Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke-Chapter 48 - The Sword Saint’s Reckoning

Felicia blinked.

"What?"

"Pick up the damn sword!"

She barely had time to react before Aizen’s wooden sword came crashing toward her.

Her body moved instinctively.

Clang!

A dull impact rang through the training ground.

Felicia blocked just in time—but Aizen didn’t stop.

He pressed forward, launching strike after strike.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The wooden swords clashed in rapid succession.

The spectators—William, Hugo, the Grand Duke—watched in stunned silence.

Aizen’s speed was controlled, matching Felicia’s level.

But his skill?

His fluidity, the angles of his strikes, the sheer relentlessness—

Even seasoned knights would struggle to keep up.

And yet—

Felicia was keeping up.

She met every strike, parried every blow.

Aizen’s blade flashed toward her throat—she blocked.

A low swipe aimed at her ankles—she dodged.

A deceptive feint toward her shoulder—she countered.

The Grand Duke exhaled sharply.

"That technique…"

Felicia had done something that caught his attention.

She had anticipated where Aizen’s sword was aiming—and rather than meeting it head-on, she had placed her own sword slightly ahead of the strike, redirecting the impact.

A deceptively simple move.

But execution?

In real combat, failing would mean taking a full blow to the body.

The Grand Duke lifted his hand, flexing his fingers.

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A faint scar ran across his knuckles—one left behind by his own failed attempt at that technique decades ago.

Aizen had noticed it too.

"So she figured it out immediately?"

William smirked.

"She does that a lot."

Aizen’s movements shifted again.

Felicia’s breath hitched, but she adapted.

One adjustment. Then another.

For three full minutes, she clashed with the Sword Saint himself.

Finally—

Aizen stopped.

Felicia staggered back, breathing heavily.

Her muscles trembled, sweat dripping down her brow.

But she hadn’t collapsed.

Even now, her eyes remained sharp—ready for the next attack.

Aizen turned toward the Grand Duke.

"What do you think, Your Grace?"

The Grand Duke crossed his arms.

"You’re asking me? Isn’t it your decision as the Sword Saint?"

"I’ve already made up my mind," Aizen said. "I was just curious how you saw it."

The Grand Duke rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"…I’ve only ever seen that technique used twice in my life."

"Twice?"

"Once by me—and I failed. The second time was just now."

The Grand Duke’s gaze lingered on Felicia.

"In theory, it’s simple. If an opponent swings, you interrupt their force before they reach full power. But in practice? If you get it wrong, you’re offering your own body as a sacrifice."

He flexed his fingers again.

"I still have the scar to prove it."

Aizen chuckled.

"The girl’s instincts are deadly."

"More than that," the Grand Duke murmured. "Each time the fight changed, she found a new answer. That’s not just talent. That’s a battlefield mind."

"Exactly."

Aizen exhaled, his expression softening.

Then, he turned to Felicia.

She still looked lost—as if she hadn’t even realized she had just been praised by both the Sword Saint and the Grand Duke.

Aizen took a step forward.

"I have one question for you."

Felicia swallowed.

"Y-Yes?"

Aizen’s piercing gaze locked onto hers.

"Can you see mana?"

Felicia hesitated—then, slowly, she nodded.

"If you mean the faint blue energy people use when they swing a sword… yes. I can see it."

Silence.

Then—Aizen laughed.

Not just a chuckle. A deep, satisfied laugh.

The kind of laugh that came when a long-held weight was finally lifted.

For a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the sky as if thanking the heavens.

Then, suddenly—Aizen dropped to one knee.

Felicia stiffened.

William’s eyes widened.

Everyone froze.

Aizen, the Sword Saint, had just knelt before William.

And then, in a solemn voice, he spoke:

"Third Prince."

"I ask for your forgiveness… for ever doubting you."

"Sir Aizen!"

William rushed forward, his voice laced with alarm as he moved to help Aizen stand. The idea of a Sword Saint, a man revered for his unparalleled skill, kneeling so suddenly was unthinkable.

Yet Aizen remained rooted to the ground, as immovable as stone. Instead of rising, he spoke.

"In my youth, I was arrogant," Aizen admitted, his voice heavy with regret. "When I was a mere novice, I at least pretended at humility. But after I was given the empty title of Sword Saint, I became drunk on my own fame."

"An empty title? Who would dare call the name of the Sword Saint meaningless?" William protested, his brows furrowing.

"No. It is an empty title," Aizen countered, a bitter smile forming on his lips. "Because of my obsession with that name, I failed to raise a single worthy successor."

His words carried the weight of years, spilling out like a confession to a priest.

"I sought only prodigies," Aizen continued, his voice steady despite the storm raging in his chest. "Unless they were unparalleled geniuses, I would not accept them as disciples. Those who merely worked hard, those who were merely talented—none of them even entered my sight."

It was not that his techniques could only be passed down to the truly gifted.

It was that if his successor was not a prodigy, then the prestige of the Sword Saint’s name would be tarnished.

Standing at the peak of swordsmanship, he had refused to leave even a single flaw in his legacy. He had wanted to be remembered as the master who raised the perfect disciple.

"In my greed, I turned away from the chances that came to me," Aizen admitted, his voice quiet. "I rejected, ignored, and cast aside young men and women with both talent and good hearts because they did not meet my impossible standards."

His aged, calloused hand stretched outward, fingers trembling as he gazed at them.

"And now, I am too old. I no longer have the time to raise a disciple into a proper swordsman."

Silence fell.

"This is no longer a matter of talent," Aizen murmured. "The years required to properly train a single disciple cannot be shortened. And I do not have enough years left in me." His voice held a faint, self-deprecating chuckle. "It is laughable, is it not?"

He had wanted to leave behind a flawless legacy, free of blemishes.

Yet all that remained was an empty void—without even a single mark to show for it.