I Awakened The Ancient Vampire System

Chapter 72: Chapter 72: Sword Art

Lucian woke up staring at wooden ceiling beams.

He was lying on a simple bed — straw mattress, wool blanket, rough wooden frame. The last thing he remembered was pain. Blood dripping from his eyes. The system flaring red.

Then nothing.

"Oh, you’re awake." The old man’s voice came from somewhere to his left. "That was faster than I thought. Looks like you have quite the regenerative ability. A complete vampire yet such wasted potential.", He sighed.

Lucian sat up. His body felt fine. No headache. No residual pain. The blood was gone from his face — cleaned, somehow.

Probably the old man.

Morning light filtered through a single window.

He turned toward Allistar’s voice. The old man sat at the table, sipping tea. His eyes were closed as usual.

Lucian breathed hard. "Just who are you?"

Allistar smiled. "Like I said before, my name is Allistar Flint and I am your master. Now take this tea before it gets cold. We have a lot to do." He paused. "I mean you have a lot of work to do. After all, I’ll just be watching."

He pushed a cup across the table. Then he pointed to a small clay bowl beside it.

"Take that medicine before you come."

Lucian stood. Walked to the table on steady legs. Picked up the bowl. Inside was a dark paste that smelled like burned herbs and something metallic.

He swallowed it in one gulp.

The taste hit him like a punch. Even with his vampire senses dulled — food had lost most of its flavor since his transformation — this was vile. Bitter didn’t cover it. It was bitterness concentrated into a paste.

His throat convulsed. He forced it down.

Allistar sipped his tea, apparently unbothered.

Lucian grabbed the tea and drank it fast, washing away the aftertaste. Then he followed the old man outside.

The clearing looked different. Where before there had been open space and wildflowers, now there were training dummies — wooden figures arranged in rows of five, ten rows deep. A rack of wooden swords stood near the house. Targets hung from tree branches at various heights.

Allistar walked to a chair that hadn’t been there yesterday and sat down. He reached into his storage ring and pulled out an old leather book. The cover was cracked, the pages yellowed with age. He tossed it to Lucian.

"Study only the first two pages for the next hour."

Lucian caught it. The leather was soft under his fingers, worn smooth by decades of use. He opened it.

The title page read: ECLIPSE SWORD ART

He turned to the first page.

Something was written in faded ink, different from the rest of the text. A personal note, maybe. Lucian squinted.

"If you’re reading this, you probably can’t swing a sword properly. Don’t feel bad. The last three idiots who tried to learn this art all quit within a week. One of them cried. You probably will too."

Lucian stared at it for a moment before ignoring it.

He turned to the second page.

First Form: Crescent Moon Slash

A single diagonal slash that extends sword intent beyond the blade as a crescent arc of pure mana. The technique requires precise mana flow from the core through the arm and into the sword. The arc should extend approximately one meter beyond the blade’s edge at peak efficiency.

Below the text were diagrams. A figure mid-swing. Arrows showing mana circulation paths. Notes on grip angle, footwork, and breathing rhythm.

Lucian studied it carefully. Read the text three times. Memorized the diagrams. Then he closed his eyes and practiced in his mind — visualizing the motion, the mana flow, the angle of the slash.

One hour passed.

Allistar’s voice cut through his concentration. "Infuse mana into the wooden sword."

Lucian opened his eyes. Walked to the rack. Picked up a wooden sword.

He channeled mana into his arm, through his hand, into the sword.

Crack.

The sword shattered. Splinters flew in every direction. Lucian stood there with a broken hilt in his hand.

Allistar sipped his tea.

Lucian grabbed another sword. Channeled mana more carefully this time. Slower.

Crack.

Another one shattered.

He tried again. And again. And again.

Ten wooden swords lay in pieces on the ground. Splinters surrounded his feet like sawdust. His hands were raw from gripping the hilts too tight.

Allistar set down his tea. Walked over. Picked up one of the remaining wooden swords — there were maybe twenty left on the rack.

He held it loosely in one hand. Closed his eyes. A thin stream of white mana flowed from his palm into the wood. Like a stream. Like water pouring from a pitcher.

The wooden sword glowed faintly. Held together. Didn’t crack.

"Mana isn’t a weapon you swing," Allistar said quietly. "It’s like water you guide. You’re trying to force a river through a straw. The straw breaks.", a smirk appeared on the old man’s face, "Of course, I deliberately picked fragile woods."

He handed the glowing sword to Lucian. The mana dispersed the moment it left Allistar’s hand, but the sword remained intact.

"Control," Allistar said. "Before power. Then speed. Before anything else — control. Feel the mana. Understand its texture. Its weight. Its flow. Don’t push it. Lead it."

He walked back to his chair.

Lucian looked at the wooden sword in his hand. Took a breath.

Closed his eyes.

He stopped thinking about infusing mana. Stopped thinking about the sword. Instead, he focused on the mana itself — the pool in his core, the channels through his meridians, the slow circulation that happened even when he wasn’t actively cultivating.

He felt it. Not as a resource to be spent, but as a part of himself. Like blood. Like breath.

He let a trickle flow and guided it through his arm, then into his palm and finally into the wood.

The sword hummed faintly.

Lucian opened his eyes. The wooden sword glowed with a soft white light.

He exhaled.

"Again," Allistar said from his chair. "Until you can do it without closing your eyes. If not, your enemy will just kill you."

Over the next week, Lucian practiced.

Mana control in the morning — infusing energy into wooden swords without breaking them. He started with one successful infusion out of ten attempts. Then one out of five. Then three out of five.

By day three, he could do it consistently with his eyes open.

Then came the sword form itself.

Crescent Moon Slash required more than just mana infusion. It required intent — the extension of will beyond the physical blade. The diagrams showed the motion, but the feeling couldn’t be taught. Only learned.

Lucian stood before the training dummies. Wooden sword in hand. Mana flowing through it in a steady stream.

He swung. Diagonal. Downward left to upward right.

Nothing happened. Just a wooden sword hitting air.

He tried again. Focused on the intent. On extending the blade beyond its physical length.

A faint shimmer. Maybe ten centimeters of mana extension. It dissipated instantly.

Again. Again. Again.

Day four: thirty centimeters of extension. Unstable. Flickered like a dying candle.

Day five: fifty centeters. More stable. Could cut a leaf if he aimed perfectly.

Day six: seventy centimeters. The crescent arc was starting to take shape — not a straight line of mana, but a curve, like the moon’s edge.

Day seven.

Lucian stood before a training dummy. Wooden sword in hand. Mana flowing steady and smooth.

He adjusted his grip. Shifted his weight. Breathed in.

Swung.

The wooden blade moved in a perfect diagonal. White light followed it — a crescent arc of pure mana that extended a full meter beyond the sword’s edge. It sliced through the air with a soft whoosh and struck the dummy’s torso.

A clean line appeared across the wood. Deep. Precise. The cut was smooth on both edges.

Lucian lowered the sword. A smile appeared on his face.

He turned toward Allistar.

The old man sat in his chair, eyes closed, tea in hand. He hadn’t moved from that position all week.

"So sloppy," he said.

Lucian’s smile froze.

"The arc wavered at the seventy-centimeter mark. Your footwork was off by two degrees. Your mana flow stuttered near the end — you lost control for a fraction of a second. The cut should have been deeper." Allistar sipped his tea. "Come on, continue practicing."

The smile disappeared.

Lucian turned back to the dummies. Raised his sword.

The morning sun climbed higher. The wooden sword swung again. And again. And again.