The three reincarnated souls grew apart, each enveloped by their respective familial circles. Nine-year-old Isla found herself living in a commoner's home, adapting to a physique foreign to her prior existence. Without the influx of white mana or her "All seeing eyes', she struggled to tap into her innate abilities as a legendary sword saint. With frustration evident on her face, Isla sat on a bench, her slender fingers gripping a simple wooden sword. Her gaze drifted absentmindedly as a group of rowdy twelve-year-old boys approached, led by a cocky young lad. "Well, well, looks like it's Isla, the delusional girl who thinks she can wield a blade," the boy named "Two" sneered, hurling stones in her direction. Isla effortlessly dodged the projectiles, her movements fluid and precise. Turning to face her tormentors, she spoke in a flat, detached tone, "Mediocre." The boys sneered, thinking they had successfully goaded the supposed pretender. However, Isla's stoic response only seemed to infuriate them further. One boy, emboldened by his companions, pointed at her with his own wooden sword, clearly itching for a fight.
The gang's leader, his confidence boosted by his friends' jeers, stepped forward, hands on his hips. "Face it, Isla, you're just a nobody from nowhere. No real swordsmanship skills. We'll have some fun teaching you a lesson today! Let's show her what a real swordsman looks like!" he taunted, swinging his makeshift blade in wild arcs in the air as if showing his swordsmanship to Isla. Isla watched him, unmoved by the verbal insults. She had long grown accustomed to the derision and skepticism that came with being a novice warrior in a world that hadn't seen her former glory. Instead, she focused on the physical threat before her.
As the leader of the group back away and then charged at her, Isla calmly rose to her feet, adjusting her grip on the small wooden sword. Her reflexes, honed by countless secret exercises, kicked in, allowing her to effortlessly sidestep his clumsy attacks, optimizing her movement to minimize wasted energy. As she deftly pivoted, she raised her simple wooden sword, its flat surface colliding with the surprised boy's features in a resounding thud.
The crude strike stunned the young boy, momentarily rendering him dazed and disoriented. "Mediocre." Isla stated blandly, already turning to depart from the scene. Her slight form moved with purpose, leaving behind a trail of puzzled expressions among the onlookers. Despite the odds against her, Isla had asserted her dominance with calculated efficiency, silently communicating that she would not be bullied or underestimated.
"She's...she's good!" one of them stammered, unsure whether to admire or resent the young girl who so easily dispatched their leader.
As Isla walked away, her slender figure moved with fluid grace, every motion precise and economical. The remnants of her boyhood audience could only watch, their jaws slackening as they contemplated the strange allure of a girl with skills far beyond her station.
Word of the prodigy swordswoman began to spread through the city town, sparking both envy and admiration among the local children. Few could ignore the girl with the remarkable aptitude for combat, especially when she consistently defeated them in impromptu duels with her rudimentary wooden training sword. Though she maintained an indifferent demeanor, her reputation continued to grow as the "girl with lightning speed strikes"
