Veteran Reader in a regression novel

“Although my recommendation can put you in a good spot, you still have to meet the minimum criteria,” Sir Henry remarked, scrutinizing my body.

The way he stared could get him arrested as a pedophile, but sadly, I don’t have the luxury of reporting him since I need his help.

I have three months before the academy opens for admission, which is a decent window, but still quite a hurdle. Sir Henry's recommendation is my golden ticket—without it, I’d have no chance of getting in. Now, I just have to be somewhat average in this world.

First things first: I need to graduate safely, ideally in the top ranks. Then, I’ll find a comfortable job that pays well. Awakening my aura would be a shortcut to that.

I’ve only read a few chapters of the original story, so my knowledge of this world is limited. Asking Sir Henry might help, but it could also backfire.

Fantasy worlds often have a major flaw that readers gloss over: a lack of scientific research and advancement. Think about it—this world has access to magic, which should push technology forward, but instead, people here have grown complacent. Despite their powers, they haven't even invented flushable toilets, yet they can fly.

Sir Henry could explain the mechanics of mana and aura, but knowing too much might cloud my judgment. If I start with conclusions, I’ll only cherry-pick the evidence that fits them.

In typical fantasy, power systems are divided into mana for mages and aura for knights. Each world has its own rules, so there’s no predicting anything from here on out, but I have some clues.

From what I’ve observed, everyone here has mana, but only a few are mages since the hardest part is manifesting it. As for me? I barely have any mana at all. Mana accumulates with age, so it depends on talent and time.

Aura, on the other hand, is a mystery. Very little is known about it, and even fewer people can manifest it externally. Awakening aura seems almost impossible for me, and with my pathetic mana reserves, being a mage is out of the question. Physical training for three months might help, but it won’t make me “average” in this monster-filled world.

It seems mana and aura will have to be put on hold for now due to lack of information.

That leaves technique. Instead of mastering something that takes years, I’ll have to rely on technique. Do I have the talent for that? Probably not. But doesn’t transmigration come with a few perks? I hope the otaku-like author who wrote this world isn’t completely heartless.

After careful thought, I turned to Sir Henry.

“Sir Henry, as you’ve likely noticed, my mana is minuscule, and my body’s not much better. In these three months, I’d like to train under you.”

“Hah! I’m confident in my abilities as an instructor. Even if you have no talent, I’ll turn you into the best swordsman at the academy,” Sir Henry boasted.

How dependable. As expected of the knight commander.

“Please take care of me, sir!”

“Leave it to me.”

Laughing together, we headed to the training ground.

A few days of training later, I could see the results—and so could Sir Henry. His face had gone pale.

“Your talent is quite something. This is the first time I’ve met someone who actually got progressively worse...”

“Oh, shut up!” I snapped.

I couldn’t believe this. He doesn’t even have the patience to teach me for a week!

Why does this keep happening? I’m a seasoned reader, for crying out loud! I should be able to understand all the techniques he’s teaching me. But every time I correct one mistake, another one takes its place.

I sighed in frustration as Sir Henry shook his head, clearly disappointed.

“At this rate, you’ll be lucky not to hurt yourself swinging that sword,” he muttered, probably thinking I couldn’t hear him.

It wasn’t my fault my body refused to cooperate. I could picture every movement perfectly in my head, remember all the techniques I’d read about, and even memorize the steps. But the second I tried to replicate them, everything fell apart.

“I swear, I’m doing everything you told me to do,” I insisted. “Is it the way I’m gripping the sword?”

“No, it’s everything,” Henry replied, rubbing his temples in exasperation. “Your stance is too rigid, your swing lacks fluidity, and don’t even get me started on your footwork.”

“Yeah, I noticed that last part,” I muttered, trying to play off the fact that I nearly tripped over my own feet five minutes ago.

The reality was starting to sink in. Even with three months to prepare, if I kept going like this, I might actually get worse instead of better. The sword felt heavy in my hand, and no matter how hard I tried, it stayed foreign. I kept telling myself I just needed practice, that my body would adapt.

But time wasn’t on my side.

I sighed again, looking up at the sky. “Maybe I should try something else for now.”

“And what exactly would that be?” Sir Henry asked, irritated, as if giving up on swordsmanship was a personal insult to him. After a pause, he continued, “Are you really giving up after a few days? How long will you last trying something else? If that’s all your resolve amounts to, then just give up altogether.”

His nagging caught me off guard. I thought he was a carefree knight commander, but I guess there’s a reason he got to his position. Feeling a bit guilty, I apologized.

“Sorry, I was just frustrated.”

My main problem with the sword is... well, the sword itself. Like any teenager, I liked to imagine myself swinging a sword around, but reality is harsh. The sword isn’t heavy, but holding it at the end makes it much harder to swing and control.

Whenever I swing, instead of transitioning smoothly, my body follows the sword like it’s in control, not me.

Sir Henry told me swordsmanship is like music—when there’s a high, there must be a low, and every move sets up the next. In my case, though, I’m singing off-note after the first beat.

It’s not just my body; it’s my habits. Since I always imagined the moves without knowing how heavy a sword really is, I never prepared for the aftereffects.

That’s why Sir Henry didn’t want me sparring. It would help me progress faster, sure, but I’d also pile up bad habits. So, we’ve been stuck on the basics for days now.

As Sir Henry droned on about fundamentals, I tried to absorb it all. Unfortunately, understanding the concept didn’t mean I could execute it.

“Think of the sword as an extension of your body,” Sir Henry explained, flowing through a flawless series of movements. “Each strike should naturally lead into the next, without wasted motion.”

I watched him in awe. His movements were effortless, like a dance between power and precision. But the moment I tried to mimic him, my sword became an unwieldy club, flailing around like it had a mind of its own.

“Right... an extension of my body,” I muttered, shifting awkwardly.

Of course, nothing extended except my frustration. Every move felt like I was fighting against the sword, not with it. I could almost feel Sir Henry’s silent judgment as I stumbled through my attempts.

“Again!” Sir Henry barked.

I gritted my teeth and swung again. Predictably, I was off-balance and nearly lost my grip.

“I don’t get it! Why is this so much harder than it looks?”

“You’re overthinking it,” Sir Henry sighed. “You’re treating this like a series of isolated tasks instead of a continuous flow. Stop trying to perfect each movement. Let the sword guide you.”

“Isn’t technique about precision?” I asked, frowning.

“Precision, yes. But it’s also about rhythm. You’re stopping after every swing as if resetting yourself. Find your rhythm.”

Rhythm, huh? Easier said than done.

I could tell Sir Henry was getting frustrated, and honestly, so was I. This wasn’t the grand, heroic journey I imagined when I got thrown into this world. I was supposed to be making strides—finding loopholes in the system, outsmarting the world’s rules with modern knowledge. Instead, I could barely hold a sword.

Maybe that was the problem.

I was hesitating too much, always thinking about the next move instead of focusing on the present. Instead of staying in the moment, I kept planning ahead, losing track of what I was actually doing.

Maybe Sir Henry was right. Maybe I was overthinking it.

I took a deep breath and tried again, this time focusing on the flow rather than each individual part. My grip was still awkward, and my movements weren’t smooth, but for the first time, I felt a small bit of progress. The sword didn’t feel as foreign. It was subtle, but it was there.

“Better,” Sir Henry said, though he still didn’t sound impressed. “At least now you’re starting to move like a human being and not a puppet.”

“Thanks, I guess,” I muttered, wiping the sweat from my brow.

His harsh words aside, I felt a sliver of hope. If I could improve this much in just a few days, maybe there was a way forward. Not through talent, but persistence.

I didn’t need to become a genius swordsman or an overpowered protagonist. I just needed to be competent enough to survive and adapt. There were still mysteries in this world—about mana, aura, and loopholes in the system. But first, I had to build a foundation. Even a shaky one would do for now.

“Alright”