Chapter 183

Ruagarne did not show any signs of bewilderment.

Training in swordsmanship in this situation? Even for a madman, did that make any sense?

Yet, that was the correct answer.

‘Because it’s that bastard.’

Since it was Encrid, somehow, it made sense.

Soon, Encrid, who had been gripping his sword while trembling, let it go and stepped back.

‘Did he give up?’

Giving up once is easy. From the second time onward, it becomes even easier.

Once he backs down even once, the Tutor will become an insurmountable wall.

For Encrid, that would be a fatal flaw.

Ruagarne watched him with concern.

“It would be troublesome if you suddenly showed a different technique.”

Muttering, Encrid grabbed his sword again without even taking a breath.

“……?”

“Well, um, our captain leads a squad called the Madman Squad.”

Krys indirectly explained. Or rather, was that even indirect?

Wasn’t he outright calling Encrid a madman?

Should this be called a commotion?

While Esther remained lying down, fast asleep, Encrid grabbed and released his sword four more times before showing a light smile.

“This is it.”

Then, he swung his sword into the air.

Ruagarne realized that there was no point in stopping him at this stage.

Then, what should be done?

“A mad bastard indeed.”

Admire him.

“That’s not it.”

And teach him.

Encrid welcomed Ruagarne’s guidance.

Winning battles and mastering swordsmanship were different matters.

Ruagarne possessed profound experience and exceptional sword skills.

Parrying, striking, reading the opponent’s intent—

Swordplay was a language, an orchestrated symphony.

Encrid memorized everything he saw and experienced, and Ruagarne guided him through it.

Even the vengeful spirit dwelling within the Tutor was an outstanding swordsman, but it was no match for Ruagarne.

If that sword had just one attached ring—something that activated with just a light touch—wouldn’t Ruagarne have been able to solve everything?

Krys had tested it before. Merely touching the sword with a finger did nothing.

It had to be gripped tightly. With a certain amount of force.

So, for Ruagarne, it was impossible.

Swoosh!

After several more attempts, the result remained the same.

“I can see it.”

But the time frame was too short to act on it.

And naturally, it was always Encrid who grabbed the sword again.

“It seems like something is working out.”

Finn muttered as she laid out her sleeping space.

She pulled out a blanket from her backpack, took out a hard piece of cheese, and sliced off its outer layer with a knife, cutting it into thin pieces.

Placing the cheese atop a piece of hardened bread, she completed the meal preparation.

“It’s my responsibility as well.”

For some reason, Krys took the initiative to grab the sword.

And then he died.

Though his body remained intact, his mind suffered devastating exhaustion.

This happened while Encrid was not holding the sword.

“Grrrk.”

Krys foamed at the mouth and collapsed—pointless effort.

Esther remained asleep, and naturally, everyone fell into their respective roles.

Encrid gripped and released the sword before returning.

Frok used that to teach swordsmanship.

Finn and Krys prepared the sleeping area and meal.

Esther simply ate, slept, and woke up.

Since there was no proper place to relieve themselves, everyone did their business in the corner.

The barrier covered the ground, but they could still dig a little.

It was roughly a dome-shaped hole, slightly bulging at the bottom, like a prison.

That’s where they handled their necessities.

“If needed, we can go over a week without relieving ourselves.”

At Frok’s words, Finn nodded enviously.

After a full day had passed—

Ruagarne was internally impressed.

Originally, she had countless words and advice she wanted to share.

It simmered within her, almost to the point of boiling over.

All the guidance she had given so far had been insufficient.

She had planned to condense her advice for the journey back, but at this moment, such words were becoming unnecessary for Encrid.

What did Encrid need for what comes next?

She had been about to give him an answer—

‘He’s already finding it on his own.’

Still, a few words of advice would be necessary.

Krys, feeling guilty, remained unusually quiet.

Picking up a fallen silver coin should have been a simple task, yet suddenly, he found himself trapped in a situation where he couldn’t see an inch ahead.

His mind spun furiously, desperate to find a way out.

Of course, the answer wouldn’t come easily.

‘Blinded by Krong.’

Failing to account for the worst-case scenario had led to this.

Through regret, Krys reflected on his mistake.

As the situation grew more complicated, Finn simply stopped thinking altogether.

She just watched Encrid.

‘Even here, he’s swinging his sword.’

Should she call him consistent?

Then again, surpassing the Tutor meant having to wield a sword.

Still—

‘You can’t exactly call this normal.’

That was the thought Finn had while observing Encrid.

Or rather, perhaps the incredible skill he possessed was a direct result of such madness.

Watching him, Finn felt something new filling her heart.

A small, or perhaps an enormous, realization.

At some point, she had set her own limits and come to a stop.

Meeting Encrid had been slowly shattering all those limits, one by one.

Today, she finally grasped the first thread of enlightenment.

‘Limits are not mine to define.’

Aile Carraz-style martial arts, ranger expertise—

Had she unconsciously refused to move forward in those fields?

Why had she stopped?

‘Because everyone said that was the right choice.’

But Encrid was different.

Even without saying it directly, his actions, his attitude, and his way of life spoke a different truth.

Silently, Finn felt a wave of deep emotion.

She hadn’t expected it, but it left her speechless.

Meanwhile, Esther was trapped in self-reproach.

‘That was such a worthless curse.’

Something so insignificant that even calling it a curse felt like an exaggeration.

It hadn’t even reached the true domain of incantations.

Yet she had failed to notice it and got trapped?

If it had been her former self, before she became a panther, she would have bitten off her own tongue and died in disgrace.

There were reasons, of course.

From the moment she had enchanted Encrid’s sword with magic—

To continuously draining her mana to enhance her body—

Everything had been too much.

Her body was bound by a curse, and her spellcasting world was sealed shut. Everything she had been maneuvering through shortcuts—

All of it had backfired, leaving a deep impact.

‘Even so!’

How could she not have noticed something so simple?

It was because she had ignored what needed to be done immediately.

She had assumed the journey back would be leisurely, so she hadn’t focused on recovery.

Esther needed time to regain her depleted strength and lost stamina.

No matter what might happen next, she wouldn’t just sit idly by.

She lay down, burying her head and trying to doze off.

At most, within a week, she would recover enough magic power to break through this ridiculous barrier.

Drowsy, half-lost in thought, she soon fell asleep.

And so, as events interlocked and intertwined, a peculiar stretch of time passed.

—

“Knowing what you lack is important.”

Even in the midst of all this, Ruagarne did not hold back in teaching.

This was separate from the Tutor’s swordsmanship. It was pure instruction.

Winning battles and mastering swordsmanship were different matters, and Encrid was realizing this firsthand.

Ruagarne was an excellent teacher.

It went without saying that she was far superior to any instructor from the training halls where Encrid had wasted his Krona.

“What happens if you sit at a card table without holding any cards?”

That was Ruagarne’s question.

For Encrid, this was a new perspective he had never encountered before.

The following words surprised him internally, reinforcing just how remarkable of a teacher Ruagarne was.

She wasn’t just an instructor—she was someone who could set up signposts for the path ahead.

—

“Basics. Start with the basics.”

“Whatever you do, build your body first.”

“If you don’t know how to hold a sword, you can’t lift it. If you can’t lift it, you can’t swing it!”

“Only when your vision opens up can you move to the next step, but do you really need to keep holding a sword?”

“So, the only thing left is to think. Think, reflect—burn the candle of life. Until it extinguishes, you’ll have to keep burning, using yourself as fuel. If you don’t die, you will gain something.”

“Why not just farm? Do you have to wield a sword?”

There were countless instructors.

They all said the same thing.

The basics are important.

So, he had focused on them—strictly sticking to the fundamentals.

He trained with unwavering eyes, kept his footwork quick, and never swung his sword carelessly.

Yet, time and again, he heard the same words.

Just go be a farmer.

Do you really have to wield a sword?

“If a gambler sits at a table with a pouch full of silver coins, what should be in his hand?”

Ruagarne, too, had initially tried to stop him, finding it absurd. But at some point, she seemed to be enjoying this situation.

Well, maybe that was just Encrid’s illusion.

Reading Frok’s expression was no easy task for a human.

It was just an instinctive feeling.

“You can’t sit at the gambling table without cards, after all.”

“Exactly. Cards. Right now, you’re just a fool sitting there with a bag full of silver.”

Silver coins were the basics.

No one sat at a gambling table without a single coin, but neither did anyone sit down with just a few coppers.

For some reason, hearing this made Encrid feel an odd sense of pride.

‘She told me to build my foundation.’

And now she was saying that foundation was finally set.

His slow progress had frustrated him, leading him to seek out and learn Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship in desperation.

Then, could that mercenary swordsmanship be his card?

“It can. But what’s better is refined swordsmanship that has been honed over time. Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship leans too heavily in one direction—it’s an attack-focused technique. If all the cards in your hand are jokers, they’re useless.”

What an apt analogy.

Jokers only become valuable when used in combination with other cards.

That was what Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship was like.

The classification of swordsmanship branches was established long ago, defining various combat styles and techniques.

Later generations used those branches as the foundation to develop their own styles.

Even Northern Middle Swordsmanship wasn’t a single entity—it had various branches.

The same was true for Central Continent Formal Swordsmanship.

People mixed and matched compatible techniques, blending trial and error with their talents to create sword styles.

Ruagarne was referring to one such technique.

More precisely, she was talking about the swordsmanship he was learning through the Tutor.

“This may be a cursed sword, but the technique within it is real.”

In truth, Encrid had rarely learned any sword techniques beyond the basics.

Everything he knew had been superficial.

Ruagarne once again emphasized the necessity of swordsmanship.

“If you properly learn swordsmanship derived from formal styles, it will feel as if your opponent can read your every move.”

He had experienced that multiple times already.

The vengeful spirit within the sword did similar things.

“I see.”

Encrid nodded, his eyes still burning with intensity.

Reflected in the torchlight, his usual blue eyes took on a mix of red.

When it came to learning, Encrid expressed his emotions without hesitation.

To Ruagarne, that was fascinating.

‘He’s undoubtedly a madman for the sword.’

A sword-crazed lunatic, in short.

Everything he had learned up until now wasn’t about wielding the sword—it was preparation for wielding the sword.

That was the essence of Ruagarne’s words.

Encrid realized this more than ever as he learned swordsmanship through the Tutor.

“Let me go grab some swordsmanship real quick.”

With that joke, he once again gripped his sword.

Repetition.

In other words, learning through a much gentler, more peaceful death than actual death.

To be honest—

‘It’s easy and enjoyable.’

For Encrid, it was.

He held the sword, swayed his body slightly from side to side, then returned.

Blinking, he shook his head.

“Did you get hit again?”

“This time, I lost both legs.”

For someone saying that, he was far too composed.

“The last strike seemed like it was going for my crown, but at some point, it turned into a diagonal neck slash.”

He had seen the process, so he recognized it.

Then, what was needed now?

Encrid picked up the broken sword he had been using in place of a wooden sword, scabbard and all.

Ruagarne’s heart pounded before she even realized it.

Excitement swelled, making her cheeks puff slightly.

“You really are…”

An incredibly entertaining person.

Not even the Tutor could constrain him.

No—look at this.

His spirit had already surpassed the Tutor.

That much was clear.

However, teaching him a new sword style was still impossible.

Ruagarne was bound by an oath related to this matter.

However, there were no restrictions against guiding him through sword techniques he had already learned.

And so, they proceeded.

Encrid would enter the Tutor’s realm, steal techniques, and replicate them exactly.

Since he had complete control over his body, such feats were possible.

Afterward, Ruagarne would refine his execution.

Once he mastered a technique, he would grip the sword once more.

This time, the words that left Encrid’s lips were—

“My fingers got sliced off.”

“After that, it went for my throat. The blade curved like a snake.”

“That was a wrist snap.”

Ruagarne’s response was concise.

More training followed. Despite the darkening circles under his eyes, Encrid remained unfazed.

He took breaks in between. If he neglected eating and drinking, his body would inevitably deteriorate.

During one such break, as she idly gazed at the sword, Finn murmured,

“This reminds me of an old legend. Something about pulling out a sword and becoming a king.”

Resting nearby, Encrid heard her words.

Becoming a king just by drawing a sword?

For a legend, that sounded far too crude.

A king was a figure shaped by politics and countless circumstances.

But then again, legends and tales were always exaggerated.

Afterward, Encrid continued to immerse himself in swordsmanship.

By now, he had gripped and released his sword over a hundred times.

One might think such a practice would resemble self-inflicted torment.

Yet, Encrid remained composed.

The pain lingered in his body, yet for someone who repeated today over and over, it felt strangely dulled.

‘It’s working.’

Once again, he felt exhilaration in learning swordsmanship.

Just one day and a half.

Instead of dying to reset the day, all he had to do was grasp the sword to immediately exchange for high-quality techniques.

He had poured himself into it without hesitation, sparing no time.

A short yet intense period had passed.

But it was enough.

“You’re done.”

The words left Ruagarne’s lips.

Was it thanks to the Tutor?

No, that wasn’t it.

More than anything, Encrid was different from before.

The desperate struggle of a talentless man was nowhere to be found.

He revisited his countless yesterdays.

Through endless repetition and reflection, he pondered how he had overlooked certain things.

What had he gained through all of this?

It was a period too complex to sum up in mere words.

Yet, if he had to express it now, Encrid could distill everything into just two syllables.

“Talent.”

That was what he had forged within the chaos.

It had become ingrained into his systematically trained body.

From the Heart of the Beast to the Perception of Evasion,

He had honed his body, increasing his strength, agility, and reaction speed.

He had achieved complete control over his body.

Along with that, he nurtured boldness, focus, and refined instincts to support him further.

“You… what the hell?”

Ruagarne was astonished.

To her eyes, a talent that hadn’t existed before had suddenly appeared.

And then, as he gripped his sword once more—

The sensation of damp earth met his feet.

A mass of iron lunged at him.

Clang!

Blade clashed against blade.

The only difference from before—

Encrid now understood his opponent’s swordsmanship.