Veteran Reader in a regression novel

The mid-afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the training grounds. It was the kind of heat that sapped your energy before you even began, but rather than draining me, it seemed more intent on blinding me by reflecting off Sir Henry’s bald head. Still, I had no time to complain. Not with the academy exams looming so close.

I gripped my sword tighter, facing Sir Henry, who stood a few paces away, arms crossed. His usual expression of disappointment seemed even more pronounced today. I’d been training for weeks, which had finally led us to sparring. While I could feel some improvement, it wasn’t enough—at least not for his standards.

“Show me what you’ve got,” Sir Henry barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through my fatigue. As much as I wanted to shoot back with a snarky comment—or maybe a middle finger—I held back. Getting scolded again wasn’t worth the satisfaction.

Taking a deep breath, I shifted into position.

‘I can do this,’ I thought.

I've been practicing every day. My footwork had improved, and my swings were a lot more fluid. I wasn’t a natural, but I was starting to feel more comfortable with the sword.

I lunged forward, aiming for a clean strike, but as usual, Sir Henry parried effortlessly, sending my sword off course like it was nothing. Before I could even react, his counter knocked the weapon from my hands, sending it skidding across the dirt.

“Pathetic,” he muttered. “You’re still telegraphing every move.”

I sighed, trudging over to retrieve my sword. “I thought I had it that time.”

“If your opponent was a blind snail, maybe,” Sir Henry said, arms folded tighter. “You’re getting stronger, but you’re still nowhere near average.”

Ouch. I didn’t need that reminder, but I couldn’t argue. Despite my progress, reality was harsh. Sure, I was stronger than when I’d first started, but every fight with Sir Henry was a reminder that “stronger” wasn’t the same as “strong enough.”

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I took a few steadying breaths. “So, what now?”

“Again,” Sir Henry ordered. “And pay attention this time. You’re hesitating in the wrong places. You might’ve learned the basics of swordsmanship, but you’re still clueless about applying it under pressure.”

I knew exactly what he meant. When I practiced alone, everything felt smooth—controlled, even. But the second Sir Henry got involved, it all fell apart. His experience made my every move look like child’s play, and it rattled me every time.

But what could I do about it? I wasn’t going to gain twenty years of experience overnight.

I squared up again, focusing on the rhythm I’d been trying to build over the past few weeks. My grip was firmer, and this time, I didn’t stop after every swing. I let my body move naturally, flowing from one strike to the next instead of second-guessing myself.

Or at least, I tried to.

Sir Henry deflected each attack with ease. How was this even fair? How could I compete with a veteran like him? Before I had a chance to adjust, he knocked me aside again.

But, surprisingly, he didn’t seem as unimpressed as usual.

“Better,” he admitted, though his tone lacked any real praise. “At least you’re starting to move. But your strength is still lacking.”

“Great,” I muttered, taking one last swing before he disarmed me once more. “So what now? More swing practice?”

Sir Henry smirked. “You’ve got three weeks left. Practice alone won’t get you through the academy.”

I rubbed my aching wrists, sighing. Three weeks wasn’t much, but it was all I had. The more I trained, the more I realized how far behind I was. And if this was just basic training, what would the academy be like?

“I’ll keep training,” I said, picking up my sword again. “But do you really think I can make it?”

Sir Henry studied me, his expression unreadable. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. But don’t get cocky. Surviving the academy isn’t just about strength or technique. It’s about knowing when to fight and when to retreat.”

The idea of retreating didn’t sit well with me. After all this effort, backing down felt like giving up. But Sir Henry didn’t dish out advice lightly, even if it came wrapped in his usual condescension.

“Understood,” I said, though my pride stung a little.

“Good. Now go rest,” he said, waving me off. “Tomorrow, we’ll focus on something else.”

I nodded, grateful for the break. As I sheathed my sword and headed toward the barracks, I felt a mix of frustration and hope. Frustration that I still wasn’t strong enough—and hope because, well, at least I wasn’t getting worse.

The truth was, I didn’t need to be the best. I just needed to be competent. Maybe that wasn’t the grand journey of a protagonist, but it was enough for now.

Lying down on the grass, staring at the clouds, I couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out. Three weeks to become comparable to people who had trained for many years was a tall order. If strength were the only thing I had going for me, my chances of survival would be slim.

But maybe surviving wasn’t just about swinging a sword