Final Regression of The Legendary Swordmaster-Chapter 104: The Man With One Hand

Night settled heavily over the Northern Sea.

The earlier celebrations from the kingdoms had quieted into scattered murmurs and dying embers. Torches burned lower. Mana lanterns dimmed. The wind grew colder as it swept down from the open waters, carrying the sharp scent of salt and storm.

Far beyond the clustered expedition quarters, past the carved terraces and fortified supply halls, the coastline rose into jagged cliffs of dark stone. Waves crashed violently below, white foam exploding against rock before retreating into black water.

On one such cliff, beneath a pale, fractured moon, Valerius practiced alone.

His boots were planted firmly against uneven stone. His cloak lay discarded nearby, weighted down with a rock to prevent it from being stolen by the wind.

He held his sword in his right hand.

Only his right hand.

The left sleeve of his training tunic was tied neatly just below the shoulder, fabric folded and secured so it would not flap in the wind. The absence beneath it was not hidden. It did not need to be.

His blade cut forward.

A clean, horizontal arc.

The air split with a sharp hiss.

He stepped into the motion, shifting weight across his hips, pivoting through his heel. The movement was precise, but not perfectly balanced. His center leaned slightly to compensate for the missing counterweight of his other arm.

He corrected mid-motion.

The next strike was vertical.

Downward.

Controlled.

The wind resisted, pressing against the steel. His forearm tightened. Muscles along his shoulder flexed sharply as he adjusted to the drag.

Sweat beaded along his brow despite the cold.

It froze almost immediately against his skin, turning the heat of exertion into biting chill.

He exhaled slowly and shifted into a thrust.

One step forward.

Blade extending.

The tip halted inches before an invisible target.

His breathing remained steady.

Again.

He reset his stance.

Cut.

Step.

Pivot.

Thrust.

The rhythm repeated.

The sea roared below.

Valerius’ movements grew faster.

He was not sparring an opponent.

He was sparring absence.

Every strike carried a trace of imbalance. Every adjustment required deliberate correction. Without his left arm, the subtle counter-rotation of his torso had to be forced rather than natural. His hips bore more strain. His right shoulder endured constant tension.

He did not slow.

He accelerated.

The blade carved the air in a flurry of arcs, footwork scraping against stone. Small pebbles skittered toward the cliff edge.

His breath grew heavier.

The sword trembled faintly at the end of a particularly forceful strike.

He lowered it.

For a moment.

Only a moment.

The memory came without invitation.

Stone courtyard.

Broken ground.

The metallic scent of blood.

Edward standing across from him, calm as ever.

Valerius remembered the fight in perfect clarity.

He had been confident then.

More than confident.

He had believed himself superior.

He had attacked first.

Steel collided with mana-infused precision. Sparks burst. The air cracked under compressed force.

He had pushed harder.

Harder still.

And then—

A single mistake.

One miscalculated step.

One overextension.

Edward’s blade had moved faster than thought.

There had been no scream.

No dramatic pause.

Only a clean, decisive arc.

His left arm had fallen to the stone before he had fully understood what had happened.

The pain came after.

The humiliation came first.

He remembered dropping to one knee.

Remembered looking up at Edward, expecting the final strike.

Death would have been clean.

Simple.

Expected.

Instead, Edward had lowered his sword.

"You are not worthless," he had said flatly.

Valerius had stared, blood pooling beneath him.

"You are inefficient," Edward continued. "That can be corrected."

An offer had followed.

Not of mercy.

Of loyalty.

Serve.

Train.

Improve.

Or bleed out on the stone.

Valerius had chosen.

The wind snapped sharply against the cliff, dragging him back to the present.

He resumed his form.

Faster now.

His blade sliced forward with sharper intent.

Each strike carried something heavier than technique.

It carried repayment.

He believed his value existed only because Edward allowed it.

Every breath he drew now felt conditional.

A granted extension.

Edward stood at High Mage.

Edward possessed seven-star sword comprehension.

Edward had severed his arm without hesitation.

What was he?

A maimed Adept.

A swordsman missing balance.

A subordinate rescued from execution.

His blade drove downward with a harsh crack as it struck the stone, sending small fractures outward.

He pulled it free immediately.

Again.

He attacked the wind itself.

"If I stop," he muttered under his breath, "I fall behind."

His stance shifted.

He practiced a rotational cut, forcing his hips to compensate for lost leverage. The movement was slightly delayed. He corrected mid-swing.

Again.

The cold bit deeper.

His right arm trembled faintly from accumulated strain.

He ignored it.

Footsteps approached behind him, light and deliberate.

Valerius did not turn immediately.

Thaleia stopped several paces away, cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

She had sensed his mana fluctuations from the quarters and followed.

She watched him complete another sequence before speaking.

"You push too hard," she said.

Her voice carried easily in the night wind.

Valerius did not pause this time.

"If I stop," he replied evenly, "I fall behind."

Thaleia stepped closer to the edge of the training space, careful not to interfere.

"You will injure your shoulder," she said. "Your muscle strain is uneven."

He pivoted sharply, blade cutting upward in a clean arc.

"Injury is temporary," he answered.

She studied him for a long moment.

Moonlight reflected faintly off the steel.

"You train as if tomorrow is execution," she said quietly.

Valerius finally lowered his blade and turned toward her.

"Is it not?" he asked.

Thaleia frowned slightly.

"Atlantis is dangerous," she said. "But it is not a death sentence."

"For some," he replied.

The sea crashed below.

He looked out over the dark water.

"If I fail in Atlantis..." His voice was steady, but something tight coiled beneath it. "I prove I should have died that day."

The words settled heavily between them.

Thaleia’s expression shifted.

"You believe that?" she asked softly.

He did not hesitate.

"Yes."

He sheathed his sword halfway, then drew it again in a single smooth motion, as if testing the friction.

"I lost to him," he continued. "Completely. There was no contest. He could have ended me."

"He chose not to," Thaleia said.

"He tolerated me," Valerius corrected.

Silence followed.

Thaleia stepped closer.

"You are not here because of tolerance," she said. "You are here because he deemed you useful."

Valerius let out a short breath that almost resembled a laugh.

"Useful," he repeated.

"Is that not enough?" she asked.

He turned toward her fully now.

"Not when the standard is him."

The statement carried no resentment.

Only fact.

"He stands at High Mage," Valerius said quietly. "He holds seven-star comprehension in sword. He plans wars as if arranging pieces on a board."

He looked down at his own hand gripping the blade.

"What am I?"

Thaleia did not answer immediately.

Before she could, another presence entered the space.

Neither of them had sensed his approach.

Edward stood a short distance away, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.

Valerius stiffened instinctively.

Thaleia inclined her head slightly.

Edward’s gaze shifted to Valerius’ stance.

"Your pivot is late," he said calmly.

No greeting.

No commentary on the conversation.

Valerius straightened.

He expected, for a brief, foolish moment, acknowledgment.

Perhaps approval for his dedication.

Instead, Edward stepped forward and gestured toward his feet.

"You overcompensate through the hip," he continued. "Without the left arm, your center must lower, not rotate further."

Valerius adjusted immediately.

Edward shook his head once.

"Not that much."

He moved closer, positioning himself opposite.

"Attack."

Valerius obeyed.

A swift horizontal cut.

Edward stepped inside the arc effortlessly and tapped the flat of his fingers against Valerius’ shoulder.

"You telegraph through tension," Edward said.

Valerius reset and attacked again.

This time a thrust.

Edward redirected the blade with minimal movement.

"You rely on force to mask imbalance," Edward observed.

A third attempt.

Faster.

Sharper.

Edward sidestepped and lightly struck Valerius’ wrist.

The sword dipped.

"Your grip tightens prematurely," Edward continued. "You anticipate failure before it occurs."

Valerius’ jaw tightened.

He sheathed the blade abruptly.

Edward’s gaze remained steady.

"You train like a man trying to repay a debt," he said.

The words landed harder than any physical correction.

"That is weakness."

The wind seemed to pause.

Valerius felt heat rise in his chest.

"I owe you my life," he said evenly.

Edward’s expression did not change.

"You owe me competence," he replied.

Thaleia watched silently.

Edward stepped closer, voice calm.

"If you fight to justify survival, you fight defensively. If you train to repay mercy, you will always see yourself beneath the blade."

Valerius’ grip tightened on the hilt.

"I was beneath it," he said.

"Yes," Edward agreed. "You were."

The agreement cut cleanly.

"But you are not training to erase that moment," Edward continued. "You are training to surpass it."

Valerius’ breathing slowed slightly.

Edward’s gaze sharpened.

"If you fail in Atlantis, it does not validate death," he said. "It validates inefficiency."

The sea roared again below.

"You are not alive because I pitied you," Edward added. "You are alive because I saw potential."

Valerius’ chest tightened.

"Then why does it feel like I am still proving I deserved to live?" he asked.

Edward did not soften.

"Because you measure yourself against my present," he said. "Instead of your own progression."

Silence fell.

Thaleia watched Valerius carefully.

Edward stepped back.

"Balance lower," he instructed. "Trust the core, not the missing limb. The body adapts. The mind must follow."

Valerius drew his sword again.

His hand trembled faintly—not from exhaustion, but from something unsettled inside him.

He reset his stance.

Lowered his center.

Adjusted his hips without forcing rotation.

He inhaled slowly.

Then struck.

The cut was cleaner.

Still imperfect.

But cleaner.

Edward observed without comment.

Valerius continued.

Strike.

Step.

Pivot.

This time the imbalance was smaller.

The correction came naturally rather than forced.

He stopped after several sequences.

His chest rose and fell steadily.

Edward turned to leave.

"Do not train as a rescued subordinate," he said over his shoulder.

"Train as a chosen warrior."

Then he was gone.

The wind resumed its steady howl.

Thaleia looked at Valerius.

He stood motionless, sword in hand.

Conflicted.

Shaken.

Not broken.

He tightened his grip around the hilt.

The leather creaked softly under pressure.

The sea below continued to crash against stone, relentless and indifferent.

For the first time that night, Valerius did not swing immediately.

He stood still.

Considering.

Not repayment.

Not debt.

Progress.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his stance again.

And began anew.