Lyriq Raveline-The Time Swordsman

The borderhouse stood quiet at the edge of ravelinora's lands. Cold wind rustled through the dry grass as Lyriq arrived, escorted by a pair of guards who said nothing more than a farewell nod before returning to the kingdom.

Lyriq stepped through the open gate.

The man in black stood at the center of the training yard. His cloak shifted slightly in the breeze, his expression unreadable.

He looked at the boy. "You've got a sad face," he said plainly.

Lyriq lowered his gaze. "Nobody in my family likes me," he said. "They've forgotten I exist. Only my mother… sometimes."

The man didn't blink. "People are selfish," he said. "Even good ones. They have goals, duties, fears, and dreams. Attachment doesn't form by blood alone—it comes from shared experience, from understanding. And your father? He rules. Your siblings? They chase their own paths."

He walked closer, kneeling so that they were face to face.

"Let me teach you something, Lyriq. A life lesson. People only notice those who shine. They respect strength, talent, results. Love and recognition—they're separate things. One doesn't guarantee the other. If you want to be acknowledged… then earn it."

Lyriq met his eyes, something kindling quietly inside.

"From this moment, I will teach you swordsmanship," the man said. "But first, understand this—your body is small. You have no stamina, no endurance. So before the sword, you must master yourself. And before you master yourself, you must master knowledge."

"Knowledge?" Lyriq asked.

The man stood. "Reading. Writing. Strategy. Observation. A sword is only as strong as the mind behind it. I will teach you tactics, theory, anatomy, breathing, footwork. You'll know when to fight… and when to strike to kill."

He turned toward a rack of weapons. From it, he took a simple knife, then tossed it to Lyriq, who caught it clumsily.

"Attack me," he said, holding nothing but a wooden sword in one hand.

Lyriq hesitated for just a moment before charging. He aimed instinctively at the man's sword, trying to disarm him.

But he was too slow.

The man struck without hesitation—a quick, crushing blow to Lyriq's abdomen with the wooden sword.

A sharp burst of pain erupted in Lyriq's gut. His knees buckled. His breath caught in his chest, and his eyes widened as tears blurred his vision. For a moment, it felt like the world tilted.

"You thought swordsmanship was about clashing blades?" the man's voice came cold and even. "It's not."

He knelt again, close to Lyriq's fallen form.

"It's kill or be killed. Stab or be stabbed. There are no noble duels, no rules. A sword fight is survival. And if that had been steel, you'd be dead right now. Remember this pain, If you dont want to feel pain then lear the pain"

Lyriq gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up.

"Good," the man said. "Stand."

But as soon as Lyriq got a knee under him, the man struck again.

Another blow to the abdomen.

Lyriq cried out, his knife slipping from his grasp, skidding across the dirt. His small frame trembled as he tried to reach for it—but before he could, the man's boot pressed into his back, forcing him down.

"Do you think your opponent wait for you to stand up and honour the rules," the man said. "In a real fight, hesitation is death"

Lyriq gasped for breath. His vision blurred and pulsed red. His muscles refused to respond. He stretched one hand toward the knife—but then everything went black.

When he awoke, it was dark. Cold air kissed his skin. He lay beneath the stars, wrapped in a rough blanket.

Lyriq thought eventhough he had learned swordsmanship in his previous life his swordsmanship is of knight level and he dont have a deep understanding of what basic swordsmanship is, he simply killed with only brute force and with his little knowledge of swordsmanship

His stomach still ached. His arms felt like stone.

But deep inside, something was shifting.

The man's words echoed in his mind.

"Kill or be killed.""Earn your place.""Remember this pain."

Lyriq sat up slowly, clutching his middle. His chest rose and fell shakily. He looked down at his hand—still trembling—but now clenched with purpose.

This wasn't kindness.

This wasn't love.

But it was the first time anyone had tried to teach him how to survive.