable blade system,” I explained. “Spare blades I can swap mid-battle. And for versatility, maybe a few heat-treated cores lined with cold-worked edges.”

  The smith let out a low whistle, crossing his arms as he leaned against his anvil. “You talk like you’ve thought this through, but do you even understand the process behind cold-working?”

  “It involves deforming the metal at room temperature to increase hardness. But that also reduces ductility, which is why the blade will be brittle,” I said confidently, meeting his gaze.

  Vulcan raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Not bad for a twig. But how do you plan to deal with the cost of all those replacements? A system like that isn’t cheap, kid.”

  “I’m not paying,” I said simply, glancing at Henry.

  Vulcan’s grin widened, revealing a row of teeth that, despite his rough exterior, were surprisingly well-maintained. “Draining the commander’s wallet? Now you’re speaking my language.”

  Before Henry could protest, Vulcan grabbed a piece of scrap metal from the nearby pile and held it up for inspection. “Alright, kid. If you’re serious about this cold-working nonsense, I’ll make it happen. But you’d better not complain when your fancy blades start snapping.”

  “Deal,” I said, grinning.

  “Good.” Vulcan gestured to a workbench cluttered with tools, sketches, and half-finished weapons. “Start sketching out your design while I prep the forge. And don’t go overboard. I’m a smith, not a miracle worker.”

  I spent the next hour at the workbench, carefully drawing out the design for my weapon. My fingers trembled slightly as I worked—partly from excitement, partly from the pressure of getting everything just right.

  The blade’s base would be sturdy, forged from heat-treated steel for durability, while the edges would be made of cold-worked metal to maximize cutting power. Another variant would use entirely cold-worked steel for sharper, riskier strikes.

  The detachable mechanism was tricky, requiring precision and ingenuity. I sketched out a system of interchangeable blades that could slide and lock into place with a simple motion, allowing for quick swaps mid-battle.

  As I worked, I couldn’t help but glance over at Vulcan. He was a flurry of motion, moving between the forge, the anvil, and the quenching tank with a speed and efficiency that was almost hypnotic. Sparks danced around him like fireflies, and his gruff muttering added to the symphony of sound that filled the smithy.

  “Not bad,” Vulcan said gruffly, leaning over my shoulder to inspect my sketch. His proximity was intimidating, but his tone was approving. “You’ve got an eye for detail. This might actually work.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying not to sound too smug.

  He chuckled, ruffling my hair with a soot-stained hand. “Don’t get cocky, twig. You’re still a long way from seeing this thing in action.”

  As Vulcan got to work on forging the components, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of anticipation. The weapon was more than just a tool—it was a representation of my strategy, my approach to combat, and ultimately, my essence.

  Henry, who had been leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, finally spoke. “You’re putting a lot of faith in this weapon, kid. Don’t forget, a weapon can only take you so far.”

  I nodded, meeting his gaze. “I know. But rather than its performance, I’m just excited to see my ideal taking form as a weapon.”

  Even if this ends up as a failure, it wouldn’t be a waste of time.