Chapter 19
Chapter 19
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: Unexpected Education (2)
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Men with strong pride or an intense thirst for knowledge who got beaten by a guy like me.
Without fail, they became obsessed with me—not like they were my beaten wives or anything.
Begging to become my disciples... offering their daughters... stubborn old-fashioned types who couldn't even comprehend when I just asked for booze.
I had no hobby of fooling around with other men's husbands, calling myself a master or whatever, so I turned them all down. But I was the type to butt in when something was right in front of my eyes.
Yeah. If I had to put it in words.
Mental conditioning or stance correction.
When I had no intention of killing, if the opponent was standing in a broken posture, I itched to fix it.
What, I'm not some stray village mutt. That's the kind of guy I am. I don't show it, but I've corrected quite a few like that.
It was an incredibly fun element.
Especially when they internalized my corrections properly—it really got my blood pumping.
I must be a guy who was destined to be a fitness trainer—
"Before I check your skills, don't you have anything more comfortable than those clothes for moving around in?"
Sven couldn't for the life of him figure out what this drunkard in front of him was thinking.
Asking about clothes out of nowhere, then suddenly proposing a spar.
This beggar-looking guy with zero tension—what the hell was he going to do?
Tch, does that fool still think knighthood is a joke.
What was Sir Pablo thinking, bringing a guy like that.
Just think of him as cheap hired muscle.
Just standing next to him was dragging Sven down too, which left a bad taste in his mouth.
Even though there was a reason for the flashy outfit. His chest felt tight.
"You're glancing around everywhere."
"...D-Do you even know how to hold a sword? Huh? Wooden swords hurt when they hit, you know?"
The drunkard's grip on the sword was a mess from the start.
He was just standing there rigidly holding it.
Sven and Guro were in a secluded spot next to where the knights trained, out of easy sight.
The few knights who glanced their way took one look at the drunkard's face, frowned, and turned away sharply.
In short, the most shunned people in this mansion were facing off.
Maybe it was a contest to see who was the biggest loser, Sven thought.
"So you know wooden swords hurt."
"Haa... You're drunk, that's why you've been like this since earlier..."
And just as Sven decided to end this spar quickly and prepare for the upcoming exchange meet.
Sven's head slammed into the ground.
"Guh?!"
What had happened became clear the next instant, as pain kindly explained it.
Side throbbing like it would shatter, elbow pulsing. Scalp burning like fire.
He'd definitely been beaten.
But when?
"Lear~ning from the great knight Sven. Feels pretty good."
"Just now... ugh, what fell on me?"
"My sword happened to touch you."
"That was the sword just now... huh?"
The drunkard sniffed, blew his nose into one hand, then stared intently at Sven with sleepy eyes.
Sven was dumbfounded and his pride stung, so he assumed a stance.
'What...?'
A sense of wrongness hit him, and Sven unwittingly stepped back.
Even as the drunkard yawned right after seeing his stance, his instincts screamed sharply.
It'd hurt again.
'Just my imagination...'
Sven pushed aside his doubts, raised his wooden sword.
It was swordsmanship he'd self-taught since birth in a no-account commoner family.
Other knights would see it as subpar, but it was Sven's own proud style.
Smack!
But a leisurely strike to the elbow came, and Sven couldn't even show off his proud sword before nearly dropping his.
"Now you see it."
The second strike flew even slower, aiming for Sven's front thigh.
Sven barely lowered his numbed arm to block, but his clothes got in the way.
Thud!
The tightness under his armpit and the fabric's material stiffened his body for a moment.
He knew the cheap decorative cloth would be trouble, but it hurt to the bone.
No, it gave him a splitting headache.
Bam!!
Splat.
Sven hit the ground a second time.
As if punishing him for not blocking, a wooden sword slammed into his crown, and Sven rolled on the ground from the surging pain.
In the process, his attached decorations fell off, ruining his outfit.
Normally he'd care, but with his head splitting, Sven couldn't think.
"...?"
The drunkard rubbed his eyes looking at Sven, then said with a grave expression.
"Poor guy. Slack joints, huh."
"Guhk, krr... ugh."
That crazy bastard must be so drunk his vision was blurry.
No idea how he reeked of booze this early, but furious at showing such a disgrace to a drunk, Sven barely stood.
'I-I wanna quit...'
But the boredom on that man's face.
Determined to land one hit somehow, Sven assumed his stance again.
This time, before he could even raise his arm, wooden swords flew at his gut and calf.
Sven barely corrected his crumbling stance, but his abdomen hurt so much his focus slipped.
And without fail, a wooden sword to the head.
Splat!
Third time.
Sven had fallen so spectacularly so often that other knights were glancing over.
That bastard's losing to a drunkard too?
Sir Rutger would curse him out.
The guy who draws him in the exchange meet will be one lucky son of a bitch.
'Something... is seriously off.'
Sven thought, among all the knights.
No, in all his memories of people, monsters, elves, everything he'd ever met—nothing moved that fast.
Maybe a mage?
"Slack joints... such a pitiful guy."
But that drunk openly repeating himself.
Couldn't be a mage, so fear made Sven hesitate.
"There must be knights with the worst scores in the exchange meet... or ones overwhelmingly defeated, right?"
"Since earlier...! Why do you keep saying that."
"Just feels like there'd be guys like that."
"Ugh...!"
Drunk bastard. Or maybe because he was drunk, his snide remarks were annoyingly sharp.
Clearly needling Sven with pro-level subtlety, so Sven bit his lower lip hard.
"It's not over yet!"
"........."
The drunkard looked serious for a moment.
Sven didn't want another calf hit, so he kept his legs closer instead of wide.
Pushing his gut out would shatter it, so he twisted his waist a bit to adjust.
The drunkard nodded and said.
"Slack joints, really..."
"Aaagh!"
Sven yelled, gritted his teeth, swung his sword.
And then, the slow sword came for his elbow again.
'Urgh!'
Arm tingling, numb—he desperately raised his elbow.
Then, at invisible speed, a wooden sword to the shoulder.
"Kuhk!"
Shoulder nearly buckled, but knowing the next would hurt more snapped Sven alert.
The sword closed on his side, but Sven pushed off his forward foot to create distance.
"...!"
Still, the grazing side hurt like hell, and expecting a head strike, Sven desperately guarded his head.
"...??"
No attack came this time.
As if praising him for at least grazing.
'What the hell is this guy?'
"Pant... ugh."
Sven felt unease from Guro, who stared blankly without a stance, like inviting him in.
Something was being given to him.
To confirm this weird sensation, though terrified and despite the slack joints mutter, Sven charged Guro.
Stance same as before.
But elbow positioned right. This time, the drunkard didn't thrust.
'...!!'
The drunkard yawned, and Sven didn't miss, going for his honed fastest strike.
True to his training, spinning...
"Tch."
Next instant, pain unlike anything Sven had felt.
Brain splitting into twenty pieces? Absurd agony—he writhed, half-frozen, couldn't even collapse properly.
It hurt so bad he couldn't scream.
"Spinning like that with your chest jiggling—aren't you embarrassed? Why spin there. Did you spin...?"
'What the fuck is this lunatic?'
Sven glared up at Guro, who made lame puns.
Face of a bored worker wondering when this job ends.
Feeling the unease again, he jumped up fast and charged.
Stance steady, elbow right. This time, honest thrust instead of spin—
"Hm..."
Whoosh!!
Sven's attack arced short and glanced off.
He flailed, lost balance, pitched forward.
"This is fun."
With that, the drunkard grinned and smashed Sven's head.
Sven felt like he'd met the devil, thrashing madly.
It was Guro provoking him so annoyingly that the spar dragged on.
All until Sven first blocked the sword aiming to split his head again.
"Hahk, heuk.... ugh, urp."
"Urp... don't... puke... I'll hurl too."
First block, and by evening, Sven was utterly spent.
Meanwhile, the half-assed swinger Guro looked lively, even pulling booze from that weird hat midway.
Such a powerhouse existing shattered Sven's worldview.
Or were all real knights like this? No way?
'Am I... really hopeless.'
His pride on the verge of total collapse.
Outfit decorations gone, sweat-drenched body.
Seemed he couldn't even get up tomorrow—total mental and physical exhaustion.
However.
"After duels, knights have the right to order the loser to do whatever, right?"
No such thing.
That's gambling talk. But no strength to say it.
"........."
"Silence means yes. Anyway, my order... come here same time tomorrow."
"Uh... ugh."
"Yeah, casual reply. Anyway, a knight who knows honor will show, right? Not running away? Hm?"
The drunkard trickled booze into Sven's mouth, muttered regretfully, headed to the mansion.
Sven barely dragged his unresponsive body to his room.
Collapsed on bed like unconscious, passed out.
A knight's morning comes brutally early.
Feeling the dawn chill before anyone else—that's a knight.
Sven woke at the ingrained 5 AM, groggy.
'Can my body... move.'
Regretting yesterday's overexertion, Sven rose.
But something was wrong.
"Why... doesn't it hurt?"
Like a dream—head fuzzy, but body barely ached.
She lifted her clothes, saw bruises on her bandaged chest side, flank, thigh, abdomen—and drooled from the corner of her mouth.
Felt like an idiot. Too many head hits?
"What the..."
The question lingered during early morning run.
The drunkard mentioned honor and to meet again, so she'd worn comfortable clothes—maybe that's why?
Running was fine too.
A bit painful occasionally, but it worked.
And the most absurd part.
That day, when a sudden knight spar started "for the exchange meet."
Peaked.
Sven had no fixed opponent, so drew the first loser.
His face full of irritation.
Sven thought he'd get mocked hard, steeled himself to at least act arrogant.
Defense mechanism worked; hid trembling hands.
Spar started.
"...?"
The knight who'd always looked down on Sven—his attacks started sliding off.
Body twisting a beat late, precarious moments, but honestly blocked the wooden sword.
Especially head guarded obsessively; opponent's face showed shock.
But Sven couldn't adapt fast.
Head full of that mad drunkard, shoulder got hit—didn't win.
Other knights blamed opponent's skill: rusty, dragging against that guy.
His side's knight ambiguously nodded, glared at Sven, said no more.
Afterward, same.
Knights ignored Sven as one, same routines.
Sven couldn't.
"......... When the hell is this guy coming?"
And the only one among them waiting for the booze-scented man.
With perfect tardiness, staggering from afar, Sven asked.
"What the hell did you do to me?!"
And that drunkard glanced at Sven's outfit.
Silently gripped the sword, took a simple stance, said.
"If I win this time, just check one thing in your master's room for me."
"Thing" didn't compute, and finding purpose in spar again was ridiculous.
But just from him adjusting her stance.
A tiny bit, but feeling acknowledged, Sven.
"......"
Unwittingly assumed the stance.