The backyard was small.
Just enough room for a rain barrel, some old crates, and a straw dummy I had tied to a post near the fence.
My father watched me drag it into place on the first morning without saying anything.
Then he went inside.
Came back with a sword.
Old. Single edge. A grip worn smooth from years of real use.
He set it against the fence.
"Don't break it," he said.
I found out later that before he opened the tavern, he had worked as a mercenary.
I started from scratch.
Pushups until my arms gave out. Situps. Squats. Laps around the city.
After that, i picked up my sword with my both hands.
From what i learned from previous story, Sword has three fundamentals. Slash. Swing. Cut.
My first swing nearly took out the fence post.
I adjusted. Swung again.
Slashed and cut the dummy, the sword really feels heavy for me.
So i decided that i need to get used to the heaviness of the sword.
On the third day I tried something different.
I closed my eyes.
I remembered how Leo slashed through Demon King's head— planting his feet before the final blow, both hands on the grip, a breath held just a beat too long. Then the horizontal swing and made crescent of light that followed it like a signature.
Moonslash.
I exhaled.
Gripped the sword with both hands.
And swung.
The blade barely scratched the surface of the dummy.
I stared at it for a moment.
…Of course.
A hero's exclusive skill wasn't something a side character could replicate just by wanting it badly enough. That wasn't how stories worked.
I already knew that.
But I kept the stance anyway. Kept practicing the shape of it every morning, because even if the technique itself was out of reach, the posture behind it wasn't.
Six days passed like that.
By the end of the sixth day, the sword that had felt heavy in one hand now felt natural. The dummy had been replaced twice. My shoulders had stopped complaining.
I thought about adding a small shield to the left hand. Nothing large — just enough to cover the gap.
Something to think about.
That morning, I took my position in front of the dummy one more time.
Both hands on the grip.
The breath.
The swing.
The dummy split down the center and the two halves dropped to the ground.
I stood there and looked at it.
I cut through it.
But no crescent. No light. Nothing like what Leo did.
I picked up the pieces and started tying a new dummy together.
A hero's technique was still a hero's technique.
That gap wasn't going to close from six days of backyard practice.
But it was something.
---
That evening, I helped my father with the dinner crowd.
Refilled cups. Carried plates. Moved between tables on instinct.
The owner of this body had told me they would arrive today.
I wasn't sure what I was expecting.
The tavern filled in its usual rhythm.
Then the door opened.
Three people stepped inside.
…This has to be them.
The first one through the door had red hair — short, slightly windswept from travel. A dark turtleneck under a heavy red jacket with pale fur at the cuffs. Black trousers, worn boots, a two-handed sword across his back.
He moved into the room without hurry. The kind of person you'd instinctively get out of the way for, not because he asked, but because something about him made it the obvious choice.
Behind him came a girl with darker red hair falling just past her shoulders. A long brown travelling cloak, short black outfit underneath, a bow slung over one shoulder. She was already scanning the room before she'd finished stepping through the door — quick eyes, not quite restless, just alert.
"Yaaawn—"
She dropped into the nearest chair and stretched both arms above her head.
"We finally made it. Sibel, I'm starving."
"We've been on that carriage for two days," the man said, pulling out the chair across from her. "Of course you're hungry."
"I'm always hungry. That's completely different."
The third person stepped in last.
Light brown hair, straight and long. A priest's robe in black and white, slightly travel-worn. A staff behind her back, pale gemstone at the top. She looked around the tavern with quiet, unhurried curiosity.
I picked up the order slate and walked over.
"Welcome. What can I get for you?"
Sibel picked up the menu. Scanned it once.
"Pottage, bread, and the salad." He glanced sideways. "Libel?"
"Salad? uwaah~" Libel leaned forward with both elbows on the table. "Sibel, we're at a tavern, of course we should order meat. I want the steak. The big one." She turned to the girl beside her. "Cia, you want meat too, right? Don't let him order vegetables at you."
I had my note to write their order, but then..
"Ufufu. Steak might be a bit much for me tonight. I think I'll have the roasted chicken and—"
My hand stopped.
That laugh.
Soft. Quiet. Slightly lilting at the end.
I had heard it before.
I was certain of it.
"…And?" I said.
She looked up.
"Soup, please."
Brown eyes. A small, easy smile.
A face I had never seen before in my life.
…but why does it reminds me of her?
I stared at her for too long
"A-ah, right. Roasted Chicken and Soup is your order, miss.."
"You look very nervous, mister. Ufufu~"
"I-i'll be right back with your order."
I wrote it down and walked back toward the bar.
Maybe it's just my feeling but..
Something in my chest hadn't quite settled yet.