The Power of Repetition
“And this is the earnings from this match. You can tell it was an outstanding fight just by looking at it. It was the first time so many silver coins had rained down for a caterpillar match since Roccom Arena opened. Once you’ve recovered a bit and head out, make sure to hand out some bread to the other gladiator slaves. Favors for favors, malice for malice—that’s how this world works.”
Before Muslan could respond to the unexpected kindness, Liscal had already vanished. Muslan kept the smile on his face as he lifted the cup.
“Hiss!”
The alcohol stung the moment it touched his torn lips, yet he forced it down.
The wounds from charging forward like a madman were lighter than they should have been. Though his face was a mess—still too battered to recognize—he knew these injuries would heal quickly.
Most importantly, his teeth and nose remained intact. He had lost one molar, but surviving a beating like that with only a single tooth gone was a bargain.
Muslan felt the rising warmth of the liquor and began circulating his internal energy through the Chwihyeon-gyeong technique.
Time passed in silence.
By the time Muslan returned to the training grounds, a small group had formed around him.
Isaac, Obben, and Chira.
The three stayed closer to him than before. To be precise, Chira followed Isaac and Obben, while Isaac and Obben followed Muslan.
They had occasionally been seen together before, but this was different. Anyone watching could tell that Isaac and Obben were deliberately staying at Muslan’s side.
From the outside it looked as though the veterans were simply keeping him company, yet in truth they were the ones trailing after him—because they had finally understood the worth of the advice he had casually given them.
Even now it was the same.
Muslan was explaining combat techniques while Obben and Isaac listened with intense focus, almost hungry for every word.
“Wouldn’t it be better to know as many techniques as possible?”
“More is fine, but not better than one thing done properly.”
“Then why insist on mastering only one?”
“Having many isn’t bad, but it’s still less useful than one skill executed flawlessly. Want me to show you with the axe?”
Muslan rose with effort. The wounds from his duel with Abey had not fully healed.
Isaac handed him a wooden training axe—still dangerous enough to kill if swung carelessly.
“Watch, Obben. Do a thrusting motion like this. Then I’ll deflect your thrust to the left and counter with my right hand. I could aim for the head or drive the edge into the neck.”
The movement Muslan demonstrated was a modern boxing technique—parrying a straight punch with the left while delivering a counter. He had simply adapted it to the axe.
“Got it.”
“You already knew this one, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t feel completely new.”
“But the level of mastery is different.”
“You can actually use it?”
“Knowing it and being able to use it properly are two different things. Obben, attack faster this time.”
“Faster?”
“Yes. Faster.”
Obben thrust with the practice sword. Muslan deflected it with his left hand, stepped in, and swung the axe. The speed was noticeably higher than before.
“Faster.”
Again—quicker still.
“Faster.”
The pace kept climbing. Obben and Isaac watched with grave expressions.
“Do you understand now?”
“This is…”
“It isn’t a matter of talent. It’s a matter of practice. How many times you repeat the same technique until it leaves your body without thought—until it becomes completely your own. Only then do you learn the next one.”
“……”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You really were the crown prince, weren’t you?”
“Not anymore.”
“This kind of thing… you should have learned proper combat techniques…”
“There’s no law saying a crown prince can’t learn them. The technique I just showed would suit Isaac well. He could use the sword attached to his prosthetic arm to deflect and counter. Just be careful—if the timing is off, you’ll be the one getting countered.”
Isaac asked Obben to thrust again and tried the movement himself. He wasn’t without talent and picked it up quickly, though it lacked Muslan’s sharp edge.
“If you step in too far it turns into a contest of strength. One mistake and the fight flips. No need to take unnecessary risks—opportunities can be created as many times as you want. Also, Isaac, your hands are large and your fingers are long. That can be trained and used to your advantage.”
“?”
Isaac watched as Muslan dragged his foot across the ground, drawing a line, then asked him to extend his arm and swing the axe at full reach.
“This is the critical distance.”
He positioned Isaac at the exact spot where the axe would barely miss.
“Why this spot?”
“Now I’ll measure the distance myself.”
Obben and Isaac exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing. At least they knew Muslan’s actions always had a reason—proof of which was Obben’s nearly healed waist.
“From here, even if I swing, the axe won’t reach. Correct?”
“Yeah. But why? Are you teaching us distance sense?”
“That’s basic. You both already know that much.”
Isaac and Obben nodded.
“I’ll swing like this.”
Muslan slowly brought the wooden axe around.
Thwack!
The same axe that had fallen short moments ago now connected. Muslan hadn’t moved his feet or extended his arm any farther—yet the reach had increased.
Obben and Isaac’s eyes widened again.
“What kind of magic was that?” Obben asked.
A faint smile touched Muslan’s lips.
“Not magic. Just a small trick.”
“A trick? You faked the distance?”
“Of course not. This is still my true attacking range. I simply changed how I gripped the axe.”
“That’s all?”
Muslan showed them his hand. He was holding the very end of the haft with only his fingers. Without internal energy reinforcing his grip, such a hold would have torn his hand apart.
“It does look like the reach increases instantly,” Obben admitted, “but isn’t it an incredibly risky gamble?”
“Why do you think so?”
“If you hold the weapon like that, you won’t be able to make a second attack. If it clashes properly, you’ll lose the axe.”
“Try it.”
Muslan swung the axe while gripping only the tip of the haft.
Crack! Crack!
The wooden sword and axe collided hard, yet Muslan kept his hold. On the final strike the impact was so fierce that Obben’s arm was knocked aside—still, the axe remained firmly in Muslan’s fingers.
“You train for it. Through repetition.”
“How…?”
“It works. It only fails when you believe it will fail. If you believe it will succeed, it does. The key is conviction—unshakable belief—and repetition.”
Muslan set the axe down and dropped into a push-up position. He performed several with both hands, then one hand, then five fingers, gradually reducing the number until he was doing push-ups on a single finger.
“There’s a saying in Maran: ‘If you do it, it gets done.’ ‘Move instead of worrying.’”
No such proverb existed in Maran. Muslan had simply borrowed the sentiment from his previous life and made it sound fitting.
Yet the effect was remarkable. Isaac and Obben seemed more moved by those words than by the physical demonstration itself.
“How is that even possible?”
“Think simply. The more you grip an axe, the stronger your grip becomes, right?”
“Of course.”
“This is the same. If you hold it this way often enough, your strength in this grip will naturally increase. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m showing you right now. Do you think I’m using magic?”
Muslan looked between Isaac and Obben.
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Then I’ll teach you the finger-strength training method.”
“There’s actual training for that?”
“Of course there is.”
Muslan continued offering advice on various training methods. Obben and Isaac passed the techniques on to Chira.
Among the three, Chira possessed the greatest physical potential. Obben lacked an eye and Isaac an arm, so comparing raw physical specs was meaningless anyway. Even if both had been whole, Chira’s body would still have been superior—tall, long-limbed, flexible, and quick.
Though he could not speak the common tongue, he could communicate with Obben and Isaac through gestures.
“By the way, how do you two understand Chira? Or rather… how do you read his gestures?”
“We’re from similar regions. The Chira tribe is especially isolated—they live in a completely cut-off world.”
“So that’s why you can communicate.”
“It wasn’t like this from the start. We had to learn a lot of their expressions too. It just happened over time. Liscal’s consideration played a big part—he values Chira’s physical abilities highly. Still…”
Obben suddenly trailed off. When he was about to say something difficult, he had the habit of scratching his short hair. With his M-shaped hairline shaved close, the sound came out clearly—scritch, scritch.
“Go on.”
“That… we both know what you’ve done for us is a huge favor. The things you just taught us are probably one of the secret techniques passed down among Maran’s knights.”
They were not secret techniques. They were fundamentals Muslan had mastered across two lifetimes. He had far deeper knowledge from the murim world that he had yet to reveal.
Right now he was repaying their goodwill while testing them—seeing whether they were people he could keep close. So far, his judgment was that they were.
Keeping them close meant they would leave this place together when the time came. But he said nothing of that plan yet. It was still too early. After all, he had only just finished his third match as a caterpillar gladiator.
To escape, he would need to fight many more matches and save far more money.
And that was only the beginning. He still had to decide what he would do once he was free.
“You want me to give Chira some advice as well?”
Muslan spoke first while Obben hesitated.