It had been one year since Neville began training.
The change was no longer subtle.
It showed in the way he moved.
His steps were steady now, no hesitation, no wasted motion. His posture had straightened, his shoulders no longer slouched like before. The softness in his body had reduced, replaced by lean strength built through repeated effort rather than sudden growth.
More importantly, his movements had become controlled.
Not fast.
Not yet.
But deliberate.
Arthur Hale noticed it immediately.
"Again."
Neville stepped forward without speaking.
The wooden sword had long been replaced.
In his hands now was a real blade.
It was wide, far wider than any normal sword. The metal surface was clean and smooth, the edges sharp, the structure solid. It was not decorative. There were no patterns on the blade, no unnecessary markings.
Just steel.
Heavy steel.
Neville tightened his grip.
Then he moved.
The swing was controlled, but not fast. The weight of the blade still dragged slightly behind his intention. His wrists adjusted mid-motion, correcting the angle before the strike completed.
Arthur watched quietly.
"Too slow," he said.
Neville lowered the sword slightly.
He did not argue.
The weight of the weapon was the problem.
He could lift it without using anti-magic, but only barely. His arms could not stabilize it properly. The balance felt off, the momentum harder to control.
So he adjusted.
Anti-magic flowed into his hands and arms.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
The difference was immediate.
His grip steadied.
The weight did not reduce, but it felt manageable.
"Again," Arthur said.
Neville stepped forward and swung.
This time the motion was cleaner.
Arthur nodded once.
"Better."
He stepped closer and tapped the blade lightly.
"You're relying on strength to move it," he said. "That's fine for now. Later, you won't be able to."
Neville listened.
Arthur continued.
"You've improved faster than I expected."
He paused briefly.
"A year for this level is… acceptable."
That was as close to praise as Arthur ever gave.
Neville lowered the sword.
His breathing was steady.
That was the real difference.
---
The first months had been the hardest.
Training had pushed his body to its limits every day. Muscles would ache constantly, and fatigue would build up faster than he could manage.
That changed when he refined his recovery method.
Now, after each intense set, Neville would focus inward.
Anti-magic flowed toward his chest, spreading through his lungs and heart. It did not remove the fatigue, but it reduced the strain enough for his breathing to stabilize faster.
That alone allowed him to continue sooner.
Over time, the improvement became clear.
He could train longer.
Recover faster.
Repeat more.
There were limits.
If he pushed it too far, his head would begin to ache, a dull pressure forming behind his eyes. That was his signal to stop.
He had learned to respect that limit.
Alongside that, Augusta had allowed the use of simple support.
Nutritional tonics helped maintain his body during the training. A light healing potion reduced soreness after long sessions.
They did not make him stronger.
They made consistency possible.
And consistency was what changed everything.
---
Arthur stepped back.
"That's enough for the sword."
Neville lowered the blade and rested it against his shoulder.
Arthur crossed his arms.
"You can handle the weight now," he said. "Not well, but enough to start learning properly."
Neville nodded.
That had been the goal.
---
The sword itself had taken time to complete.
Arthur had not made it personally, but he knew where to get it done. Neville had explained what he wanted—a wide blade, heavy, simple, no unnecessary design.
Something that could endure repeated use.
When it was finished, Neville had tested it once.
It had nearly slipped from his hands.
That was when he understood.
This weapon was not meant to be used normally.
---
That night, the second phase had begun.
Neville sat on his bed, the sword resting across his lap.
He closed his eyes.
Inside his chest, the grimoire responded.
Anti-magic gathered slowly.
Instead of directing it into his body, he pushed it outward.
Into the blade.
The process was not smooth.
At first, most of the energy simply faded.
But not all of it.
Some remained.
He repeated it the next night.
And the next.
Over time, the effect became clearer.
The sword began to feel… different.
Not lighter.
But more responsive.
When he held it, the anti-magic flowed more easily through it than through his own body alone.
It required less effort to stabilize.
Less strain to control.
That was enough.
---
A week later, the change became visible.
The surface of the blade had darkened slightly.
Not rust.
Not damage.
Just a faint shift in tone, as if the metal had absorbed something over time.
No one commented on it.
It looked like natural wear.
Neville knew better.
That evening, he left the estate quietly.
"Going out," he had said earlier.
Augusta had not questioned it.
---
He moved away from the main roads, toward an open stretch of land.
There was no one nearby.
That was enough.
Neville stood still for a moment, letting his breathing settle.
The sword rested in his hand, its weight pulling slightly at his arm. He lowered it to the ground and adjusted his grip, turning it flat so the wide side of the blade faced upward.
He looked down at it briefly.
"…Let's try."
He stepped onto the blade carefully, placing one foot first, then the other. The metal was stable, but narrow enough that he had to keep his balance centered.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then he focused.
Anti-magic flowed outward from his body, moving through his legs and into the sword beneath his feet. The connection felt different compared to using his body alone. The metal held the flow more steadily, spreading it across the blade instead of letting it disperse immediately.
He pushed.
The first response was uneven.
The sword tilted slightly to one side, the force pushing more from one edge than the other. Neville lost balance instantly and stepped off before he could fall, the blade dropping back against the ground with a dull sound.
He exhaled slowly.
"Not like that."
He picked it up again and repositioned it, this time pressing it firmly against the ground before stepping back onto it.
He adjusted his stance, feet slightly apart, knees bent just enough to keep his center stable.
Again, he focused.
Anti-magic flowed into the sword, spreading across the metal.
This time, he controlled it more carefully.
Instead of pushing all at once, he let it build first—feeling how it moved through the blade, how it spread toward the edges.
Then he applied pressure.
The sword lifted.
Only a few inches.
But it held.
Neville stayed completely still, resisting the instinct to move too quickly. The lift was unstable, the force shifting slightly beneath him, but it did not collapse immediately.
He maintained it for a moment longer.
Then the balance broke.
The sword tilted forward, and Neville stepped off again, landing on the ground with a short step to regain stability.
He looked down at it.
It had worked.
Not properly.
Not smoothly.
But it had worked.
He stepped back onto the blade again.
This time, he was more careful from the beginning.
He spread the anti-magic evenly, making sure it didn't concentrate on one side. The sword responded more consistently, lifting again—this time a little higher.
A foot above the ground.
He held it.
His legs tensed slightly, not from effort but from maintaining balance. The sword did not move forward yet. It only hovered, unstable but controlled.
After a few seconds, he lowered it again.
He did not rush.
The next attempt focused on movement.
Once the sword lifted, he shifted the anti-magic slightly toward the back of the blade.
The response was immediate.
The sword jerked forward.
Too much.
Neville nearly lost his footing and had to drop back down again, catching himself before falling.
He paused, letting the pressure in his head settle.
"Too much force."
He adjusted again.
This time, when the sword lifted, he applied only a small push.
The movement was slower.
More controlled.
The sword moved forward a short distance, gliding unevenly through the air before settling back down.
Neville stepped off and stood still for a moment.
Then he repeated it.
Each attempt improved slightly.
The lifting became steadier.
The forward movement became less abrupt.
Still rough.
Still unstable.
But no longer random.
After several attempts, he stopped.
His breathing remained controlled.
That was enough for now.
Neville stepped off the sword and picked it up.
The blade felt the same in his hand—heavy, solid—but the way it carried the anti-magic had changed how he used it.
He looked at it for a moment.
Then turned back toward the estate.
Tomorrow, he would try again.