7: Chapter 7: Winter's Oath Sword Technique!

During the long night season, it was four in the morning.

The sky was still a thick, ink-blue, with only a faint grayish-white showing on the eastern horizon.

A cold wind swept in from the direction of the North Sea, passing through the arrow slits of the castle towers, emitting a mournful wail.

The entire White Cliff Territory was immersed in deep slumber.

On the training grounds on the west side of the castle.

Rowan held the "Frost Sword" in his hand. This was the name he had given his new sword, its blade reflecting the sparse starlight.

Practicing the sword every day, while the proficiency growth was slow, it accumulated over time.

He stood still in the center of the training grounds, feet shoulder-width apart, holding the sword vertically in front of him with both hands, the tip pointing to the sky.

Inhale.

The Myriad Furnace Breathing Technique operated on its own.

Battle Qi surged from the seed of life, branched out along the spine, and poured into his limbs and bones.

For three years, he had long understood one thing:

Women with a score of ninety or above were a truly scarce resource in this world.

He had spent three months in the social circles of the Imperial Capital, seeing no fewer than a thousand noble ladies, mages, and temple nuns.

The numbers that popped up on the system panel mostly hovered between 70 and 85.

Occasionally, there were a few around 90, but they were either already engaged or of noble status, with terrifyingly powerful guards by their sides.

Sylvia's score of 92 was the only possibility he could reach at the time.

He had won the gamble, using Lv1 Charm.

But so what?

She still left.

Charm was not omnipotent either.

Rowan exhaled slowly, the white mist stretching into a straight line in the air.

He moved.

He stepped forward with his left foot, twisted his waist, turned his shoulders, and swung his right arm in a slash.

"Clang!"

The blade tore through the air, emitting a sharp whistling sound.

There was no target; he was just swinging his sword at nothingness.

But wherever the blade passed, the moisture in the air was instantly frozen, turning into fine ice crystals that fell with a rustling sound.

On the ground, where he had stepped, a thin layer of Frost bloomed into spiderweb-like ice patterns centered around his footprints.

[Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship Proficiency + 1]

A prompt popped up in his mind.

Rowan did not pause.

Turning around, he performed a diagonal upward slash, the blade tracing an arc like a cold moon from bottom to top.

Ice crystals were swept up by the sword wind, forming a briefly lingering mist of Frost around him.

[Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship Proficiency + 1]

Thrust again.

The tip of the sword gathered a visible point of cold light, dragging a pale blue trail like a comet's tail when thrusting.

[Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship Proficiency + 1]

Once. And again.

He was alone on the training grounds, with only the sound of footsteps on the ground, the sound of the blade breaking through the air, and his gradually heavier breathing.

He was immersed in a certain profound rhythm.

Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship, this skill obtained from the system, was by no means just as simple as swinging a sword.

Its core was an extremely exquisite technique of exerting force.

Every contraction and relaxation of muscles, every twist and transmission of joints, and every breath and coordination had to be seamless.

Power took root from the soles of his feet, passing through his calves, thighs, waist, abdomen, back, shoulders, and arms, finally concentrating at the tip of the sword.

During this transmission process.

The Frost Battle Qi generated by the Myriad Furnace Breathing Technique under the [Frost] trait was cleverly woven into it, merging with physical strength.

It was not wielding the power of Frost. It was becoming Frost itself.

For Silent Pilgrimage Archery, he had relied on adding points to rush directly to Lv3, which was equivalent to stepping into the second realm of this archery.

At that time, the situation was urgent; he only felt power surging and skills coming naturally, without deep reflection on the mysteries within.

Until this moment, practicing with his own hands, step by step, starting from the most basic sword swings, did he truly feel the weight of the word "transcendent."

It was too strong.

This was not in the category of mundane martial arts.

This was transforming will into reality.

Forging oaths into sharp blades, manifesting the inner winter into the power of the material world.

The first realm, Oath of Frozen Ice, was merely the beginning.

The blade freezing over, Frost forming with each step. These were merely external appearances.

The second realm, Frost Heart Realm, was the true transformation of this swordsmanship.

With a heart covered in Frost, filtering out emotions and pain, one could Insight into the battle situation in absolute calmness.

In that state, thinking would be as fast as lightning.

As for the third realm, Eternal Winter Sovereignty...

Rowan dared not imagine what that scene was like.

The core of winter, where thought was snow and wind, taking lives with sword energy from a hundred paces away, appearing like a god amidst the ice and snow.

"This is not cold," he had once muttered to himself while looking at the skill description, "This is the determination of an oath, as cold as the winter."

Once. Twice. Ten times.

The grayish-white on the eastern horizon gradually spread, painting the sky a fish-belly-like cyan-white.

The starlight dimmed, and the autumn wind remained bleak.

Rowan's sword-swinging movements began to distort.

But he did not stop.

The blade remained stable, the trajectory remained precise, and the ice crystals continued to flutter.

[Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship Proficiency + 1]

The numbers jumped slowly and firmly.

What is sword practice?

It is countless repetitions.

It is a cycle of extreme boredom.

It is muscle memory branded into the marrow.

It is the technique of exerting force becoming instinct.

It is forging every move and style into something as natural as breathing.

It is mistakes. It is corrections.

It is more mistakes. It is more corrections.

It is when, exhausted to the point of blurred consciousness, the body can still complete that diagonal slash by instinct.

The daylight gradually brightened.

The first bell chime came from the castle tower.

Distant and desolate.

Rowan retracted his sword, leaning it against the ground, gasping for breath.

White mist gushed from his mouth and nose, condensing into thick clouds in the cold air.

He was soaked through, the sweat inside his plate armor freezing into a thin layer of ice, making a faint cracking sound with his movements.

Raising his arm, beneath the skin of the back of his hand, pale blue Frost patterns glowed faintly.

That was the sign of Battle Qi operating to its limit.

He looked at the panel:

[Winter Oath-Keeper Swordsmanship Lv1 (8 / 500)]

A night of bitter practice had increased it by seven points.

Slow.

But real and solid.

Only then did Rowan realize he had done a stupid thing before.

The proficiency that can be gained each day for different skills is different?!

But it was too late to do anything about it now; it was already used.

He straightened up and sheathed the Frost Sword.

In the distance, dim yellow lights successively lit up in the farmhouses, and cooking smoke curled upwards.

The clatter of pots and pans came from the direction of the castle kitchen, and a new day had begun.

He turned around and walked toward the castle with heavy steps.

His iron boots left deep footprints on the frozen earth, and around every footprint, delicate Frost flowers bloomed.