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6.38% Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra / Chapter 30: Old man once again

บท 30: Old man once again

As I struggled to focus, a voice cut through my training. "You….."

I froze, the voice piercing through the fog of my concentration. It sounded familiar as if I had heard it recently. I turned to see the source of the voice, and there, standing a few feet away, was the old man I had shared my meals with at the training camp.

He looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and concern, his weathered face illuminated by the moonlight. "What are you doing out here, boy?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to catch my breath. "Training," I replied simply, feeling the weight of my exhaustion settle in.

"I see."

The old man's eyes roved over me, scrutinizing every inch of my form with a discerning gaze. His eyes lingered on my right eye, a faint flicker of recognition and concern crossing his face. I knew why. It was the scar—new and still raw—that marred the skin just below my eye, a cruel reminder of my encounter with the 'Knight of the Wind.'

"That scar," he said softly, his voice tinged with a mix of pity and curiosity. "It's new."

I nodded, my jaw tightening. "A gift from the 'Knight of the Wind.'"

The old man's eyes were narrowed slightly as if he had not understood what I meant. It was understandable, as that name was a nickname that I gave to that knight. Something that was personal to me.

Still, he shook his head slowly. "It seems you have had your fair share of the battlefield."

Hearing him say this, I did not answer. There was no need to tell anything, as it was not important.

"But pushing yourself like that will not help you remove your pain." Yet, there was a small sense of gentleness there. Something that I did not quite understand was the reason why.

I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the old man as he studied me. His concern was palpable, but I wasn't in the mood for a heart-to-heart. Not now, not ever. The battlefield had taught me to keep my feelings buried deep where they couldn't be used against me.

The old man sighed, sensing my reluctance to speak. "Sometimes," he said, his voice low and gentle, "to get rid of the fire inside you, you need to share it with someone else."

I stiffened at his words, a flicker of annoyance crossing my face. "I don't need to share anything," I replied, my voice cold and detached. "I just need to train."

I raised my spear once more, resuming my practice with a renewed intensity. The rhythmic movements of the weapon were a familiar comfort, a way to drown out the noise in my head. But even as I trained, I could feel the old man's eyes on me, his presence a quiet reminder of the words he had spoken.

He shook his head slowly, watching me with a mixture of pity and understanding. "Training is important, boy, but it's not everything. You can't carry all that pain alone. It's too heavy a burden."

I ignored him, focusing on the precise movements of my spear. Each thrust and parry was a way to channel my frustration, my anger, and my pain.

I didn't need his pity or his advice.

No. I did not pity anyone in this world.

This world that had been cruel to me, not once, not twice, but countless times, and all the people who had watched everything without standing beside me.

And when I just found somewhere that I had felt like I belonged, it was gone once again.

At this point, if I had not understood it, I would just be a dumb fuck.

'I am all alone.'

That was what all that was about. Nothing more, nothing less.

So, there was no need for pity or anything.

The old man remained silent for a while, just standing there, his presence a steady, unyielding force. Finally, he spoke again, his voice soft but firm. "You remind me of someone I knew long ago. He, too, thought he could handle everything on his own, that he didn't need anyone's help. But he was wrong."

I paused, my grip on the spear tightening. It reminded me of the first day that we had met. Though it was brief, he had told a story like this at that time, too.

His words cut through the haze of my concentration, stirring something deep inside me.

"Do you know why he was wrong, kid?"

"Don't ask me."

The old man persisted, his tone gentle yet insistent. "Do you know why?"

There was something in his manner of speaking that made it hard for me to refuse. Despite my desire to push him away, I found myself answering. "Is it because he was not able to carry the burden alone?"

The old man shook his head slowly, a faint smile on his lips. "No, it wasn't that. The reason he was wrong was that the more he thought he needed to do everything alone, the more he made the whole world around him about only himself. His world became only about him; he always thought the world was there to get to him. Everyone always wanted to go against him."

I frowned, trying to make sense of his words. "What does that mean?"

"It means," the old man continued, "that in the process of doing so, he blinded himself. He blinded himself to the misfortune of others, and there were other people like him. People who were struggling, suffering, and fighting their own battles. But he couldn't see that because he was too focused on his own pain and his own struggles."

I tightened my grip on the spear, his words resonating uncomfortably within me. "So you're saying that by trying to handle everything alone, he became selfish?"

The old man nodded. "Yes, in a way. He became so consumed by his own burdens that he couldn't see the bigger picture. He couldn't see that there were others who could share the load, who could understand and support him. And in isolating himself, he lost sight of the connections that could have given his life more meaning."

I frowned at the old man's words, trying to digest the implications. His eyes, though weathered and tired, bore into mine with an intensity that made it hard to look away.

"I don't need anyone's help," I muttered, my voice barely audible. "I've managed on my own this long."

The old man chuckled softly, the sound of a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air. "Oh, you think you've managed, do you? Survived, perhaps. But have you truly lived, boy?"

His words grated on my nerves, and I couldn't help but snap back. "What would you know about it? You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?" he replied, a sly smile playing on his lips. "I've seen many like you, convinced that their pain is unique, that no one else could possibly understand. But pain, my boy, is the most universal of all experiences."

I clenched my jaw, my grip on the spear tightening. "I don't need a lecture," I said through gritted teeth. "I just need to get stronger."

"Ah, strength," the old man mused, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "Tell me, do you think strength is merely about muscle and skill? About swinging a spear until your arms ache and your body is drenched in sweat?"

I didn't answer, but my silence seemed to amuse him.

"Strength, true strength, comes from understanding," he continued. "Understanding your own limits and the limits of others. Understanding that sometimes, the greatest strength is in allowing yourself to be vulnerable."

I scoffed at that, unable to hide my disdain. "Vulnerability is weakness."

"Is it now?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Tell me, who is stronger: the one who hides their wounds and suffers in silence, or the one who bears their scars and seeks the support they need to heal?"

I turned away, unwilling to meet his gaze. His words were hitting too close to home, stirring feelings I didn't want to acknowledge. "I don't have time for this."

It was annoying to the point where I was even considering leaving this place. I came here to get rid of the useless thoughts that were accompanying my head, and now I was met with a lecture instead.

'Annoying. But why am I even staying here?'

I asked myself as I grabbed the spear in my hand. Now that I thought about it, was there a need for me to stand here?

'But, why should I leave? It is not like I did anything wrong.'

For some reason, the fact that I tried to change places made me feel like I was escaping from the old man's words.

And that was annoying.

"….." Thus, without replying, I decided to grab my spear and continued. But, this time, I focused more on my core and technique rather than mindlessly swinging.

Until the moment I heard the old man say,

"Spear is not a weapon for you."

-----------------------

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บท 31: Physique

"You will not be able to achieve anything by doing the same thing," the old man said.

I raised my eyebrows, my irritation flaring. "Why not?"

Instead of answering directly, the old man posed a different question. "You were unable to gather mana into your core, weren't you? Even though you are the son of a viscount, and your family was given a unique-grade Mana Accumulation Art, you couldn't gather any type of mana, could you?"

I froze, his words cutting deeper than any blade. How did he know about my struggles with mana? My failure to live up to my family's legacy was a wound I kept hidden, a source of shame and frustration.

I clenched my fists around the spear, my voice a low growl. "How do you know about that?"

The old man's gaze was steady, unyielding. "I have seen many in my time, boy. I can recognize the signs of someone who has faced the same struggle. You carry it in your posture, in the way you push yourself beyond your limits, hoping to overcome a hurdle that seems insurmountable."

I looked away, the weight of his words pressing down on me. "What does it matter? I've trained harder than anyone, but nothing changes."

"It matters because you're trying to fight a battle you can't win by normal means," he replied softly.

I could not understand. What did he mean by "by normal means"? What was that supposed to mean? 

It is not like there is any other thing in this world.

The old man looked at the weapon in my hands, his gaze lingering on the long spear.

"Spear is not a weapon for you to use," he said, his voice calm but firm.

I narrowed my eyes, a surge of frustration bubbling up. "What does that mean?"

The old man looked into my eyes, his expression unwavering. "Your body is not suited to use a spear."

I narrowed my eyes, frustration bubbling up inside me. "What does that mean?"

Instead of answering directly, the old man posed another question. "Have you ever felt like there are certain movements that you can do better than others?"

I frowned, his words stirring memories from my past. I thought back to the times when my body seemed to flow more naturally when I instinctively moved in ways that felt right. During those moments, I developed a peculiar style of wielding the spear, incorporating fluid and unpredictable movements. It was weird, and others commented on it a lot of times.

Many times, they said that I was fighting a lot differently compared to them.

"Yes," I replied after a moment, nodding slowly. "There have been times when I felt like I could move better, more naturally."

The old man nodded, his eyes reflecting a knowing look. "Of course, that is the case. Because your body was reacting to the specific types of movements, and you subconsciously noticed that while moving as well."

I looked at him, my curiosity piqued. "So what if that's the case? Which weapon is my body suited for then?"

The old man smiled, his eyes twinkling with a hint of amusement. "Ah, that is a question only you can answer. Think about it. For which movements do you feel the most comfortable when doing them?"

I closed my eyes, searching my memories. I tried to recall the times when I felt most at ease, most in sync with my body. Moments during training when everything seemed to click, and my movements were smooth and effortless.

As I delved deeper into my thoughts, a picture began to form in my mind. I saw myself moving fluidly, my body shifting seamlessly from one stance to another.

My hands and arms moved with grace, executing precise and controlled motions.

I imagined myself in the middle of a fight, my body twisting and turning with agility. My strikes were swift and accurate, each movement calculated and intentional. The image in my mind was clear, and without realizing it, I began to move, mimicking the motions I envisioned.

The old man watched me with a knowing smile, his eyes following my movements. He said nothing, allowing me to immerse myself in the exercise.

As I continued, I felt a sense of familiarity wash over me. These movements felt natural, almost instinctual. My body seemed to remember each step, each strike as if it had been doing this all along.

I stopped and opened my eyes, breathing heavily. "I felt it," I said, a note of wonder in my voice. "I could see the movements in my mind, and my body just followed."

Even if my hands held a spear, my body did not move according to it.

A spear was a weapon that focused mainly on stabbing, designed for long reach and powerful thrusts. The essence of the spear was in its directness, its ability to keep an opponent at a distance and strike with precision.

My movements, however, were different. They were fluid, adaptive, and close-range. The spear felt like an extension of myself, but it did not align with the natural flow of my body.

My strikes were not just about reaching out and piercing through; they involved intricate maneuvers, swift changes in direction, and a blend of offense and defense that seemed more suited to a weapon requiring agility and finesse.

I looked at the old man, seeking confirmation. "The spear's essence is in its stabbing, its reach. But my movements... they aren't just about thrusting forward. They are about flowing, adapting, and moving with precision and grace."

The old man nodded, his eyes twinkling with approval. "Exactly. The spear, while powerful and noble, does not align with your natural way of fighting. Your movements are more suited to a weapon that allows for close combat, agility, and precision."

I considered his words, the image of my fluid movements still fresh in my mind. "But what weapon is that? What fits with these movements?"

The old man smiled enigmatically. "Think about the weapons that require such fluidity and precision. Which weapon allows for both offense and defense and thrives on the user's ability to adapt and react swiftly?"

I closed my eyes again, picturing the movements. I imagined a weapon that complemented my style, one that allowed for quick, decisive strikes and seamless transitions. My body twisted and turned, blocking and attacking with equal finesse.

A dagger felt closer to what the old man was hinting at, but even that didn't seem to capture the full scope of my movements. It felt like there was something more, something that required both hands to truly express the fluidity and precision I envisioned.

Slowly, an image began to form in my mind. A weapon that was balanced, capable of both offense and defense, allowing for swift, controlled strikes, and fluid movements.

The weapon was not overly long like a spear but not as short as a dagger.

It was something that did not demand both hands to be wielded effectively as a spear, yet at the same time, something that allowed for a dance of attacks and parries.

A sword.

Not short.

Not long.

A simple, basic sword.

I opened my eyes, a realization dawning upon me. The old man watched me intently, waiting for me to speak.

"A sword," I said slowly, testing the word.

"Indeed." The old man's smile widened, and he nodded approvingly. "Your movements, your instincts, they align with the essence of the sword."

I frowned, still not fully understanding. "But why? Why is my body suited for a sword and not anything else?"

The old man pointed towards my body, specifically to my dantian. "It's because of the same reason you cannot accumulate any mana into your core."

His words hung in the air, and I felt a surge of impatience. I looked at him, waiting for him to speak, but he did not say anything.

'This old man!'

It was so frustrating, to the extent that I wanted to punch him in the face. Well, that may have been an exaggeration, but I was angry, at least.

Thus, I decided to speak.

"What do you mean? Why can't I accumulate mana? What does this have to do with my weapon?"

The old man smiled at my frustration, clearly anticipating my reaction. He paused, letting the silence stretch before finally speaking.

"It is because of your unique body constitution."

He spoke, raising his fingers. From the tip of it, something appeared.

A bunch of characters formed by mana.

"You have what is known as the Physique of the Requiverse."

I blinked, confusion flooding my mind. "The Physique of the Requiverse? What does that mean? I've never heard of it before."

Even in the novel, there was no such thing. Though, it was not like the novel was focused on these physiques. While being a revenge story, Shattered Innocence's main focus was romance fantasy, after all.

The old man's smile widened, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "It's because all those who had this physique died."

-----------------------

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I am open to any criticism; you can comment on things that you would like to see in the story. 

And if you liked my story, please give me a power stone. It helps me a lot. 


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