Reinhardt's Swordsmanship
The room was dim overall, but a faint red light barely illuminated the space. In the center of the enclosed chamber stood a bed carefully concealed behind blackout curtains, from which the lewd voices of women drifted out.
Knock knock!
The sound of someone rapping on the door from outside shattered the pleasant atmosphere. The man who appeared to be the owner of the bed spoke in a harsh voice, clearly irritated at the interruption.
“Who is it!”
His tone was angry, yet he didn’t seem particularly tense. It was as if the news he was about to receive was far more important than his current pleasure.
“I have something to report.”
Information that took precedence over his entertainment was worth hearing. Besides, only a limited number of people could even approach this room. In the end, he granted permission.
“Come in.”
A man with a scar over one eye entered through the massive double doors. The long blade at his waist and his sharply honed muscles suggested he was well-versed in swordsmanship. The impression that he had learned systematic swordplay was reinforced by his footwork. He didn’t just apply it when wielding his blade; he maintained that precise gait even in daily life. As a result, his steps made almost no sound.
“So, what is it?”
Even though his subordinate had come to deliver information, the man didn’t show his face. Still embracing the women he’d been enjoying, he spoke through the blackout curtains.
“The Flang gang turned themselves in this morning.”
The subordinate gripped the sword at his waist with his right hand to keep it from shaking, his face deadly serious. The man behind the curtains let out a rough breath, trying to cool his rising anger at the unpleasant news. The sudden shift in mood left the women in his arms glancing around nervously. Soon his breathing calmed slightly, and he released them, tossing them some thin garments.
“Hoo… Get out.”
Perhaps due to the tension, the women didn’t even bother properly putting on the clothes. They simply covered their most important parts and parted the curtains.
“Hurry up!!”
Irritated by their sluggish movements, he shouted. Startled by his roar, the three women stumbled noisily through the double-layered blackout curtains and fled the room. Once the naked women had all left, the already dark atmosphere grew even more sinister. He finally spoke.
“They weren’t captured—they surrendered? What the hell happened?”
His voice was low and suppressed, but the unmistakable rage beneath it was clear. The subordinate, who had served beside Drake for several years, could easily tell the difference.
“They’ve already been handed over to the guards, so I don’t have the details. However, if you command it, I will enter the prison and bring back Flang’s head.”
The subordinate confidently offered his services, but Drake instead tried to calmly assess the situation.
“The amount the Flang gang paid hasn’t changed… Didn’t they say they had an assassination request this time?”
Since Flang’s crew primarily operated through assassination and debt collection, Drake knew their activities well.
“That’s correct. From what I’ve gathered, they either haven’t attempted it yet or failed. The assassination target is still alive.”
Both he and his subordinate knew that the target was Bagan, the adventurer who had recently risen rapidly and was now a Gold-ranked adventurer.
“The traitor must die. Bring me his head.”
“As you command.”
With those words, the subordinate placed his hand on his sword sheath, minimizing the clinking sounds as he left the room.
After the subordinate departed…
Rustle.
The blackout curtains were drawn back, revealing the silhouette of a man sitting on the edge of the bed. He was enormous, with an incredibly muscular build. The light that had been blocked by the curtains poured into the bedchamber, illuminating his appearance in greater detail. Where hair should have been, strange tattoos covered his scalp, extending down to his waist and chest. He ran a hand over his head, then rested his arms on his knees and stared at the door his subordinate had exited through, muttering to himself.
“Tsk… Bagan… Bagan, huh.”
As if something about the name bothered him, he kept repeating it. His red eyes glowed in the crimson lighting.
Bagan stopped by the adventurer guild and headed for the training grounds. Reading the swordsmanship manual would be far more effective if paired with actual practice.
“Haaah!”
“Chaa!”
The training grounds were located behind the adventurer guild building—an open space covered only by pillars and a roof. It was just one door away from the area where Bagan had taken his Special Promotion Test.
Amid the chaotic shouts of other adventurers, Bagan selected one of the training dummies arranged in neat rows. Even with the noisy battle cries surrounding him, he focused and recalled the contents of the swordsmanship manual.
The tip of the sword must always point toward the opponent. No matter which direction you attack from, your gaze must remain fixed on the sword tip and the enemy.
Relearning from the basics like this could easily result in a very rigid style of swordsmanship. However, if the foundation was solid, there was no chance of failure. Later, he could modify it into his own style. Swinging wildly without any foundation would be a hundred times worse.
“Hup!”
He swung the wooden sword at the dummy.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
For someone supposedly learning for the first time, the attacks were precise and clean. His previous experience with the sword hadn’t gone to waste. But Bagan wasn’t satisfied.
“This doesn’t feel right.”
Just because it was called Reinhardt’s Swordsmanship Manual didn’t mean it was guaranteed to be powerful. And how many swordsmen could truly read such a book and immediately internalize its principles?
Yet Bagan, who knew what Reinhardt’s real swordsmanship looked like, could not be satisfied.
(I think it looks cool, though?)
Sally, who had been watching and cheering from the side, praised the three consecutive downward strikes.
“Reinhardt’s swordsmanship isn’t like this. Every single strike carries a heavy, weighty feeling. It’s not supposed to feel like rapid successive hits.”
That was right. Bagan had seen Reinhardt’s swordsmanship from afar in the past. Although it had only been graphical motion in a game, each character had unique animations. Reinhardt’s style was slow but carried devastating weight in every blow. The heaviness was almost grotesque.
“A heavy sword style, huh…”
It wasn’t the type of swordsmanship he personally pursued, but no one could deny Reinhardt’s name when it came to swordplay. Simply learning it could grant him new insights, so he was training to internalize it as much as possible.
Whoosh.
Still puzzled, Bagan stopped his training and opened the Reinhardt’s Swordsmanship Manual that lay beside him. Reading it from the beginning again, his puzzlement gradually turned into suspicion, and finally certainty. No matter how he read it, it didn’t feel like something Reinhardt had written.
“The texture is completely different. This is actually a fast sword style.”
Even to Bagan, who wasn’t deeply familiar with swordsmanship, the style described in the book felt far from heavy. It might be good for beginners building fundamentals, but for anyone hoping to emulate Reinhardt’s swordsmanship, this book would be poison.
(Why not meet the man in person?)
“Unfortunately, he’s too far away. I’m not trying to learn his style exactly, but I wanted to use it as reference.”
(I see. Then, is there no one nearby who could teach you swordsmanship?)
As Sally suggested, he had considered learning directly from someone. However, personally teaching swordsmanship was practically the same as revealing one’s own techniques. Among adventurers and mercenaries, it was practically taboo. In fact, suddenly asking a stranger to teach you was often taken as a challenge to fight.
‘Besides, there probably isn’t anyone here qualified to teach me anyway.’
Competent swordsmen were all out gaining real combat experience. They didn’t completely abandon training, but the rate at which skill improved differed greatly, so they chose efficiency.
“Should I look for a different manual?”
While he was pondering, Sally spoke up.
(Can I read that book once?)
Whether she had a method or was simply curious, Bagan saw no harm in it and willingly handed her the book. She materialized, took the physical book, and opened it. After carefully reading the first page, the words she uttered were shocking.
“Is this book really written by someone named Reinhardt?”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
Sally’s reaction was extremely unusual. She was outright denying the author. Soon, she furrowed her beautiful brow and spoke in a displeased voice.
“I can distinguish many kinds of sins. I am a spirit who judges them with appropriate verdicts.”
Bagan answered her obvious statement.
“I already know that.”
“…This is the sin of falsehood. I can smell it.”
Her words meant the author was not Reinhardt.
“So I got scammed.”
“They probably wanted to make money off the book. They created a sword style using the name of the greatest swordsman.”
“That’s hilarious. Then there’s no need to read it.”
Now that he looked at it, the book was full of unnecessary fluff. It seemed to be dressing up the subject of swordsmanship with plausible-sounding nonsense. He had believed it because it was Reinhardt’s name, but…
‘In that sense, their strategy worked perfectly.’
He could only admire the cunning of whoever had written the book. Bagan set it aside and picked up the wooden sword again.
He gripped the wooden sword with the right amount of strength, focused his mind, and recalled Reinhardt’s real swordsmanship as he remembered it.
‘Blur the tip of the sword, but let your eyes observe everything. The opponent, the sword, and even the surrounding scenery. Then, one gaze per strike. And one breath.’
When every element felt perfectly aligned…
He swung the sword down from above in a precise arc.
Swish!
Crack!
The wooden sword, which seemed aimed at the head, actually glanced off it and struck the dummy’s shoulder instead. Both the wooden sword and the dummy’s head were shattered. The arm from the shoulder down flew off. At the same time, an unimaginable recoil surged through him, filling him with exhilaration.
“…This is the feeling.”
He hadn’t expected to grasp it in one try. After all, gaining true enlightenment was never easy.
‘Let’s try it again.’
Unable to believe it, Bagan prepared a new wooden sword and a new dummy. Maintaining the same sensation as before, he swung.
Thud!
Crack!
The result was identical. No, it was even better. The sword didn’t glance off the head this time. The dummy was completely destroyed in one strike.
“It actually works.”
Bagan could only be grateful for his homunculus body.
After that, he poured all his concentration into refining the ultimate sword technique that poured every ounce of power into a single strike. When he finally left the training grounds, his entire body was drenched in sweat.
“Hoo… That was exhausting.”
(You worked hard.)
“Thanks to you.”
At Bagan’s praise, Sally’s face flushed. She looked genuinely pleased. Leaving her behind, he headed toward Rina, who stood at the center counter, to pay the usage fee.
The condition for using the training grounds was paying a certain amount to the guild. It wasn’t so much a business tactic as a donation for the safety of adventurers. Since the guild existed for adventurers, it was an amount people could pay with good feelings.
“I’m done with the training grounds.”
Rina greeted him with a smile.
“Yes, Gold-ranked adventurer Bagan. For Gold rank and above, the first three hours are free.”
“I see. Then—”
Just as Bagan was about to leave, a sharp voice caught his ear.
“However!!”
Rina called him back. It seemed there was something that needed to be clarified.
“You will need to pay for the three training dummies and seven wooden swords you destroyed. That comes to six silver and five copper.”
Bagan had hoped it would slide, but since he’d been caught, his face twisted slightly.
(Even so, that’s a bit much.)
‘Is it a crime if I don’t pay? I was just training hard.’
He wanted to curse this dirty world that spat on those who worked hard, but he wasn’t exactly short on money. Bagan took out the exact amount from his pocket and handed it over.
“Yes, thank you. Please take care on your way!”
Rina’s reaction seemed unusually kind. Maintaining a blank expression, Bagan left the guild.
At that moment—
“Kuhahaha! So! I grabbed the Over Horn by its horn and threw it all over the place!”
From the sound of his bragging, it seemed he had returned from a request to subjugate an Over Horn. As Bagan descended the stairs, the man was coming up. Their eyes met.
“B-Bagan!”
The man froze midway up the stairs even though Bagan hadn’t said a word. It was Clorsus, the leader of the party that the sewer rat Papan belonged to—the same man who had ordered Bagan’s assassination. The way he looked like he’d seen a ghost made it clear something was going on.
“B-Boss, that guy is—!”
“How is he still alive?”
Seeing how his party members were also acting like they knew something, it was confirmed. Clorsus had been the one behind the assassination request. In the chaotic situation, he hadn’t been able to keep his party members quiet. When he saw Bagan’s expression changing in real time, Clorsus clutched his head.
“Where did that rat bastard go?”
“W-well…”
It seemed he hadn’t expected Bagan to return alive. He looked quite flustered. Cold sweat poured down Clorsus and his party members. Their thoroughly tense appearance was almost embarrassing to watch—especially for a party ranked in the top ten.
“Should I start with a beating?”
“Hiiik!”
Watching Bagan crack his knuckles while standing firm, they looked as if they had seen a demon. Knowing Bagan’s true strength, Clorsus felt his mind go completely blank.