I woke up sore in every place pain could exist.
Rusty was already awake, sitting near the bed and staring at me. When our eyes met, I smiled weakly and handed over a few small pieces of lizardman meat I'd saved. He sniffed them, then ate without hesitation.
Still warming up to me, I thought. A few more days.
I was about to head toward the forge to help Duracal when his voice stopped me.
"Did you forget yesterday's conversation?"
I froze.
"Training comes first," he said. "Weapons ready. Be prepared."
That was all the warning I got.
The hell began immediately.
Rathen was the first to appear.
He walked in carrying a practice sword, his expression calm—too calm. Without hesitation, he tossed me a wooden sword.
"Use your own sword techniques," he said. "The ones you created. Twist them. Break them. Make them work in real combat."
Then his eyes sharpened.
"If you can land even one clean hit on me," he continued, "I'll teach you a technique I perfected in my mercenary days."
He paused.
"My trump card."
My breath caught.
"Come at me," Rathen said. "Like you're trying to kill me."
And it started.
I focused dark aura through my body. Unlike elemental auras, it offered no clear advantage—no burning like fire, no defense like earth, no speed like wind. Just reinforcement. A second skin.
Rathen, despite being an earth-attribute swordsman, fought aggressively. His style wasn't about endurance—it was about ending fights.
I opened with Tiger Slash.
It missed.
The blade struck the ground, sending dust and fragments into the air. That was intentional.
Now.
I rushed forward at full speed. Rathen stepped back exactly as expected. The dust cloud should have obscured his vision.
It didn't.
He didn't even blink.
Before I could react, his sword struck my left shoulder. The impact drove me to my knees.
"Don't let a single success go to your head," Rathen said coldly. "Assume the enemy is stronger than you."
Pain burned through my shoulder as I tried to stand—
He didn't give me time.
His next strike slammed into my right ankle. I collapsed again, gasping.
"People think attacking below the knee is dishonorable," he continued. "That only matters if you're a knight."
He leaned closer.
"We're mercenaries. We fight, we kill, and we sleep beside corpses. Honor won't save your life. Only results will."
I realized then—he wasn't just teaching.
He was angry.
About the trip. About my recklessness. About how easily things could have gone wrong.
After I struggled back to my feet, Rathen spoke again—calm, certain.
"The offer still stands."
That alone dragged me upright.
We trained for hours.
No breaks.
Every time I fell, I stood again. Every time I failed, I tried again.
By the time Rathen stepped back and said, "Enough for today," my body was shaking.
I thought it was over.
I was wrong.
Siena stepped forward.
She was already prepared, spear in hand, eyes locked onto me like I was prey. The air around her felt heavier—not magical, but oppressive.
For the first time that day, fear crept in.
Not panic.
Respect.
She wasn't angry like Rathen. She was precise. Controlled. And that terrified me more.
I had no strength left. No ideas. No way out.
I remembered yesterday's reward distribution—but before I could speak, Duracal interrupted.
"I've already spoken to the office," he said. "They'll handle it."
He smiled.
That smile crushed my soul.
Siena tossed me a wooden spear.
"You neglected the spear because it slowed you down," she said flatly.
I stayed silent. Any answer would only dig my grave deeper.
"Use what you've trained," she ordered. "Your techniques. Your instincts."
I started with Snake Whip.
By twisting my wrist during the thrust, the spear's path curved like a striking serpent.
She stopped it effortlessly—blocking the tip mid-motion.
"Anyone with good eyesight can counter that," she said. "Is that all?"
I switched to Dual Breaker.
Normally, it relied on an axe blade for slicing. A wooden spear made it nearly useless—but I pushed forward anyway, channeling aura into my dominant hand as I brought the strike down.
She stepped back once.
"That's it?" she asked. "Do you think the enemy will wait while you perform tricks?"
Then she attacked.
What followed wasn't sparring.
It was correction.
Every movement I made was answered. Every mistake punished. Not out of cruelty—but certainty.
The beating continued until Duracal finally called for lunch.
I collapsed, barely conscious, every muscle screaming.
It's not even half a day, I thought dully. What will one month of this do to me?
My mind went blank.
The training had only begun.