Forged in Sweat and Repetition
It was a day with a cool breeze blowing. Even in the Withered Land, the grace of the sun god Raello shone down, and the warm sunlight gently caressed the wasteland. Wildflowers peeking out from the barren soil, refusing to lose their vitality, swayed in the wind.
On any other day, Yoahim might have thought it perfect weather for lounging in the sun with a cup of tea. But not today.
"One more! Just one more! If your form slips, we start over from the beginning! A little more effort, Apostle!"
"Grrraaah!"
Yoahim was drenched in sweat, grimacing like he was on the verge of death. He was repeatedly sitting and standing while carrying a massive boulder on his back.
The goal was simple: build muscle.
"Raaagh! Done!"
After completing the final rep, Yoahim hurled the boulder aside and gasped for breath. His leg muscles burned like they were about to explode. But it didn't feel like pain. Instead, there was something akin to euphoria.
He wasn't losing his mind from overexertion—there was a good reason for it.
Strength +1 (From grueling training!)
Vitality +1 (Endured the painful training!)
Grueling your body like this raised your character's stats. During his mercenary days, he'd occasionally see stats go up after slaying monsters on requests. When he first got trapped in the game, he'd thought it was a bug, but on reflection, it made perfect sense. Exercise builds stamina and muscle. Stats were just a numerical representation of that growth.
Even knowing that, he hadn't trained until now because, honestly, it was a hassle. Why bother grinding out +1 stats through hard workouts?
'Kinda regretting that now.'
Little by little, those specks add up to a mountain. If he'd been stacking them, he'd have a decent amount by now.
"Alright, now for the run! We worked hard on strength today, so let's keep it light—just ten laps!"
"...What the fuck."
Kelcia was a pretty strict instructor. To her, Yoahim was the great Apostle of Kakali in private, but publicly, just a green recruit needing tough love.
After the brutal—bordering on torturous—physical conditioning, her next order was endless repetition drills. Hundreds of strikes at the scarecrow's upper, mid, and lower guards. And countless basic sword stances beyond that.
To an outsider, it looked beyond mindless, straight-up wasteful. But Yoahim knew it was anything but.
Practice makes perfect, and perfection wins battles. No matter how much you train, the battlefield is unpredictable. You could die without even resisting if things go south. Fundamentals prevent that, and fundamentals come from endless repetition.
Yoahim swung his sword until blisters formed, burst, and new ones layered on top. That's how he spent a month.
"That's enough! We're done for today, Apostle."
At Kelcia's voice, Yoahim halted his swing and steadied his breathing. His body was scorching from the reps, but his mind was ice-cold and clear.
"Alright then. Let's start."
Yoahim faced off against Kelcia. After conditioning and drills came the spar—the one and only of the day.
Hours of hellish training existed solely for this. The spar lasted one to five minutes max, but to Yoahim, it was the most crucial time of his day.
"I'll go first today, Apostle!"
Kelcia kicked off the ground. Yoahim focused, bracing for the onslaught.
Their blades tangled wildly in the air like dancing serpents. Yoahim wasn't the helpless punching bag from day one. Attack, defend, counter—he played the right cards, holding his own against her assault.
The fruit of a week's unbroken training.
"Over."
Clang! Her sword knocked his aside and thrust at empty air. Yoahim felt the poke at his chest and clicked his tongue.
His swordsmanship was improving fast, but he still hadn't beaten Kelcia. The outcome was the same, but the process was worlds apart.
'So damn close.'
No arrogance—just fact. Anyone watching would call it a paper-thin margin.
Yoahim clenched his jaw, replaying the spar in his head. More important than sparring was figuring out why he lost. What worked, what didn't—know that, and you won't fall for it twice. Then analyze the opponent. Spars gauge your level and theirs.
Steal what you can, no hesitation. Yoahim simulated countless scenarios, hunting the optimal response.
'Should've stepped back and parried? Nah, that would've left my guard wide open—worse off. Better to redirect and counter immediately.'
Kelcia watched Yoahim dive straight into review. No one interrupted him now. He was locked in his own world, refighting the spar a thousand times. In a way, more vital than conditioning or drills.
'Figured the Apostle had talent, but...'
Kelcia smiled wryly at her trembling hands. She'd barely scraped the win by a hair's breadth—she knew it best.
'Insane growth rate.'
One month. Turning a raw recruit into something usable in one month. Even then, that's just shedding the newbie skin—proper soldier takes more time and effort.
Of course, Yoahim was Kakali's Apostle with combat experience, so results differed from a true rookie. Still, his learning speed was ridiculous. He was on track to match a lifetime of her swordsmanship in one month.
'Frustrating.'
Kelcia was frustrated, but not because he'd catch up.
'Frustrating that I can't teach him more.'
Yoahim had nothing left to learn from her. In days, he'd surpass her completely. Hell, tomorrow at latest, day after for sure.
Talent and roots differ—that's life. It just stung that she couldn't offer more to Kakali's Apostle.
Yoahim was the hope of all Kakali followers. After their god's sealing and the "evil god" smear, they'd hidden, endured, quietly built strength. Awaiting the day to reclaim their deity and avenge the vile Raello zealots.
After eons of waiting, Apostle Yoahim was their sole savior. Helping him, even a little, filled Kelcia with joy.
"Hey, mind one more spar?"
Yoahim asked post-review, but she shook her head firmly.
"That's it for today, Apostle. One spar per day, remember? Overdoing it just hurts the body."
"Fair enough."
Yoahim smacked his lips but complied. He'd set the one-spar rule himself. Self-imposed limits sharpen skills. If he had dozens of spars? Not all meaningful.
'Nah.'
First and last wouldn't match—fatigue sets in. Or he'd slack early: "Plenty of chances left."
Hence the limit. One shot, post-hell-training. Pour everything in. It honed real-battle instincts too—spars have sequels; fights don't. Lose once, you're dead. That gravity pulled him deeper in.
"Looks like their session's wrapping up too."
Yoahim turned to see Leon and Sasha approaching, sweat-soaked and dirt-caked like beggars.
"Rest up, Apostle. I'll spar them next."
Leon and Sasha's original mentor was Bille, but war called him to the front. He'd squeezed in a training list before leaving—a thin book with helpful notes, self-study friendly.
They did conditioning under Kelcia, self-drilled swordplay from the book while Yoahim trained. She'd help with unknowns; as a proper instructor, she handled most weapons.
Last: one daily spar, Yoahim-style. Dual-wield Leon, archer Sasha (switched to hand-to-hand for sparring).
"Hm. Those two have gotten way stronger."
Yoahim nodded watching Sasha's spar end, Leon's begin. Far from beating Kelcia, but clear progress.
"Apostle!"
"Hm?"
A voice from behind mid-rest—nothing there when he turned.
"Over here, Apostle!"
Looking down at the new voice: something was there.
"Woof! Fuck! The dog's talking?"
That it was a dog was the problem.