I Can Summon Legendary Figuress

"Ha!"

"Ha!"

"Ha!"

Sharp cries echoed across the Sword Training Grounds as dozens of wooden blades cut through the morning air in perfect rhythm.

The synchronized strikes rang throughout the massive courtyard, accompanied by the steady sound of feet stamping against polished stone.

Ever since the unbelievable news of Servos’ return had spread across the Maqaue Clan, the Sword Training Grounds had become livelier than ever.

Disciples who had been training elsewhere hurried back. Former students returned to pay their respects.

Even instructors from the other training grounds secretly came to observe the legendary elder whose name had long since become part of the clan’s history.

By sunrise, every exceptional swordsman below Tier Six had gathered inside the sprawling dojo.

More than thirty young Maqaue warriors now stood in neat rows, each gripping either a wooden practice sword or a real katana depending on their level of proficiency.

Sweat soaked their training uniforms.

Their breathing remained steady despite hours of continuous practice.

No one dared complain. Not while Servos himself watched from the sidelines.

"At least they didn’t grow lazy while you were in charge."

Seated comfortably upon a wooden rocking chair placed beneath the shade of a broad maple tree, Servos folded both arms and glanced dismissively toward his son before returning his attention to the disciples.

His tone remained calm. Almost casual.

Yet Dorn immediately straightened his back.

Receiving praise from his father... even if buried beneath an insult... was still praise.

"You’ve done... an acceptable job."

Dorn scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

"You should." Servos snorted. "It doesn’t happen often."

Several nearby instructors quietly laughed.

The old man’s personality clearly hadn’t changed despite everything he had endured.

His tongue remained as sharp as ever.

Meanwhile, Ethan silently observed the training from a short distance away.

Unlike human kingdoms, where summoners occupied the center of military power, Demi-human society revolved almost entirely around personal combat.

Bloodlines. Martial disciplines. Inherited classes.

Everything ultimately strengthened the warrior standing on the battlefield.

The Maqaue Bloodline represented one of the purest examples of that philosophy.

Naturally gifted with tremendous physical strength, explosive speed and remarkable endurance, members of the clan excelled in direct combat.

Although countless classes existed throughout their lineage... nearly all of them focused on improving one’s fighting ability.

Some emphasized swordsmanship. Others specialized in overwhelming physical force.

But none abandoned the battlefield.

Within the Maqaue Clan itself, five major training grounds existed.

The Sword Training Grounds. The Poleaxe Training Grounds. The Wind Devil Training Grounds.

The Fist Training Grounds. And finally... the Whip Training Grounds.

Each represented a separate martial tradition passed down through generations. Each competed fiercely against the others.

Every year, tournaments determined which discipline held superiority within the clan.

Pride rested upon victory. Humiliation followed defeat.

Competition never truly ended.

Because of that... none of the training grounds could afford complacency.

"What do you think, Ethan?"

Servos suddenly called out without turning around.

"Better than your Judgment Style?"

A faint smile appeared on the old Maqaue’s face.

He clearly remembered their previous encounters.

Back then... Ethan had been desperately trying to master Tyrant Blade.

Servos had served as nothing more than a living sparring partner.

Or perhaps... punching bag was the more accurate description.

At the time, however, he had never revealed the true extent of his swordsmanship.

There had been no reason to.

He vastly outclassed Ethan in both experience and strength.

Furthermore... he had been a prisoner stripped of both freedom and motivation.

Using secret clan techniques for the benefit of his captor simply hadn’t interested him.

Whether things would be different now... even Servos wasn’t entirely sure.

Ethan watched another exchange between two disciples before answering honestly.

"It’s good."

Nothing more. Nothing less.

He offered neither exaggerated praise nor unnecessary criticism.

Servos merely nodded.

He understood exactly what Ethan meant.

Good. Not better. Not worse.

Simply... different.

The Judgment Style excelled through relentless offensive pressure.

The Maqaue Sword Style emphasized precision, explosive movement and overwhelming physical strength.

Neither path invalidated the other. They simply pursued different ideals.

"The real thing would be more interesting," Ethan added after a brief pause.

A grin spread across Servos’ face.

"I knew you’d say that."

Unfortunately... that would have to wait.

The previous night, Ethan had finally begun experimenting with the meteorite stones purchased at the mountain marketplace.

The experience proved stranger than he expected.

Rather than immediately strengthening his body, the primordial energy flowing from the stone had settled inside both arms, leaving behind a faint numbness stretching from his fingertips to his shoulders.

It wasn’t painful. Nor particularly uncomfortable.

Simply... unfamiliar.

Even now, flexing his fingers produced a subtle tingling sensation.

Until he understood exactly what the energy was doing... it seemed wiser to avoid unnecessary combat.

Otherwise... he would have gladly crossed blades with Servos then and there.

After nearly another hour of training, Servos slowly rose from his rocking chair.

The disciples immediately stopped practicing.

More than thirty pairs of eyes turned toward the elderly instructor.

A deep silence settled across the courtyard.

Servos slowly looked over every face standing before him.

One by one. Without rushing.

Finally... he nodded.

"That was good."

His words instantly brightened many of the younger disciples’ expressions.

"I’m pleased."

"The Sword Training Grounds have improved under my son’s leadership. That alone brings me joy."

Dorn lowered his head slightly.

Hearing those words from his father carried more weight than praise from anyone else.

Servos continued.

"I’ve been gone for two years. Far too much has changed."

"It makes no sense for me to reclaim the position of Chief Instructor."

He turned toward Dorn.

A rare hint of pride softened his weathered expression.

"You’ve earned it."

The younger Maqaue froze.

Those simple words nearly struck harder than any compliment he had ever received.

Everything he accomplished over the past two years... his father had acknowledged it.

For the first time since Servos returned... Dorn genuinely smiled.

"Thank you... Father."

Servos waved one hand dismissively.

"Don’t get emotional. You’re still lacking."

Laughter quietly spread throughout the training grounds.

The old man really couldn’t offer a compliment without immediately following it with criticism.

"As for the rest of you..."

His expression gradually became serious once more.

"You’ve improved."

"But every one of you still possesses obvious flaws."

"Poor adaptability. Rigid footwork. You rely too heavily on familiar opponents."

His gaze swept across the disciples.

"Strength alone doesn’t make a swordsman."

"The battlefield doesn’t care about your preferred style."

"One day you’ll encounter techniques unlike anything you’ve ever seen."

"If your first reaction is confusion... you’ll die."

No one argued. Every disciple quietly lowered their heads.

Servos slowly clasped both hands behind his back.

"Because of that... I’ll personally oversee your training for a while."

A murmur immediately spread throughout the gathered warriors.

No one expected the legendary elder to resume teaching so quickly after returning.

Servos ignored their reactions.

The truth was... nothing would have made him happier than spending his remaining years quietly drinking tea, arguing with old friends and watching his grandchildren grow up.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

He owed too many debts.

He owed the Sword Training Grounds two lost years. He owed his son guidance.

And above all... he owed Ethan.

The young man had changed his fate.

Without Ethan... he would never have returned home alive.

"For today’s lesson..."

Servos slowly turned toward the stone steps overlooking the courtyard.

"I want all of you to experience a completely foreign sword style."

Every disciple instinctively followed his gaze.

Standing quietly near the edge of the training grounds, Ethan raised an eyebrow.

Servos smiled.

"Protector Kilian."

He beckoned with one finger.

"Come."

Ethan stepped down from the stairs, his boots echoing softly against the stone courtyard as more than thirty Maqaue swordsmen watched him with curiosity.

None of them had ever seen the mysterious human fight.

Servos, however, knew exactly why he had called him forward.

Tyrant Blade couldn’t mature through isolated practice.

It demanded battle. Real opponents. Real pressure.

More importantly... blood.

The more opponents Ethan crossed blades with, the faster his understanding of the style would deepen.

To an ordinary warrior, facing over thirty skilled swordsmen sounded exhausting.

To Ethan... this training ground was paradise.

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