Sword Dance

Suleiman feared that the grain and copper coins he had bestowed upon the peasant woman would be snatched away, so he had Lushen and Roslyn escort her back to her home.

He also instructed the two of them to convey his law to every single subject: from this day forward, anyone who dared to bully a family that had served House Foulkeep would be punished!

Suleiman felt a wave of exhaustion, but more than that, he felt an unprecedented sense of clarity!

He knew he could no longer lie idle like this; his physical frailty limited his every action.

On the Westeros Continent, martial strength was indispensable, and this world was teeming with demons and monsters.

He returned to the tower, where Old Nicken was busy taking inventory of all the supplies belonging to House Foulkeep.

Suleiman picked up a rusted longsword from the pile; it was one of the few weapons in the territory that could even be looked at.

The blade was covered in notches and thick with rust, and the hilt was wrapped in tattered rags, appearing incredibly crude.

Its history could perhaps be traced back to his ancestor, the very first Lord of Foulkeep.

Suleiman walked out of the tower and onto the open, muddy ground outside.

This place barely qualified as a castle courtyard, but it lacked walls and even a decent surface, consisting only of sodden mud and weeds.

How is this a castle courtyard? There aren't even any walls. Once I make it big, I must build walls, Suleiman couldn't help but grumble to himself. We are truly dirt poor. This isn't a castle; it's probably not even as sturdy as a farmhouse back on Earth.

He swung the sword, feeling it to be somewhat heavy, yet it lacked the sluggishness he had imagined.

Taking a deep breath of the thick air, he began to brandish the longsword.

His movements were wide, an attempt to thoroughly awaken this frail body.

He didn't know any swordsmanship, just hacking away wantonly, and the original owner hadn't known any either.

From his memories, he saw that their entire family were nothing but brutes.

When their old father instructed them in sword practice, he would only say:

"Swing with force! Hack with force! Chop with force! Not enough force! Give me more force! Give me more force! How did I never know that the children I sired were all women!"

The shouts of Suleiman and his brothers echoed all around, especially when his second brother tripped and fell face-first into the dirt from swinging with too much force.

His eldest brother and Suleiman would giggle foolishly, dancing about with glee.

He could almost anticipate his father's habitual roar:

"What are you doing? Keep training!"

But that roar never came; instead, something else happened.

His father's mouth twitched—a minute movement—and then, incredibly, the corners of his lips curled upward into a smile, which then vanished just as quickly.

Above, on the second-floor balcony of the castle, his mother stood quietly.

Her hands rested lightly on the stone railing, her gentle gaze fixed upon Suleiman and the others, filled with warmth.

That memory was so vivid, so warm.

It made Li Qing, a soul from Earth, feel it deeply. He had no family back on Earth, standing all alone, and a sharp pain in his chest pulled Li Qing back to reality.

He could feel that when his father and brothers died, Suleiman had still insisted on holding onto that final breath.

It was for his mother; he knew that if he died, his mother would not be able to go on living.

But when he learned that his mother had jumped from the tower in despair, he, like his mother, made the same choice.

Sigh, Suleiman sighed, continuing his sword practice.

Strangely, despite his body having just recovered, his movements were exceptionally smooth, without any sense of obstruction.

With every swing, every turn, and every leap, he felt his body to be incredibly light, as if he had shaken off the shackles of gravity.

Not only that, he could feel his five senses becoming exceptionally sharp.

He could clearly hear the croaking of frogs in the distant reed marsh, smell the scent of mud and rotting leaves, and even feel the subtle touch of the breeze brushing against his cheeks.

"This... what is going on?" Suleiman stopped his movements, feeling the changes in his body with suspicion and uncertainty.

This feeling was too peculiar—a sense of complete control over his body, and perhaps even something more.

Suleiman didn't know how to describe it; "mastery" didn't quite seem to fit.

A thought flashed through his mind: could this be an effect of his transmigration?

His soul had been struck by a meteorite in his past life and transmigrated into this body; had his soul been strengthened during the process, thereby nourishing this body in return?

Or perhaps it was the fusion of two souls within the body, strengthening his mental power, making the body lighter, more coordinated, and his senses sharper?

It sounded a bit mystical, but in a world filled with magic and even gods, nothing was impossible.

Just as he was immersed in his own thoughts, he caught a glimpse of two figures out of the corner of his eye.

Lushen and Roslyn, the two newly appointed guards, had returned to the castle and were staring at him intently, their eyes filled with an indescribable, complex expression.

Suleiman beckoned to them: "Come here."

The two exchanged a glance, showing a look of unease, but they immediately trotted over.

"Lord Suleiman," they said, bowing their heads respectfully.

Suleiman sheathed his longsword and looked at them. "You have been standing there the whole time, so you must have seen me practicing just now."

The two men nodded, not daring to make a sound.

"Tell me, what do you think of my swordsmanship?" Suleiman asked.

Upon hearing this, Lushen and Roslyn both stiffened.

Asking a peasant to critique their lord's swordsmanship? How could they possibly dare? They had no idea what to say, their faces etched with hesitation and unease.

"Master Suleiman, we—we don't understand such things," Roslyn stammered.

"Even if you don't understand, you must speak." Suleiman's tone was calm, yet carried an unquestionable command. "I told you to speak, so speak. Tell the truth, unless you dare to deceive me."

He did not finish the sentence, but his cold, sharp gaze was enough to make their hearts tremble.

Lushen and Roslyn exchanged glances again, their eyes filled with tension.

In the end, it was Lushen who mustered the courage to stutter, "Master Suleiman, you—your practice was, very, very elegant!"

By the Seven, if we say Young Master Suleiman's practice was beautiful, he'll surely chop off our heads and use them as balls to kick around!

"Elegant?" Suleiman raised an eyebrow.

Lushen hurriedly added, "Yes! Like, it was just like dancing, very, very fluid, and also, very, very elegant—yes, yes, that's it, elegant!"

"Like dancing?" Suleiman chewed on the word.

Roslyn also chimed in with a trembling voice, "Yes, yes, my lord, just like, just like a woman dancing, it looked very elegant."

"A woman?" Suleiman's expression turned peculiar.

Lushen carefully observed Suleiman's face, and seeing that he didn't seem angry, he dared to continue.

"But, but there was no sense of, no sense of threat, no feeling of power."

"That's right, that's right," Roslyn nodded repeatedly. "It was like, like it wasn't meant for fighting, just, just, nice to look at."

Once they finished, the two immediately fell silent, hanging their heads in anxiety as they awaited Suleiman's reaction.

They were terrified that they had offended their lord and invited punishment.

However, Suleiman was not angry. Instead, he fell into deep thought. Like dancing? Like a woman? Very elegant but lacking a sense of threat?

He pondered this; perhaps it was because his movements were so fluid, devoid of any unnecessary stiffness or brute force, that it made people feel there was no "sense of threat."

Yet, that lightness and speed were things he had never possessed before.

This might actually be a good thing. In Westeros, people judged a swordsman's strength by the power behind their swings; perhaps he could play the pig to eat the tiger.

"How interesting," Suleiman muttered to himself. He then looked at Lushen and Roslyn. "Lushen, come here. Spar with me."

Lushen's head snapped up, his face filled with astonishment. "Master Bleiman, are you saying, you want me, to spar with you?"

"That's right!" Suleiman answered firmly.

Lushen grew even more uneasy, waving his hands repeatedly. "No, that won't do, Master Suleiman! How could I ever raise a hand against you? What if I hurt you?"

Suleiman said, "Get up here! Let me see your swordsmanship! Quickly! Don't make me say it a second time!"

Lushen and Roslyn exchanged glances again, and finally, under Suleiman's uncompromising gaze, Lushen bit the bullet and stepped forward.

He took the other rusted longsword from Roslyn's hand, stood cautiously, and assumed a stance that looked incredibly awkward.

"Master Suleiman, Lushen! Lushen is coming!" Lushen said nervously.

"Come on then! Stop the chatter! You!" Suleiman shouted loudly!

Lushen took a deep breath and swung his sword violently toward Suleiman.

His movements were filled with the stiffness and raw force of a peasant working the fields, devoid of any technique; the sword in his hand looked as if he were swinging a hoe.

In Suleiman's eyes, Lushen's movements were like watching a video at 0.7x or 0.5x speed.

He didn't even need to think; his body and consciousness reacted as if by instinct!

He sidestepped the heavy strike, his body turning with a light, elegant grace, instantly circling behind Lushen.

Suleiman simply used the hilt of his sword to give a light nudge to Lushen's back!

Lushen had never expected Suleiman to be so fast, or to circle behind him so easily.

He felt only a slight force against his back, but his body seemed to lose its pillar of support, his center of gravity instantly thrown off balance.

He stumbled forward, falling face-first into the dirt with a thud, his sword clattering to the ground.

Lushen lay in the mud, unable to react for a moment. He looked up at Suleiman in terror, his face full of disbelief.

Although he hadn't used much force, he had clearly moved quite quickly just now—how did Master Suleiman dodge and circle behind him so easily, and then push him over with such little effort?

Moreover, Lord Suleiman's movements were just like dancing, so elegant that it didn't look like a fight at all.

Suleiman himself was also quite surprised. He hadn't expected his body's reactions to be so swift, or his control of force to be so precise.

It felt as if the sword and his body had merged into one, becoming a single entity, wielding the blade as naturally as swinging his own arm.

He really hadn't used much strength; he had simply followed the momentum of Lushen's swing, found the right angle, and tapped him with the hilt, causing Lushen to fall.

"Lushen, get up." Suleiman walked over to Lushen and offered his hand.

Lushen did not dare to reach out and grab Master Suleiman's hand, so he could only struggle to climb up from the ground, patting the mud off his body while still staring at Suleiman with a face full of shock.

From his perspective, Master Suleiman's movements were like dancing, so elegant that it didn't look like fighting at all.

There was no sense of power, yet he had been directly disarmed and left limp on the ground.

Suleiman looked toward Roslyn: "Roslyn! You come up too! Both of you! Attack together! Hurry up!"

Roslyn was startled, his face draining of color as he waved his hands repeatedly: "Master Suleiman, Master Suleiman, you, you are too powerful! We won't go on! We won't!"

"Enough nonsense! Attack me!" "Otherwise!" Suleiman's tone carried an irresistible command.

Lushen and Roslyn had no choice; they exchanged a glance and could only steel themselves to stand together.

"Hurry up and attack! Quickly!" Suleiman said sternly, then stood his ground with his sword held ready.

Lushen and Roslyn gritted their teeth, swinging their rusted longswords as they pincered Suleiman from the left and right. Their movements were slow and clumsy, riddled with openings.

In Suleiman's eyes, the attacks of these two were truly like watching something at 0.5x or 0.7x speed, completely full of flaws.

He just didn't know how he would fare against the top swordsmen of Westeros; after all, these two were merely peasants.

His body swayed lightly, dodging Lushen's longsword, then he took a side step, flashing past Roslyn's hack.

His figure darted and shifted between the two like a ghost, making not a single sound and meeting no resistance whatsoever.

He simply "danced" between the two guards, dodging left, avoiding right, stepping in, and slipping out. He was like a phantom!

The entire process lasted less than half a minute.

In the end, Lushen and Roslyn collapsed onto the muddy ground one after the other, like two rags drained of all moisture.

Their longswords had slipped from their hands again, and gasping for air, the two looked at Suleiman—who was still standing there nonchalantly—with faces full of terror.

Earlier, they might have still been worried about hurting Suleiman, but later on, swinging a sword was hard labor; they were so exhausted they couldn't think, and they no longer had the capacity to consider holding back.

They had never imagined that a fight could be like this.

There was no clash of strength, no striking of weapons, only one person weaving through like the wind, and then they had simply fallen; how could this be a fight?

By the Seven, Master Suleiman must be the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms!

He was exactly like those legendary figures from Westeros that the bards sang about!

Suleiman sheathed his longsword, also panting slightly, though this was more due to his body being long out of practice rather than the physical exertion of the fight itself.

He looked down at his hands, then felt that sense of lightness and coordination within his body.

He was finally convinced that the transmigration of his soul had not only brought his memories but had also produced some kind of incredible enhancement to this body.

Damn it all, could this be my golden finger!