I Will Be Unrivaled With The Skill [Sewing]! They Said It Was A Bad Skill, But With Effort, I will Make It A Hit~ - Chapter 30

TL Note : Sorry for the late update, I overworked myself and then fever got me good

Episode 30: Love Letter

Nort heard about it from Sister Claire a month after Seneca became a bronze-ranked adventurer.

He was aware that Seneca had been promoted. It was a hot topic at the guild, and Naeus, whom he admired, had praised both Seneca and Maior highly.

However, he didn’t know that they were leaving Baetica for the royal capital. Seneca had always said she wanted to grow stronger in Baetica. The only reason she would decide to go to the royal capital must be because of him.

“Lucius, damn him.”

Nort clenched his fists tightly, gritting his teeth to suppress his rage.

Nort’s parents were adventurers. He had heard that they were killed by monsters when he was small, leaving him as orphan.

His memories of his parents were vague. Honestly, he couldn’t distinguish between them and the memories of the orphanage director and the sisters. Despite this, Nort was determined to become an adventurer, carrying on his parents’ legacy.

Nort had always been big for his age. He was a rambunctious boy who enjoyed playing in the orphanage garden with Pique and Mitz, who joined later. Although there were older kids, the peaceful atmosphere of the orphanage meant there was no bullying.

When he was seven, Seneca and Lucius arrived at the orphanage. Seneca was a beautiful girl with a delicate appearance, while Lucius seemed unreliable and unimpressive. However, these impressions were entirely off the mark.

At the time, swordplay was a popular pastime among boys of their age. They would challenge anyone and everyone, both inside and outside the orphanage, and Nort was undefeated.

When he invited Lucius, he was surprised by his willingness to join. However, when they sparred, Nort was utterly defeated for the first time—a bitter memory for him.

But what deeply wounded Nort’s heart was what happened afterward. When Seneca, thinking they were just playing with swords, asked to join, she effortlessly defeated Nort with astonishing speed.

That night, Nort quietly cried in his bed in the orphanage’s dormitory.

From then on, he fought Seneca and Lucius almost daily. Even if he didn’t invite them, they were always practicing with their swords. At first, he didn’t understand their talk of distances and techniques, but by imitating their methods, Nort steadily grew stronger.

Eventually, Lucius and Seneca stopped fighting other children—they had grown too strong. They often went hunting in the forest, and it seemed Lucius was learning swordsmanship from the guards and gatekeepers. Though Nort envied them, he quietly continued his daily sword training.

Soon, anyone around the orphanage who fancied themselves skilled sought to challenge Nort. He won every match. Though he was flattered by the other children’s praise, he couldn’t shake the complex feelings from his inability to defeat Lucius and Seneca, leaving him with nothing but a hollow smile.

Nort just like Lucius. He liked Seneca.

Emily from the orphanage often teased him, saying he must be in love with Seneca, but Nort didn’t quite understand it himself. He saw them as acquaintance from the orphanage, rivals in swordsmanship, and above all, personal goals to strive towards.

Nort’s dream was to protect Baetica. Becoming an adventurer and safeguarding the town would ensure peace for the orphanage residents and his friends who had ventured out to work.

He had even though it might be nice to travel occasionally with Lucius and Seneca.

Now, at eleven years old, Nort was an iron-ranked adventurer. He was honing his skill in swordsmanship and earnestly learning the way of the adventurer.

Aside from Seneca, Nort and his friends were among the fastest to advance. They were well-regarded in the guild, receiving guidance—both good and bad—from various seniors who treated them kindly.

Nort, Pique, and Mitz never skipped their training. They seized every opportunity to improve themselves, earning the respect of their peers. Yet, they only saw their efforts as the bare minimum, knowing that those two peculiar individuals had been training far beyond that since arriving at the orphanage.

Seneca and Lucius always wore calm expressions, which Nort saw as a facade. Despite their beautiful faces, their hands were rough from constant sword practice, and their legs bore countless cuts from running through the wilds.

Nort believed no one truly understood their greatness. It wasn’t their intelligence or beauty but their relentless dedication and hard work that set them apart. Nort always felt he couldn’t match them.

Nort’s skill was swordsmanship. It was a fundamental combat skill with high versatility. Many possessed it, but mastering it could make one stronger than anyone else.

Two hundred years ago, someone reached level 6 in swordsmanship and was called the “God of Sword.”

Nort was currently learning swordsmanship from the school founded by this Sword God. While he wasn’t the strongest among his peers, he was undoubtedly the one growing the most.

It had been over a year since he acquired his skill. On that day, hearing the name of Seneca’s skill, he had thought he could become a protector and had spoken foolishly. Fueled by the exhilaration of acquiring a skill, he had grown arrogant and let it get to his head—a bitter lesson indeed.

Still, Nort had no intention of taking back those words. Even if everyone else forgot, he wouldn’t.

Believing his skill to be a “hit,” he had called Seneca’s skill a “miss.” Aware of the weight of those words, Nort was determined to surpass Seneca and take responsibility for what he had said, striving desperately to do so.

He thought that perhaps he was in love with Seneca. The thought of replacing Lucius, who was leaving, and being able to protect Seneca had crossed his mind back then. If that was the case, his effort now might simply be out of pride.

Looking at his hands, they were worn, scarred, and rough.

Nort always thought that Seneca’s sword skills were remarkable.

Her sword strikes were incredibly sharp, and her sense of distance was outstanding. Many believed she would hit a ceiling without a skill.

But that wasn’t the case.

In hindsight, it was strange for such a small child to wield an adult’s sword. The hilt was too thick, her grip insufficient, and it was heavy. Yet, she had overcome these obstacles through extraordinary training.

Seneca’s body had grown. Her hands had become larger, allowing her to grip swords and blades more firmly than ever before. Her strength had increased, making the weight of the weapon a non-issue. Her physical growth had finally caught up.

Recently, Nort had spotted Seneca practicing in the arena. Her movements were unnaturally precise.

While not quite at the master level, her swordsmanship was on par with instructors of the Sword God school, with a fluidity that was almost ethereal.

The image of Seneca from that time was seared into Nort’s mind, and he could recall it whenever he wished. It spurred him on in his training, and he felt that his own swordsmanship had improved, making him happy.

When he shared this with Pique, Pique grinned and said, “It’s not love, it’s another kind of sickness,” prompting Nort to give him a firm pat on the shoulder.

Nort already knew.

Seneca was on a different level. Achieving bronze rank at such a young age marked her as a genius among geniuses. There was no way he could match her.

But that didn’t stop Nort from moving forward.

It didn’t matter if it was slow. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t efficient. What mattered was steadily taking one step at a time.

That was Nort’s way of life.

Thus, it was only natural for him to take up his pen upon hearing that Seneca was leaving town.

He penned a formal challenge in bold letters, sealed it, and labeled it as a “duel letter,” delivering it to Seneca’s dormitory.

The letter from Nort was received by Mint, the dormitory mother. Since Seneca was out, Mint entrusted the letter to Maior.

Maior frowned as she accepted it. The large letters spelling out “duel letter” made her suspect that Seneca had gotten herself into trouble again, giving her a headache.

In the evening, Seneca returned. Maior handed her the letter, and Seneca smiled brightly, eagerly opening it and reading its contents.

“What is that?” Maior asked.

Seneca replied in a cheerful voice, “It’s a love letter, an invitation to a duel from my childhood friend.”