Namgung Se-ga, the warrior, was reincarnated in Romance

Since entering my teens, I couldn’t recall a time I had ever been so busy and disciplined, dividing my day up with such diligence.

The life of a martial artist can feel monotonous the more one practices it. When tracking down villains, there were many times when I’d run for days, even weeks, without rest, pushing forward with lightfoot. But simply combing the trail left by the enemy was something any hound from an ordinary household could do.

It was a routine of tracking, witnessing, hunting, and killing. On successful days, I’d go to an inn, drink a bottle of bamboo leaf wine, and sleep.

On such days, I’d wake up late, catching up on missed sleep. Since there was no one looking over my shoulder, I’d never been scolded for laziness.

So, waking up before dawn each day, training my still-growing body and mind to be more resilient for some future moment, and being watched over to ensure I didn’t skip a single meal—these morning hours of training among peers and knowledgeable teachers brought me a peace and comfort akin to sinking into a warm bath.

Apprehension struck only when faced with the unfamiliar.

Mondays were magic class days.

I hadn’t mentioned Edwin Keadris’s threats to Sheyden, not wanting to cause him undue concern, but I hadn’t forgotten the sparring challenge he issued.

However, due to my limited knowledge of magic, I hadn’t figured out how to counter him.

What I’d read in books suggested that in a fight between a knight and a mage, the knight focuses on close-range attacks, while the mage attacks from a distance. The key to determining victory or defeat, then, lay in the proximity. But I sensed this wasn’t quite the answer.

I recalled a term used by Professor Douglas in aura class: the immaterial realm. With the concept of the intangible realms of aura and mana in mind, I stepped into the classroom.

The lively chatter among the students came to an abrupt halt, a chill descending over the air.

Puzzled, I soon remembered the last class, where I had bolted from the room, leaving my mess behind without a second thought.

“Hm…”

The issue was, I didn’t know who had cleaned up for me, so I didn’t know whom to thank. I looked around the room before finding my seat.

In a distant corner, I saw a familiar head of purple hair. The hair of Marianne Philodendor, whom I’d recently met during a camping class, was cut short, just below her shoulders, and resembled the dark violet hue of an iris.

When I greeted her with a subtle nod, I was puzzled to see her gaze quiver slightly. Tilting my head in curiosity, I shifted my gaze to the front as the professor entered.

Professor Angela Sting assessed my expression before saying a word, and I smiled faintly in response.

They say that in Mount Hua, young disciples climb cliffs for training, and in Shaolin, they meditate under icy waterfalls as a matter of routine.

In the Namgung family, we also believed in the need for such arduous training for young disciples, often making them balance on bamboo stakes with weights attached to their limbs. So, to have Professor Sting express lingering concern over a slight disruption of my meridians, despite having treated me immediately afterward, felt both touching and a little embarrassing.

“How was your first week at the academy…? I’m glad to see everyone looking well. Last time, we covered the concepts of circle formation and activation. Starting today, we’ll be learning how to use existing magic formulas and analyzing the principles of circuit construction.”

With a snap of her thumb and index finger, a sound somewhere between a clap and a click resounded. I widened my eyes in surprise, noticing a handout suddenly appearing on my desk, where nothing had been moments earlier.

It was uncanny, like magic, and I struggled to stifle the gasp rising in my throat as I touched the bottom right corner of the paper. Part of me wanted to turn to the student next to me and ask what kind of spell this was, but, seeing their intense focus, I refrained.

I had thought a white sheet was simply paper and black marks were just letters, but to my surprise, part of the formula written on the handout was familiar.

It was a purification formula.

Sting explained patiently, saying that this spell’s flow was simplified and allowed a look at seven of the forty-eight basic twists involved in the fundamental rituals, which made it easier to follow. He also noted that the spell wasn’t too powerful, meaning the mana cost would be low.

I figured, more or less, that the “cost” of magic was like paying a price or offering a sacrifice in a ritual.

It wasn’t the only unfamiliar word I heard. I understood about half of the lesson, while the other half felt elusive. I could somewhat grasp why Shayden Rose had been so shocked upon seeing my schedule. It was like learning the language of the Shairen Empire, so different from the Common tongue; the terminology felt foreign.

After finishing the explanation, the professor, still speaking in his characteristic calm and gentle tone, suggested we practice, then looked over at me.

“Our student from the swordsmanship club… Are you following along?”

“Uh, um.”

As I hesitated to respond, I felt piercing gazes on the back of my head. Since I was seated toward the front due to my height, I couldn’t see their faces, but I could feel the intensity of their stares.

“At the beginning of the ritual, you said to use the Gamma formula to break down the mana first, and then the Beta formula to slow its flow. You added the Silence spell in a twisted form for peace and serenity, and then this… this was…”

“The pronunciation’s a bit tricky, isn’t it? Off-Zainung… It’s the spell of greenery and verdancy.”

“Yes, uh… putting in the Off-Zainung formula like that, then projecting and amplifying it, and finally closing with the Alpha formula, you said.”

“…Mmm. Do you remember where you made a mistake last time, Ernhardt?”

“The second twist in the projection spell—mana flow got blocked there, causing the aura that should’ve spread out to backflow through the Beta formula… I think that was the main problem. The aura that was supposed to slow down instead sped up, and there was no Alpha formula in the first bead, so the spell couldn’t finish…”

Unsure if I had answered correctly, my voice trailed off. I felt like a one-eyed person who had wandered into a village of two-eyed people. Already, all the language of the Shairen Empire sounded like a drawn-out murmur compared to the Common tongue, so reciting these foreign words felt stilted and out of place for someone my age.

But Professor Sting waited quietly until I finished speaking, then smiled, his large eyes crinkling, and nodded.

“It’s not the first time I’ve met a swordsmanship student here in the magic department,” the professor began, casting the formula in front of him. He displayed each step of the spell in sequence, explaining carefully, and then looked back at me.

“You’re understanding well, aren’t you? Even if you’re not directly working with mana spells, knowing the forms of the rituals will help you recognize intentions if you unexpectedly face magic in the future. Just keep in mind that while mana and aura might seem similar in usage, they’re conceptually different—try not to mix them up.”

“Yes, professor.”

With that, I took a deep breath, feeling relieved to have gotten through this challenge. The professor assigned me a task to think more about how to unfold the circle, then began checking each student’s purification ritual.

Unlike Maelo Sanson, who could effortlessly watch over swordsmanship with his keen eyes as a master of the Fire Realm, Sting approached each student individually. He examined each ritual closely, watching their pacing, hand gestures, pronunciation, and mana consumption, carefully correcting each aspect as he went.

Though it was a painstaking process that took quite a while, the students waited eagerly and attentively for their turn, deeply focused on their spells. The professor’s diligence and precision struck me as admirable and deserving of respect.

Just then, I felt a prickle on the back of my head and turned around.

I saw a boy with lavender hair looking my way. His straight, waist-length hair was half tied up, with strands falling to frame his face. Looking into his eyes, I wondered if circles were somehow designed to mimic the color of one’s eyes.

A pair of golden eyes, tinged with a reddish hue, glared at me as if they wished to kill.

Or rather, “glare” might be a bit much. The boy’s hardened expression was marked by a visible frustration, but, just like before, there was no real malice. As I looked back at him quietly, I realized those sharp eyes seemed oddly familiar.

Where had I seen them before? I pondered, searching back through my memories.

I had to go far back, reaching for memories long buried.

It was back when I participated in the Yongbong branch meeting of the Murim Alliance for the first time. There was a certain young man from the Moyong family who, like Edwin Kia’dris, kept his long hair neatly tied halfway back and wore a pure white robe as elegant as a cabbage butterfly.

At the critical moment during the preliminary round, I narrowly defeated him, and he had worn an expression much like that.

He never lived to see thirty-five, crossing the river to the underworld during his life as a wandering swordsman.

Somehow, we had often ended up in each other’s company in our youth, and I had grown fond of him, so much so that I even attended his funeral.

Like me, he was born to a branch family, not the main line, and took great pride in his willow sword—a slender, flexible blade that matched his graceful appearance. He once insisted to everyone that it be buried with him. But in the end, we only managed to place the shattered hilt in his grave along with a few pieces of silver for the afterlife.

Those who live long often look at new things and remember the old. I had always called him Moyong Gongja, the Moyong gentleman, and didn’t even remember his actual name.

Around the time I felt a sudden pang of sadness, the professor called my name, bringing me back to my senses. I then realized that I was standing, staring across the room, directly meeting Edwin’s bewildered gaze.

“…Did something happen with young master Kia’dris…?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of expression I had on my face.

I blinked slowly, then shook my head.

“No, I was just lost in thought for a moment. Apologies for spacing out during class.”

“Hmm… I see…”

After that, I earnestly followed the professor’s guidance, murmuring the spell that sounded like a beautiful song and drawing mana to circle around my middle dantian, releasing it far into the air. My internal energy, resting in my lower dantian, would sometimes twitch, as if asking why I was bothering with this outside mana.

I wasn’t used to the concept of drawing in external mana, so to me, it felt like I was repeating a pointless exercise. Nevertheless, the professor seemed satisfied that I had learned to sense and pull in mana, so I continued to practice it until class ended.

At dinnertime, my peers kept asking if there was someone I liked, which left me at a loss. But they were at that age where they’d be sensitive to matters of young love, so I just dismissed it as nothing worth worrying about.