Alstroemeria's Codex

Vastarael realized that choosing a weapon was impossible.

In his past life, he always loved swords. The way they used them in combat and wars in movies, even in real life as they killed the demons that attacked the world once in a while.

But when he held one for the first time, he knew that it wasn't meant for him.

The Richinaria bloodline was proficient in mysticism and weapon mastery. The indirect and direct bloodline had one of the two but the royal bloodline had two of these classes inside them.

And as a member of the Royal bloodline, he had two of them. However, the sword was not meant for him. How did he know?

Instinct.

Something told him that a sword would be utterly useless to him. He didn't know what caused this feeling but he trusted it.

"I'm not proficient in swords."

These words alone made all those who used any form of swords, from greatswords to regular swords, sigh in pain.

Even Lysameria couldn't believe her ears when she heard this.

She was a sword user. In fact, she is known as one of the two most powerful swordsperson in Spheraphase, both in the Mortal and Immortal records. She had her own style called the Plenituse Form.

No one but her could master this form in its purest. It was as if she created it for herself and no one else.

However, her subordinates were able to use it, but as a revised form. It wasn't as pure as the original form but it was still deadly.

And she had a slight hope that maybe, just maybe, her son would be proficient in the sword and teach him her own Plenituse Form.

Instead, she heard that her son didn't want the sword.

As Vastarael's words echoed across the training grounds, a collective sigh of dismay rippled through the swordsmen present. Every knight, trainer, and warrior who prided themselves on their mastery of the blade hung their heads.

Standing at the edge of the arena, Lysameria froze. Her cerulean eyes widened in shock, disbelief etched into her face.

"He's… not proficient in swords?" She murmured, the words barely leaving her lips.

Caresse and Opera, standing beside her, exchanged amused glances before turning to look at her.

"Did he just—" Caresse began, stifling a laugh.

"Oh, he did," Opera confirmed, smirking. Her crimson hair caught the sunlight as she leaned closer to Lysameria. "The infamous Lysameria Richinaria, the most powerful swordsperson in all of Spheraphase, just heard her son reject the sword outright. How does that feel, my dear sister-wife?"

Lysameria's lips pressed into a thin line, her regal composure cracking for a moment as she stared at her son in the distance.

"It… is surprising, I'll admit."

"Surprising?" Opera teased, nudging her lightly. "Come on, Lysameria. Be honest. You've dreamed of teaching him the Plenituse Form, haven't you?"

Caresse chuckled softly, folding her arms. "Dreamed of? She's probably been planning it for years. Tell me, Lysameria, how many lessons had you already mapped out in your head before today?"

Lysameria let out a soft sigh as she watched Vastarael speak with one of the trainers, explaining why he didn't want the sword.

"More than I care to admit," she said finally. "I'd hoped… that he might take up the sword. That he might carry on the pure Plenituse Form."

Caresse's expression softened. "You wanted to pass on your legacy to him."

"Yes," Lysameria admitted, her voice tinged with disappointment. "The Plenituse Form is… unique to me. No one else has ever mastered it in its purest form. My subordinates use a revised version, but even that pales in comparison. I thought... perhaps, Rael might be the one to carry it forward."

Opera tilted her head, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. "And instead, he's chosen his own path. Isn't that what we've always encouraged him to do?"

Lysameria's shoulders relaxed slightly, though her gaze remained on her son. "I know. But as a mother, it's hard not to hope. Still, I can't force him to wield a weapon that doesn't suit him. If the sword isn't his path, then so be it."

Opera grinned. "Besides, let's be honest. No one will ever truly rival you with the Plenituse Form, Lysameria. Even if Vastarael had chosen the sword, he'd have a long way to go before reaching your level—"

"Then what weapon do you wish to use, my prince?"

They all turned to him, who was thinking deeply. He looked at the weapon masters for a few seconds before he had a look of realization.

"A long-range weapon."

The weapon masters exchanged curious glances and a ripple of surprise passed through the crowd.

"Since I'll be a mage," he continued, "I need a weapon that provides wide range. This will force my opponents to close the distance. That's when I'll use my mage skills. I need a weapon that can keep enemies at bay while complementing my abilities."

He paused, his eyes scanning the assembled weapons once more. Suddenly, his gaze locked on a tall woman standing at the edge of the arena, a two-meter-long double-bladed glaive resting in her hands.

The woman, sensing his intense focus, hesitated for a moment before stepping forward.

"My prince," she began, her voice hesitant, "is this the kind of weapon you're describing?"

Vastarael's face lit up with excitement.

"Yes!" He exclaimed, his enthusiasm breaking through his composed demeanor. "This is it! A weapon that fits exactly what I need!"

The woman hesitated, looking down at the weapon in her hands.

"Would you… like to hold it, my prince?"

He nodded eagerly. "If it's not too much trouble, yes."

With a small smile, the woman handed him the double-bladed glaive. Vastarael took it, his fingers wrapping around the polished shaft. For a moment, he stood still, testing the weight and balance of the weapon. Then, with a deep breath, he swung it.

What followed was a breathtaking display.

Vastarael moved with a fluidity and grace that stunned everyone around him. The glaive became an extension of his body as he twirled it through the air.

He spun the weapon in arcs that shimmered with power, his movements light yet purposeful. To those watching, it was as if he were dancing.

Lysameria's sharp intake of breath was audible even over the whispers that broke out among the crowd. Her eyes widened as she took a step forward, her gaze fixed on her son.

'That form... that's the Plenituse Form...'

Opera leaned closer, her voice low but laced with astonishment.

"Lysameria… he's moving like…"

"Like you," Caresse finished, her tone equally stunned.

Lysameria could hardly believe her eyes. Vastarael wasn't merely mimicking her style. He was embodying it, executing the movements with the same purity and precision that had made her legendary. Each step, each pivot, each swing of the glaive bore the unmistakable hallmarks of the Plenituse Form.

It was impossible. Or so she'd thought.

Her lips trembled as emotions threatened to overwhelm her. The form she'd thought would die with her, the form no one else could master in its entirety, it had been passed down. Not diluted or altered, but in its purest form.

Her son had inherited it.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as a smile broke across her face.

"He's a genius," Opera whispered, her tone filled with awe.

"No," Lysameria murmured. "He's my son."

Caresse chuckled softly. "I don't think you could have asked for a better successor, Lysameria. Even if it isn't a sword, he has your original form. I know that children inherit weapon forms from their parents but still... it's shocking."

Lysameria nodded, her gaze never leaving Vastarael as he finished his display with a final, elegant flourish.

The glaive came to rest at his sid and he stood there, breathing lightly, the weapon gleaming in his hand.

The silence was deafening.

He had just went though a weapon breakthrough just with that simple dance.

Then, one by one, the crowd began to clap. The applause grew louder, a wave of approval and admiration that swept across the training grounds.

Vastarael, slightly flushed from exertion, looked toward his mothers. He was startled to see Lysameria's face, glowing with pride and tears streaming down her cheeks.

She ran towards him and hugged him. This time, she didn't crush his bones. Ever since he woke up, she was always careful adjusting her strength.

"You've done it, Rael," she whispered, her voice trembling with joy. "You've truly inherited it."

Her words echoed in his mind and for the first time, he understood the gravity of his choice. The weapon in his hands was perfect for him.

"Thanks."

Lysameria stepped closer to her son, her gaze still fixated on the glaive in his hands. She couldn't contain her pride, but her curiosity grew as she replayed the way he had moved.

Something about his movements felt... incomplete. Like he was taught the basics of using the glaive.

As she opened her mouth to speak, Vastarael looked at her, his expression a mix of excitement and sheepishness.

"Mom," he began, his voice low so only she could hear, "I can extract memories."

Lysameria blinked, her elation momentarily giving way to confusion. She waved her hand. Vastarael noticed that the sound around them halted.

"Extract memories? She repeated, lowering her voice further to match his. "What do you mean?"

He glanced around quickly, ensuring no one else could overhear, then leaned in slightly.

"When the woman handed me the glaive," he explained, "I touched her hand and in that moment… I extracted her combat memories."

Lysameria's breath caught in her throat. Her mind raced as she tried to process what her son had just revealed.

"You… extracted them?"

"Yes. I didn't take them from her. She still has her skills and nothing's missing. It's more like…" He paused, searching for the right words. "It's more like I copied them. I know how she moves with the glaive because I've seen it. Felt it. Her memories were passed to me and my body reacted as if I've trained for years."

The weight of his revelation hit her like a tidal wave.

Memory Extraction was an unheard-of skill and the implications of such an ability were staggering. Yet, as she looked at her son, she saw no malice or arrogance but just an earnest desire to explain himself.

"Does this… happen often?" She asked.

"No," he admitted. "Not unless I choose to."

Lysameria's heart raced. The sheer potential of such an ability, paired with Vastarael's natural genius, was staggering.

"Does she know?" She asked, her gaze flickering toward the glaive wielder.

He shook his head.

"No. She wouldn't feel it even if I did. It's subtle and it doesn't harm her. It's like… borrowing a book from a library without taking the original."

For a moment, Lysameria didn't know what to say. Her mind alternated between amazement at her son's talent and concern for the burden such abilities could place on him.

Finally, she smiled softly and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Rael, be careful with this gift. Abilities like this can be misunderstood or worse, misused."

"I know. That's why I told you first, Mom. I trust you to guide me. And... I hope you'll train me."

Her heart swelled with pride as she pulled him into a brief embrace.

"You've already made me so proud, Vastarael. Just promise me you'll not be reckless."

"I will," he promised, gripping the glaive firmly.

As they broke apart, Lysameria glanced back at the woman who had handed over the weapon, now standing among the crowd with no clue what had transpired.

They didn't hear their conversation.

A part of her marveled at how seamlessly her son had absorbed the woman's movements, integrating them into his own unique style.

But another part of her wondered just how much potential lay within him and how much responsibility would come with it.

'I really gave birth to a genius.'