The next three hours were spent wrestling with dust, cobwebs, and the ghosts of the White family's past. By the time I finished, the old cottage was clean, if not welcoming. I cooked a simple meal from my provisions and collapsed on the bare floor of the first level—the building had a ground floor and one above it. Sleep claimed me before I could even feel the stone through my bedroll.
Day 1
I was up before dawn, my body a chorus of aches from the wolf fight. A quick, cold wash and a breakfast of oats fortified me. At exactly 7 AM, I saw Sir Kane's silhouette at my gate.
"Good morning, Vice-Captain. You're early," I greeted him.
"A knight is always early," he replied, his tone all business. He carried two wooden practice swords. "Before we begin, show me the basic swordsmanship you've learned. All of it."
I nodded, took a practice sword, and began the forms. Thrust, parry, slash, step. The muscle memory was Roy's, but the focus was mine. I executed the simple patterns with careful precision.
When I finished, sweating lightly, Kane gave a slow nod. "Adequate. Your form is clean. Your foundation is… acceptable." He tossed the second practice sword at my feet. "But your body is garbage. Weak. Untrained. You have the knowledge of a scribe trying to wield a warrior's tool."
He outlined my new reality. "For the next month, you will not touch a sword technique from me. You will build the vessel to contain it. Every morning: a 10-kilometer run. One hundred push-ups, squats, and sit-ups. One hundred repetitions of the basic forms you just showed me. You will repeat this routine in the evening. Additionally, you will drink one dose of Body Strengthening Elixir each week. Understood?"
I stared at him, a spike of hot betrayal cutting through my fatigue. "I'm paying you to teach me swordsmanship! Are you just going to laze around for a month and collect your coin?"
His eyes hardened, not with anger, but with the impatience of a master dealing with a foolish apprentice. "Boy. Who is the sword master here? You think skill is just knowledge? It is strength, endurance, and instinct carved into flesh and bone. A weak foundation crumbles under advanced technique. Do this, and even as a Support Mage, you will have a chance to survive a close encounter. Ignore it, and you will die the first time you try to use a real technique in combat. The choice is yours."
The heat of my anger evaporated, leaving cold, hard sense. He was right. I had been thinking like a gamer, chasing the next skill unlock. I'd forgotten the most fundamental rule of this world, and any world: the body is the first weapon.
I bowed my head, the gesture sincere. "My apologies, Master Kane. Thank you for your instruction. I will not forget your guidance."
The sternness left his face, replaced by a hint of approval. "Good. I will return in one month to assess your progress." With that, he turned and left.
Was he being genuinely generous, or was this a convenient way to get paid for minimal work? Probably a bit of both. But the path was valid, so I would walk it.
Now, the finances. A quick mental calculation was sobering. Body Strengthening Elixirs came in grades: Low (25 silver), Medium (50 silver), High (1 gold). Top-grade wasn't available here. With only 4 gold coins left after Kane's advance, buying four Medium-grade elixirs would cost me 2 gold. It would leave me virtually penniless.
But Medium-grade was the only logical choice. High-grade would overwhelm my frail body, causing more damage than good. Low-grade would be a waste of time and money.
Two gold coins left. A pang of anxiety hit me. Then I remembered my hidden ace—my Inventory. The food I'd bought wouldn't rot. Time was frozen inside. That was one less worry. I could stretch my remaining coins.
I purchased the four vials of murky, greenish liquid from the town alchemist, watching my wealth diminish with a sinking heart.
The training began that same afternoon.
The 10 km run was agony. My lungs burned, my legs turned to lead. The calisthenics were a torture devised to show me every weak muscle I possessed. By the time I tried the hundred basic forms, my arms trembled so badly I could barely hold the practice sword. Every fiber of my being screamed in protest.
In the novels, I thought, gritting my teeth as I forced out another pathetic push-up, the protagonist does this with a smirk. They make it look easy. This wasn't easy. This was a raw, grinding war against my own limitations.
I wanted to use my Healing spell to soothe the fiery pain. But I resisted. Natural recovery, pushed to its limit, was how the body truly adapted and grew stronger. Magic would be a crutch now.
Day 2
The pain was a living entity. It took sheer will to start again. I completed the routine, slower, more agonizing than the first day. I skipped the sword forms; my arms were useless.
Day 3
A fraction easier. The pain was familiar, not shocking.
Day 4
I managed half the routine in the morning, the other half in the afternoon. Still no sword practice.
Day 5, 6...
A brutal rhythm established itself. Wake in pain, train through pain, sleep in exhaustion.
Day 7
A breakthrough. I completed the full morning routine. Then, in the afternoon, I did it again. The pain was still there, but it was the pain of effort, not of destruction. My body was learning.
That night, I faced the elixir. The Medium-grade liquid smelled of iron and bitter herbs. I drank it in one gulp.
For a moment, nothing. Then, a furnace ignited in my gut. Heat radiated through my limbs, deep into my bones. It wasn't pleasant warmth; it was a scalding, needling agony, as if my marrow was being reforged. I clenched my jaw, my knuckles white on the edge of the bed, riding the wave of torment. I would not scream. I would not pass out.
An eternity later, the fire receded. I was drenched in sweat and something else—a vile, sticky black substance that had seeped from my pores. It reeked of sulfur and rot. Impurities. My body was expelling the weakness of two lifetimes.
I scrubbed myself raw in a bucket of cold water. Afterward, standing in the quiet cottage, I felt… different. Lighter. The persistent ache from the training was gone. When I flexed my arm, there was a new definition, a firmness that hadn't been there before. A faint, resilient strength hummed under my skin.
The Month
The pattern continued. Grueling daily training. A weekly dose of agonizing purification. The black discharge lessened each time. My runs became faster, the calisthenics smoother. The basic sword forms, once a struggle, became a meditation in motion. My body was no longer a stranger; it was becoming a tool.
On the final day of the month, after my evening routine, I stood in the center of my small training yard. The setting sun painted the sky in oranges and purples. I felt solid. Grounded.
The journey from the bruised, helpless boy in a mansion servant's room felt like a lifetime ago. I had a base. A plan. A body that could endure.
But had I truly grown? There was only one way to know.
I took a deep breath and focused inward, calling upon the divine interface that governed this world.
"[Status]."
The familiar blue screen materialized before my eyes. I scanned it, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation. The numbers would tell the truth.