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

Like most noble children, I, Michael Ernhardt, was given a tutor as soon as I could speak. My young body tired easily, but I was restless to learn anything rather than simply lying around resting.

The tutor who came earlier than most taught me primarily reading and writing. Around the time I could read small books on my own, he wanted to teach me etiquette, music, and other areas of refinement, but he couldn’t get his way.

And understandably so—at the time, I was desperate for the approval of my newly acquired family and relatives.

I couldn’t bear the thought of living illiterate, so I relentlessly learned speech and script. But I firmly refused to waste time plucking at an instrument, spinning around in dance with ladies in unseemly fashion, or exchanging formal greetings with stylish grace.

Instead, we filled my lesson time with things I might need in the future to manage the count’s household: reading documents related to estate management, mastering calculations and currency values, memorizing the geography of this world, and learning the produce of each region.

Thus, while I became familiar with the myths and legends of this land that would appear in a storybook, I knew little beyond that.

Maybe that’s why, when I first opened a history textbook, I was dumbfounded and wondered if this could even be called human speech.

In my previous life, I had no idea how political structures worked, nor did I know much about the power dynamics within my family since I had lived far from it all. I never realized how many agreements were needed to shape the world, nor that all the broken promises and disputes had been recorded for posterity.

And I was utterly shocked to learn that I had to memorize all of these treaties in order.

“So I understand that seven hundred years ago, the marriage alliance between Yulan and Viban was broken, leading to a change in the salt trade route. But a hundred and twenty years ago, a prince and princess married again, restoring the original trade route, and it’s been honored ever since. Why do I need to memorize the reason the old treaty was broken…?”

I was so dazed that my words came out in a much older tone than usual. I didn’t realize I was speaking in a manner not fitting for a child, but Shayden, absorbed in his notes, didn’t seem to mind. Without looking up from his textbook, he replied dryly.

“History repeats itself, so by remembering past mistakes, we can say, ‘You messed up back then, you’re not trying to do it again, are you?’ and scold them.”

“Can’t we just think about it when it happens?”

“I don’t know, just memorize it.”

“…Hah…”

Professor Brianna Casablanca, not a knight or a mage, could not hear our whispers from across the large lecture hall and passionately continued the lesson.

She wrote beautifully on the board between explanations and, as she had done before, had us all read specific sections together or called on a few students to stand and recite.

During this time, Shayden, who diligently organized her notes in various ink colors, hardly seemed human to me.

After all, writing was meant to be done on bamboo strips or white rice paper with dark black ink. It was considered great calligraphy to capture the spirit of a dragon and the stance of a tiger with straight, even strokes.

To me, writing was to be done with care, each character penned with utmost precision. Colors like blue and red were things used for paintings, not writing.

This was how I had thought after living for over forty years.

Watching Shayden’s notes, with some sentences written boldly and in red to mark their importance, and others minimized in blue for less relevance, felt unsettling to me, especially when the letters themselves were uneven.

It made me feel like a wrinkled newborn all over again. I shook my head and returned to my own notebook. Every line of mine was uniform, neat, and precise. As the eldest son of a grand house, I had practiced and trained until my penmanship became graceful. But for some reason, the more I looked over my page filled only with black ink, the more uneasy I felt.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to trouble a diligent student, so I bit my lower lip and looked back up at the professor, taking notes as she dictated. I thought that no time should be wasted, after all.

Later, Shayden mentioned that he’d let me see his notes, which put my mind somewhat at ease.

It seems my efforts paid off, as I scored perfectly on Professor Calypse’s quiz. It wasn’t easy, but I reduced my sword practice over the weekend to wrestle with those pages. Though I forgot most of it the moment the test was over, it left a faint imprint that returned whenever I looked at the notes.

By the time the Empire’s genealogy class ended, I had brief conversations with Shayden’s friends and acquaintances. Some of them had attended my birthday banquet, and others hadn’t.

In that group, I finally met “Danbi,” a name I had only heard before. The reason I called him Danbi was obvious the moment I saw him.

He had a sleek appearance, with golden hair that was short and glossy, pressed flat to reveal his entire neck. His large eyes had dark pupils, giving him a gentle look. He resembled an otter or marten—a boy with an animal-like charm.

I asked if I could keep calling him Danbi, while everyone else called Damien from another department “Damien.” He agreed with a smile, seeming to have a good personality.

Not that it mattered much whether he was easygoing or prickly. If my life from my previous existence continued, these children would have been born when I was in my forties. Even their sulky faces would seem endearing and lovely to me, and their laughter would only make me feel joyful.

By dinnertime, the group had grown to over eight people, and the lively atmosphere wasn’t unpleasant.

I made a few mistakes with their names, but no one cared or minded, so I decided not to worry about it. I asked them simply to smile warmly whenever they saw me, even if I couldn’t remember their names, and sealed the promise with a pinky swear. They were overjoyed, which filled me with satisfaction.

—

From then on, I devoted myself to practicing new sword forms during basic swordsmanship class.

Since picking up a sword for the first time, I had only ever used the Namgung sword techniques, so even when I managed to execute a move smoothly, my chest would involuntarily broaden skyward, echoing Namgung’s stance. No matter how often it was corrected, I couldn’t fix it.

I pondered deeply over the issue. I had adopted the new sword forms from the arms through the waist, but my legs and feet continued to follow Namgung’s footwork, alternating between Cheonrihojeong and Cheonpungsinbeop. When I shared my thoughts on this, Maelo Sanson, who was also pondering, couldn’t hide his disbelief.

“So you’re saying… there’s a different way to breathe, wield a sword, walk, and even sleep?”

“Yes. Each is practiced separately, combined to match a rhythm, and trained to respond to any situation. Because I’ve learned only the sword form differently, I think that’s why there’s a mismatch. I’m curious if there are any specific footwork or breathing methods compatible with the new sword techniques.”

“Are you even human?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you have a method for blinking? For swallowing?”

“Yes?”

“Look, when you stretch your arm out like this and swing your sword from here to here, assuming there’s an enemy on the left, doesn’t it feel natural for your knee to come forward when your sword path reaches this point? As your body twists this much, when you carry through with the swing, it should result in this movement.”

“At that moment, my breathing doesn’t match the sword form, so my body instinctively ducks a half beat faster… which makes me feel inclined to slice upward from the opposite direction. To return to the original sword form, I’d need to add two more seconds, which I’m struggling to understand.”

“Now that you mention it… this approach might work too. Just go half a beat faster here… Right, just do that and start those two extra seconds here, ending like this.”

“…! I’ll try that out. Thank you!”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

It was indeed an elegant solution.

Maelo Sanson, a prodigy who had reached high levels early on, may have felt irritated at the idea of his legs not moving in sync with his arms, but he never turned a blind eye to problems as they arose.

Whenever something bothered him, he’d discuss it with me, come up with new methods, test them on himself, or carefully guide me through them. By now, we spent more time in discussion than in formal instruction. When students practicing their sword forms nearby peeked over out of curiosity, he would demonstrate and even help them try some simple moves.

Though Cheonpungsinbeop (Sky Wind Step) couldn’t be performed without inner energy, the endlessly unfolding Infinite Step, which adjusts the angle of the heel with each step, could be something my fellow swordsmanship classmates could learn.

By using Jin-gak (*a step that imprints deep marks or transmits shockwaves with inner energy) to stamp the Infinite Step path into a corner of the training ground’s grassy field, I gave them a visual to practice on. During breaks, they lined up to step along the marks like little squirrels, which was adorable.

When I mentioned this to Shayden, he reminded me of my age, but I ignored him completely.

—

Whenever I went to the dormitory dining hall with Shayden or Benjamin, it was much like my birthday banquet. People from different groups would sit nearby and start conversations, finish their meals and leave, or wait to drink tea together and discuss class material.

Sioren Academy didn’t restrict interactions between boys and girls. Although they weren’t allowed in each other’s dorm rooms, they could freely use each other’s dining halls.

As the menus varied across the six dining halls, word of which hall had the best food would cause everyone to flock there. Those who came later would often have to settle for a hall marked with a sign reading “Ingredients are still in stock.”

I sometimes shared meals with students from other years. Girls I met while practicing sword forms with Maelo Sanson would greet me warmly and share their favorite side dishes.

They enjoyed watching me eat, often resting their chins in their hands and observing me with interest. Although I found it odd, wondering why watching someone else eat was so amusing, I accepted the food without question—adolescents, after all, are always hungry.

I trained diligently, attended classes, and worked hard to complete assignments.

By the third week, I could attend magic class without being glared at by Edwin, which was a relief.

In World History, I abandoned trying to adjust the letter sizes in my notes and decided to underline or circle important points in red ink instead.

In Imperial Genealogy, I got two questions wrong this time, but it was merely a few spelling errors, so I decided to let it go without worrying.

We also practiced camping skills, gathering in groups to build fires and stand watch in the mountains behind the academy.

We practiced choosing flat ground, setting alarm spells or sentry posts, finding stones that wouldn’t burst from heat, and cooking in the wilderness, sharing the food we prepared together.

Thanks to Ivan, who brought lamb, we cooked the most delicious stew and received high praise.

Little moments like these shine brightly in memory, each a vibrant and cherished recollection.

Thus, after these peaceful days, something unusual happened on the Thursday of the third week during Advanced Swordsmanship class.