SMW C13 Impressing everyone

Alexander and the others made their way to the castle courtyard. As they stepped onto the training grounds, the sun was already setting behind the castle walls.

Did I sleep that long? It must be past Vespers already—around six in the evening by modern standards, Alexander thought to himself. I was unconscious for nearly three hours. Perhaps the sudden influx of Health Points overwhelmed my frail body initially, causing that intense physical reaction before the improvements took hold.

He watched servants hurrying to light torches around the perimeter, illuminating the training area in flickering golden light.

The training ground was a wide expanse of packed dirt and gravel, worn smooth by countless hours of practice. Scarred patches marked where squires and guards had drilled relentlessly over the years. Wooden stakes outlined several sparring rings, while straw-stuffed training dummies stood like silent sentries. A weapons rack and armor storage occupied one corner, while an obstacle course stretched along the far side. There was even a mounted combat area where squires learned to fight from horseback.

Alexander spotted his uncle waiting with a wooden practice sword already in hand. "What are you waiting for, Alexander? Fetch your weapon and let's see if your claims hold any truth," Reinhard called out with obvious skepticism.

"On my way!" Alexander replied, jogging toward the weapons rack and armor storage. As befitting his status as young lord, properly sized training gear awaited him—leather armor, gauntlets, and weapons scaled for his small frame.

The unusual late-evening preparation for training quickly drew attention from nearby squires, guards, and servants.

"What's happening here? Why are Master Reinhard and the young lord preparing to train so late?" asked Squire Oswin, nudging his companion.

Albert shook his head in confusion. "I have no idea. This afternoon we heard the young lord was deathly ill, burning with fever. Yet here he stands, apparently ready for combat training."

The gathered guards and servants murmured among themselves, equally bewildered. Most remained unaware of the "potato incident"—Lord Aldric had deliberately kept information about the cursed root vegetables contained to prevent unnecessary panic. Only a few key individuals knew the full story.

Aldric watched intently as Alexander donned his equipment and prepared to face his brother. Could those cursed roots actually have strengthened rather than harmed him? he wondered, genuine curiosity warring with his skepticism.

Beside him, Father Hensfried maintained a confident expression, though his knuckles were white where he gripped his crucifix.

There's absolutely no way those devil's apples truly blessed and strengthened the boy, the priest thought firmly. This must be some cruel deception—the cursed food making him feel powerful before it destroys him completely.

He fully expected to witness Reinhard deliver a humiliating lesson to the weak young lord, proving once and for all that the potatoes were indeed a curse rather than a blessing.

Alexander faced his uncle across the sparring ring. Reinhard's left arm bore the evidence of old battle wounds—twisted and weakened, with limited mobility at the shoulder and elbow. The injury had healed poorly years ago, leaving him unable to fully extend or rotate the limb properly.

This crippling wound had ended Reinhard's career as an active knight, forcing him to retire from the battlefield to serve as weapons instructor for the castle's squires and, reluctantly, his nephew.

Though his left arm is crippled, he's still incredibly skilled, Alexander observed. He's adapted his fighting style to rely heavily on his dominant right arm, using footwork and positioning to compensate for his limited reach on the left side.

"Are you just going to stare at this crippled old man all evening, boy?" Reinhard chuckled, his tone deliberately mocking. "Having second thoughts already?"

Alexander smiled confidently and assumed his fighting stance. "Don't be ridiculous, Uncle. I'll make sure you eat those words." He raised his wooden sword high above his head in the classic Vom Tag position—the "roof guard" that left him seemingly exposed but ready to deliver devastating overhead strikes.

"Vom Tag? I see you've finally learned to hold it properly," Reinhard noted with approval, recognizing the technique he'd struggled to teach his weak nephew for months. "Very well, boy. Show me this newfound strength you were boasting about to Father Hensfried."

Alexander took one measured step forward. Then another. Then he exploded into motion like a released bowstring.

His target was clear—Reinhard's center mass. Every eye in the courtyard widened as Alexander moved with speed and power none of them had ever seen from the frail young lord.

The watchers, including Reinhard and even Lord Aldric, stared in amazement. There was something fundamentally different about Alexander's movement—where once he had been hesitant and weak, now he moved with predatory grace.

Before anyone could fully process what they were seeing, Alexander had closed the distance, coming within striking range. His sword descended in a perfect diagonal arc—a full-bodied Oberhau strike from the Vom Tag guard.

The wooden blade whistled through the air, angled from right shoulder toward left hip. His arms extended smoothly rather than clumsily, his shoulders driving the full weight of his body behind the blow.

Instinctively, Reinhard stepped back and brought his sword up in a hasty Krumphau—a "crooked strike" that deflected Alexander's blade with his good right arm while his crippled left arm provided what little balance it could. Though he managed to parry successfully, shock flickered across his weathered features.

Such power behind that strike! Is this truly the same weak boy I've been training? Reinhard's eyes narrowed as he reassessed his opponent.

The watching crowd shared his astonishment. Murmurs rippled through the assembled servants, guards, and squires.

From that opening exchange, the intensity of their bout escalated rapidly. Alexander pressed his advantage with aggressive follow-up attacks, each strike delivered with newfound strength and precision. His movements flowed naturally from one technique to another—Zornhau to Unterhau, high cuts to low thrusts—keeping Reinhard constantly on the defensive.

For the first time in their training relationship, it was Alexander driving the pace of combat while his uncle struggled to adapt to this transformed opponent.

Aldric watched with widening eyes and trembling hands. This is... His gaze remained fixed on the incredible display before him. Though he knew Reinhard was holding back considerably for his six-year-old nephew, the transformation was undeniable. I can hardly believe what I'm seeing. My second son, Alexander Godric, possessing such power and vitality?

His hands clenched into fists. Could Alexander have been telling the truth all along? Did those cursed roots not curse him, but actually bless him instead? The evidence before his eyes was becoming impossible to deny.

He glanced at Father Hensfried, whose expression had shifted from confident smugness to slack-jawed amazement. The priest's eyes were wide, his mouth agape in stunned silence.

As the sparring continued, Aldric leaned toward the priest. "Father, look at my son. He seems like a completely different person. Could it be that those cursed vegetables truly did bless his constitution?"

Father Hensfried watched the combat with quivering lips, unable to form a coherent response. "I... I don't..."

The words simply wouldn't come. This outcome was so far beyond his expectations that his theological worldview was crumbling before his eyes.

Seeing the priest's stunned state, Aldric turned away just as his wife's excited voice reached his ears.

"Can you believe this, Aldric? Our son is absolutely magnificent!" Ermelinde's face glowed with maternal pride. "It's beyond anything I could have imagined!"

Aldric nodded slowly. "I know. I can scarcely believe it myself." He paused, studying the ongoing bout. "Though I still don't understand how he suddenly acquired such strength."

"Perhaps our son was speaking the truth? That our Lord truly has chosen him for something special?" Ermelinde's voice carried hopeful reverence.

Aldric remained quiet for a moment, then observed critically: "Alexander's newfound strength is remarkable, but I can see he's still inexperienced. My brother is simply wearing him down."

Ermelinde followed his gaze and noticed the same pattern emerging.

Indeed, after nearly twenty minutes of intense combat, Alexander's enhanced constitution was reaching its limits. Though no longer the frail boy of before, exhaustion was setting in. His movements gradually slowed, his strikes weakened, and his guard became increasingly sloppy.

Recognizing the opportunity, Reinhard pressed his advantage and ultimately claimed victory in the match.

Alexander collapsed onto the packed earth, gasping for breath. His expression was crestfallen. I lost... Damn it... I was hoping to win decisively and convince Father beyond any doubt...

He felt as though he hadn't proven himself adequately.

But before his disappointment could deepen, the sound of applause broke through his brooding. Looking up, he saw his father clapping enthusiastically, his face beaming with genuine admiration.

"Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary performance!" Aldric exclaimed, his eyes bright with impressed satisfaction.

The watching crowd joined in—servants, guards, and squires all applauding with authentic appreciation. Even Father Hensfried, after glancing around uncertainly, began clapping with obvious reluctance.

Aldric approached his exhausted son and extended a helping hand.

"Are you not disappointed that I lost?" Alexander asked, confusion evident in his voice.

"Disappointed? Ha! Not in the slightest!" Aldric's smile was radiant. "You were absolutely incredible out there. That was the finest display of swordsmanship I've ever seen from you!"

Hearing these words, Alexander felt a wave of relief wash over him. It seems I did manage to impress him after all. Perhaps I can still convince him about the potatoes' true nature.