SLSL 123

Chapter – 123

Strength…

Not just being strong — but possessing power so overwhelming that no one could ever stand against you.
That was the birthright of anyone born with the blood of the Sigmund family — both a virtue and a sacred duty.

A Sigmund, by the time of their knighthood and the claiming of their heirloom blade, should at least have enough strength to cut down a barbarian warrior in the blink of an eye.

Even Frey was monstrously strong, wasn’t he?

In that sense, Carlyle was far too weak to become the family’s “living sword.”
That role required sheer might — something far beyond his current abilities.

“My lord,”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“A person’s temperament is born with them. If the boy’s a scoundrel, that can’t be helped — he might calm down a little, but that’s all.”
“That does seem to be the case.”
“But scoundrel or not, he must at least possess strength worthy of our family name. We can forgive his recklessness — but weakness? Never. Such is the Sigmund way.”
“You’re right, Aunt.”

Duke Guntram agreed completely.
No matter what else, a weak Sigmund could never be tolerated.

In this house, half-measures did not exist — and if they did, they would not survive long.

The reason Carlyle was despised by the retainers and the elders alike was simple — he was weak.

“Leave him to me,” Gorbad said. “I’ll see his potential drawn out. You needn’t trouble yourself, my lord. I’ll take responsibility for making him strong. You have enough to deal with as head of house — no need to waste your mind on that delinquent boy.”
“Aunt Gorbad…”
“I’ll be going, then.”

With that, Gorbad turned on her heel and made her way to where Carlyle lay unconscious.

When he opened his eyes, he saw an unfamiliar ceiling.

“Ugh… uuugh…”

Instead of wondering where he was, groans of pain escaped his lips first.

What happened…? Oh.

Memory returned — that damned old hag’s staff cracking down on his skull.
He must have lost consciousness right after that, when his berserk state had broken.

“That damned old crone—”
“You called for me?”

“—!”
“First thing you do when you wake up is curse your elder? My, how polite.”

“Why the hell are you—”

Whoosh!

Carlyle threw himself aside just in time.

CRASH!

The staff smashed through the bed, splitting it — and the floor beneath — clean in half.
If that blow had landed, his head would have popped like an overripe melon.

“No manners whatsoever. Wake up and start swearing at me, hmm? Hohoho.”

Carlyle couldn’t even reply.

“Ughh…”

His entire body screamed in pain.
Every step sent shocks through his bones; every muscle trembled as if aflame.

“Tch. Pathetic. Can you call yourself a Sigmund if you whine from a mere beating?”
“Sigmund, my ass.”

He growled through clenched teeth.

“Why the hell are you—”
“You brat!”
“—!”
“Oh, here’s an open spot!”

WHACK!

“Guh!”

Blood spurted as her staff struck his ribs.
That was only the beginning.

Thud! Thud! Thwack! Wham!

The blows rained down like a storm — on his head, shoulders, arms, legs — everywhere.

“Kh-agh!”
“So full of openings! Hohoho!”
“You goddamn— Agh!”
“When will that foul mouth of yours learn to speak properly!”
“KRAAAH!”

Pain filled the room as Carlyle howled and rolled across the ground.
And finally—

“Grrrhkk!”

Crackle! Zap!

Berserk fury ignited within him once more — the Authority of the First Lord of Hell, Grasim, bursting forth.

“Kill… I’ll kill you…”

“Tch.” Gorbad clicked her tongue.
“Losing your mind after a few hits? Pathetic.”

“DIIIIE!”

Dark blades surged toward her — a storm of cursed metal.

“Hooh?”

Even surrounded by the blades of hell, Gorbad remained calm — almost amused.

“No one in our bloodline has shown such a power. How interesting.”
“DIIIEEEEE!”
“But a power that rules you instead of being ruled — that’s nothing but a curse.”

Her staff shimmered, transforming into a long, slender sword — the heirloom blade Zarze.

“No matter how great the power, if you can’t control it, it’s nothing more than a clumsy trick!”

For a moment, time itself seemed to stop.
Then, in a flash faster than light, Zarze pierced through every dark blade around her.

CLANG!

The black storm shattered like glass.

“Wake up already!”

THRUST! THRUST! THRUST!

Zarze pierced Carlyle’s body over and over.

“Khah!”

Carlyle coughed blood and collapsed.

“You monster of a— cough!”
“Such temper.” Gorbad sighed.
“Focus on healing instead of barking at me. Otherwise, the next time you wake up, I’ll just beat you again.”

“…ssshhit…”

He muttered one last curse before fainting.
He had lasted all of five minutes.

* * *

Gorbad’s “training” continued.

Carlyle fainted, woke, got beaten, fainted again — then woke only to be beaten again.
It was an endless cycle of agony, like some eternal hell.

He would’ve preferred death — but every time he blacked out, his body somehow healed perfectly.

After about five days…

“…No way. Am I… healed?”

The last thing he remembered was being run through the stomach — yet when he awoke, there wasn’t a single scratch.

“Did someone give me a potion?”
“Who would waste an expensive potion on a good-for-nothing like you?”
“—!”

Startled by Gorbad’s voice right beside him, Carlyle instinctively grabbed for Grimungand.

“No one would waste a drop on a brat like you, hohoho.”
“Then… was it magic?”
“Tch. Foolish boy.”
“What…?”
“The blood flowing in your veins — that’s your potion, that’s your healing magic.”
“Regeneration…?”
“Finally, you get it. Hmph.”

She rose and lifted her staff.

“Our blood is strong. For a Sigmund, such wounds are nothing. A pierced belly? A night’s sleep will mend it.”
“You sound like a damn monster.”
“Correct.”

Her lips curled into a smile.

“We are monsters. Never forget — our veins carry the power of ancient beings, creatures of chaos and might.”
“Ah…”
“The tempered flesh of a Sigmund is near immortal!”

She swung her staff like a whip as she advanced.

“But what good is that power if you can only use it unconsciously? A true Sigmund commands it at will!”
“You’re insane!”

Carlyle leapt back, narrowly avoiding another strike.

This damned hag is out of her mind.
Days of beatings and forced awakenings had him ready to snap.

Of course, Gorbad didn’t care.

Slash!

Her sword sliced across his left thigh.

SPLASH!

Blood sprayed.

“Khhk!”

He staggered to keep his balance, the pain intense, blood pouring freely.

“Can’t you focus!”
“What—?”
“If your leg’s cut, then heal it! Do you think the enemy will stop and wait while you patch yourself up?”
“Who said I—”

Thrust!

Zarze drove straight through his wrist — the one holding Grimungand.

“Agh!”

He nearly dropped the sword.

I can’t grip it… the strength is gone.

Heal.

He focused.
To his surprise, the bleeding slowed, the wound closing before his eyes.
Tendons, muscle, bone — all reknit themselves.

Clench. CLANG!

He caught the next strike and parried.

“Yes! That’s it! That’s how it’s done! Drag your potential from the unconscious to the conscious!”
“Yeah…”

Carlyle suddenly remembered — that time in the family vault with Frey.
When Frey’s palm, sliced by a dagger, had healed in an instant.
So that’s what it was — Frey could control his regeneration.

Can I do the same… with my thigh?

He focused, trying to heal it.
But the wound was large — the regeneration slow.

Gorbad didn’t wait.

“You take an eternity just to heal one leg!”
“Kh—!”
“Pathetic! How will you block me like that?”
“Give me a damn second to—”
“Excuses are sin!”

SMACK!

Her staff came down on his skull.

“Gahh!”
“Regeneration must happen in the blink of an eye! A Sigmund must fight and heal at the same time!”
“That’s impossible—”
“You brat!”
“Agh!”

THUD!

Her kick sent him sprawling.

“If you can’t, then you die.”

Her sword’s tip hovered at his throat.

“Enemies won’t wait for you to recover. They’ll see your weakness and strike again to finish you off.”

“…Yeah, I know. I’ve been on the battlefield before.”

“Then you understand — to survive, you must fight and heal as one.”

“That’s easier said than—”

“Your mind’s rotten! You should be saying you’ll do it no matter what!”

And with that, she turned her sword back into a staff — and beat him senseless once again.

Carlyle didn’t even get the chance to scream before fainting — ten minutes after waking.

Three hours later.