One and a half weeks passed.
Training did not become easier.
Rathen and Seina still beat me down daily—but something had changed. I no longer collapsed without resistance. I defended. I dodged. Sometimes, between strikes, they offered short corrections instead of silent punishment.
Morning sparring with Rathen and Seina sharpened my legs. Evening runs loosened them.
Bharam rebuilt my footwork from the ground up.
Repetition carved movement into instinct. The constant strain left my legs burning every night, but the stiffness slowly faded. My steps began to flow instead of stumble.
By the time the evening sun dipped low, sweat ran down my face as I stood before Bharam.
"The basics are complete," he said.
I bowed slightly. "Thank you."
He gave a faint smile. "Now you will learn how a ranger truly moves."
My footwork was born from battle.
From the Grey Wolves.
The way they lunged.
The way they retreated.
The way they circled before killing.
I studied them in memory and reshaped their instincts into something human.
Normal footwork uses the whole foot evenly—balanced and stable.
Mine was different.
When attacking, I pushed through my toes, driving forward explosively and forcing the ground backward for sudden acceleration.
When retreating or dodging, I shifted my weight to my heels, allowing smoother backward movement and sharper changes in direction.
It demanded precision. Mistime it, and balance would break.
But it was mine.
Even Rusty had changed.
He had grown taller—now nearly reaching my waist. His movements were calmer, more controlled. He allowed me to pat him freely. Even Duracal approached him without resistance.
That puzzled me.
I had fed Rusty monster meat for a week before he trusted me fully.
Duracal had done nothing.
Yet Rusty accepted him.
I decided not to question it—for now.
That night, exhaustion dragged me into sleep quickly.
Tomorrow, I would test everything.
And Rathen still didn't know.
He had promised—
If I could land a true hit on him, he would teach me his trump technique.
Morning came.
Rathen stood waiting, training sword already in hand. He tossed one toward me.
"Let's see," he said calmly, "if today you have even a slight chance."
I inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled.
My body was no longer the same as when I first stood here.
My attacks had sharpened. My control had improved. And now—
My foundation was complete.
I pushed aura into my toes.
Bee Sting.
A precise thrust aimed at a single point.
Normally, Rathen countered it effortlessly—deflecting the tip, striking my blade mid-thrust, or stepping back just enough.
But this time, my acceleration altered the rhythm.
For the first time—
He dodged sideways.
Not backward.
Sideways.
A small movement.
But to me, it was thunder.
I didn't hesitate.
Tiger Slash followed immediately.
Originally, it descended from right to left in a fixed arc.
Now, it adapted.
Left to right.
He stepped back as expected.
My blade scraped the ground—
Then reversed.
A rising Tiger Slash from below.
He blocked.
The impact shattered my wooden blade.
But the broken tip grazed his sleeve.
A thin tear formed along the cloth.
Silence.
I lowered the broken sword slowly.
"…I win," I said quietly.
Rathen looked at the torn cloth.
Then at me.
For the first time—
He smiled differently.