Heroine Creation: All My Summons Are Custom Made

Chapter 217: Well Done, Princess Kestrel

Under Ugbard’s tutelage, Kestrel Highcastle truly began her journey to the mastery of swordsmanship.

After besting her in numerous duels, her ego and pride was squashed even more and Kestrel understood that she truly knew nothing compared to the mountain man’s knowledge.

She was more than willing to learn.

For some reason, Ugbard was also willing to teach her.

He gave her the fundamentals back from the beginning. Stance. Breath. Footwork. Timing. Patience.

Naturally, Kestrel hated that part. She hated being told she was sloppy, or that her talent was not enough. She hated being made to repeat basic forms until her wrists burned and her legs shook.

But the promise of becoming a stronger Swordsmaster was what kept her going. And so, she learned. That was the thing about Kestrel. She did not resent correction when she recognized it as truth. She just resented how long it took to become worth the correction.

And she became worth it quickly.

Awakening the Swordsmaster Class meant one would be naturally more talented with the sword than any other Class, but Kestrel was not merely talented with the sword.

She had a hunger that Ugbard could only recognize in himself when he was younger. A fire, in fact, one that he wanted to shape so that it didn’t merely burn, but it cleansed as well.

Ugbard gave her scrolls. Old things they were, bound in leather so dry it cracked at the edges, the ink faded to a ghost of its former self.

With the scrolls she learned to use Grace through her sword. Many Swordsmasters used Grace with their hands, pushing it into the hilt, wrapping it around the blade.

That was the common way. The easy way. The scrolls called it the shallow way. Grace, they said, did not belong to the hands. The hands were merely a door. For a Swordsmaster, the blade was the true channel, a riverbed carved wide and deep.

It took Kestrel weeks to understand what that meant. Every attempt ended the same way. She would find the Grace thrumming inside her chest, guide it down through her shoulder, through her arm, and then stop.

Her wrist would tighten. Her fingers would clench. The Grace would pool in her palm like water behind a dam, and the sword would remain inert steel.

Ugbard watched her fail and mostly said nothing. He only reminded her that the hand was a bridge, not a destination, and made her sit in the cold clearing for hours with her eyes closed, doing nothing but breathing.

Ultimately, after mornings and nights, Kestrel started to get a hang of it. She let the Grace fall through her shoulder, through her arm, through her wrist, into her fingers, into the hilt, and then—impossibly—into the steel itself.

The blade hummed. A vibration ran up her arms and into her teeth. The edge caught the pale mountain light and held it, glowing faintly silver. For three full breaths, Kestrel was not holding a sword. She was holding a piece of herself made sharp.

After that, she practiced every night. The feeling lasted longer each time. A heartbeat longer. A breath longer. Until one night she opened her eyes and the blade was still glowing, steady and soft, and she was still breathing, calm and whole, and the Grace inside her chest and the steel in her hand were no longer two things but one.

Meditation followed. Ugbard had her close her eyes and move through forms blind, feeling the air part around her blade, feeling the stone through the soles of her feet, feeling the Grace pulse with every step.

The world is not separate from you, he told her. The wind is your breath. The stone is your bone. The blade is your nerve. When you unify with the sword, you do not become a weapon. You become a truth. And a truth cannot be opposed.

She did not fully understand. But she trained. Every day, she trained. Stance until her legs burned. Breath until her lungs ached. Footwork until the stone remembered her steps. Grace until the blade was an extension of her thought. She read the scrolls until their words were imprinted on her memory. She meditated in motion until she could feel the wind shift before it touched her skin.

Several months passed and Kestrel’s growth was astonishing.

What took Ugbard years to learn, she accomplished in months, in a single season on the mountain. Her power grew until even the old grandmaster, who had walked the path for decades, could scarcely believe what he was witnessing.

She sparred with him daily, and though he still won every bout, the victories grew narrower with each passing week. His breath came harder. His counters required more commitment.

The girl who had once screamed insults at his back now met his eyes across the clearing as something approaching an equal.

And when it was time for the final duel to determine whether she had reached mastery, Kestrel won.

The battle was an earthshaking one. Ugbard came at her with everything he had, his blade a blur of folded steel and decades of honed instinct. But Kestrel met him strike for strike, and in the end, it was her moment.

Ugbard spun his sword and attacked, a final, decisive arc meant to end the duel. Kestrel turned into it, her body moving before thought, and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, she executed the move.

Her blade came down, splitting air into vacuum halves. It passed through his guard as if his defense was a memory she had already moved past. Ugbard’s balance shattered, his legs gave way, and he fell, his back hitting the stone with a heavy thud.

Kestrel stood over him, her sword aimed down, the tip a finger’s width from his throat. The wind swept across the mountain peak, whipping loose strands of emerald hair across her face. Her chest heaved. The tip of her blade did not waver.

They were silent for a long moment. Hearts pounding. The wind howled over the peak.

Then Ugbard smiled. "Well done, Princess Kestrel."

Kestrel sheathed her blade and gave him a hand. Once he found his feet, she stepped back, composed herself, and bowed deeply from the waist, her emerald hair falling forward. When she rose, a smile broke across her face, brilliant and unstoppable as sunrise.

"I cannot believe it. I have attained mastery already. Soon I will begin my journey to ascend to grandmastery."

Ugbard looked at her. The wind pulled at his robes. His old bones ached, and his heart was full of a quiet, knowing thing.

He was a grandmaster, and even though Kestrel believed she had only beaten him because he was in dying years, Ugbard knew the truth.

She was already on her way to grandmastery. Unbelievably close. Closer than anyone her age had any right to be. Closer than she understood.

Yet, at the same time, this was only the start of her journey.