Chapter 18
Chapter 18
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 018
Chapter Title: Metal and People Grow Stronger by Being Hammered, Melted, and Hardened
-----------------------------------------------------------------
When Shan first lifted the rock, he was merely impressed, thinking, So this is the kind of training it is.
He already knew from experience that the body grew stronger the more it was used.
He had no idea how getting better at lifting rocks related to fighting skills, though.
But for some reason, Sir Darcal didn't tell him to lower it even after Shan had held the rock overhead for a good long while.
He just raked his gaze over Shan—or more precisely, over his scarred body clad only in underwear—with eyes as harsh as winter frost.
"Still..."
"If you have the energy to talk, it's not time to stop! Keep going!"
Despite the agony ripping through his arms like they might snap off, Shan gritted his teeth and refused to drop the rock.
Muscles throughout his body writhed and coordinated, giving overtaxed areas a break while drawing strength from others in a relentless cycle.
Can't do it anymore... Should I put it down?
If I just stand here, I might not be able to move freely like before.
Hell, I might never use my arms again...
Shan hesitated for a moment, tempted by the inner voice, then clenched his jaw.
Roden had said this man was a good teacher.
So even if his instructions didn't make sense, they had to be necessary to become a proper knight.
Repeating that to himself, Shan felt his body, pushed to its limit, squeeze out a fresh surge of strength.
Whether fortunate or not, enduring unreasonable pain was one of the things Shan did best.
How much time had passed?
While his eyes were squeezed shut against the sweat stinging like rain, the strength finally drained from his outstretched arms.
The instant it did, Sir Darcal shot out both hands like he'd been waiting, catching the falling rock and hurling it aside.
"Good. You've taken your first step decently enough."
This is just the first step?
Having wrung every ounce of strength from his body, Shan didn't even have the breath to retort.
A moment later, figuring Shan had rested plenty, Sir Darcal kicked the sprawled boy.
"On your feet! That's rest enough!"
His body screamed that it was far from enough, but Shan staggered upright and stood before him.
His underwear-clad frame was a mess, caked in sweat-mingled dirt.
"Stay right there! Spread your legs wider... Yeah, like that! Now squat down until your knees are at right angles! Right angles! Right angles! Don't you know what that means?!"
"N-No idea..."
"Damn it all! Now I'm a math tutor too?!"
Sir Darcal bellowed like a madman but still demonstrated what a right angle meant with gestures.
As Shan followed the order, he realized this pose targeted a whole new set of muscles, different from before.
If lifting the rock had kneaded his arms, shoulders, and upper body, this hammered the lower body.
Grasping that, Shan closed his eyes, sensed the changes in his body, and tweaked his form slightly.
Legs and knees a bit wider, back arched more, glutes tensed to hold steady—
The pressure on his knee joints eased, shifting greater pain to his thighs and calves.
Instead of barking at him to correct it, Sir Darcal watched with an intrigued expression.
Once again, the end came only when exhaustion made it impossible to hold the pose.
As Shan's legs quivered and gave out, Sir Darcal glanced at the sky as if timing it, then kicked him awake again.
"Rested up! Next, hands here and get down on your belly!"
After endless minutes—or hours?—of such poses, Shan finally reached the point where he couldn't even twitch a finger.
His breath reeked of acetone, and his vision spun so badly he could barely make out shapes.
Sir Darcal stared down at his worm-like wriggling for a while, then ordered Roden, who'd been watching from the side all along.
"Roden!"
"Yes, Master."
"Take care of him!"
At the command, Roden scooped up the limp Shan without a second thought.
Sweat and dirt smearing his clothes? He didn't care a whit.
"You did great. Time to rest now."
Even during his days of persecution as an Altoin, Shan had never endured such torment.
It felt like every muscle had been pushed beyond limits, melted into mush...
The training had been so precise that no muscle seemed functional anymore.
And so brutally intense that, without recovery, his abilities wouldn't just stall—they'd regress once he healed.
Roden, you were wrong. This crazy old coot isn't a real teacher.
He wanted to say it, but he lacked even the strength to move his lips. All that escaped was a beastly groan.
Hearing it, Roden smiled proudly.
"Yeah, it hurts, right? I was the same. First day, I bawled my eyes out, tried to run, got beaten... Didn't think you'd tough it out to the end."
Was I supposed to say I couldn't do it midway?
Before the bewilderment could settle, they reached the bathhouse.
But instead of the usual warm tub, a small tub fit for one person brimmed with foul-smelling black water.
"Get in here. You'll feel better."
Roden carefully lowered Shan so his body submerged fully but his head stayed above.
Shan, eyes closed, soon sensed an astonishing change spreading through him.
Ah...
Something from this mystery liquid was rapidly healing his body.
Muscles damaged from overload, even starting to break down, regained shape. Joints worn by friction refilled.
Bones, unbroken but strained, thickened and densified.
"What... is this...?"
"Training potion. You saw it at the alchemist's, right?"
Such a thing had existed.
"For knight training," they'd said. When he'd asked about effects, "No need to worry now."
He hadn't paid much mind then. Who'd have thought it was for this?
A good while later, sensing no further recovery, Shan wobbled out of the tub.
The pitch-black water had faded to ashen gray.
"Haa..."
"How's the body?"
"Thought I was gonna die. For real."
Shan knew his body better than anyone, so he was certain.
Repeat that training without the potion, and he'd either die or never walk again before becoming a knight.
"This is how it's done in Pendia."
"Other countries?"
"They borrow priests' healing miracles. Ingredients for bath potions are hard to source..."
The water ghost fang from their first Pendia hunt was one such ingredient.
Using potions over priests stemmed from Sir Darcal's belief they boosted training gains more than miracles.
"Back to training now?"
His muscles had recovered, but the tearing pain lingered.
Roden eyed his trembling limbs from neural overload and shook his head.
"Today's done. Take this and rest."
He offered a glass of bright yellow liquid. Shan gulped it down like a baby bird taking food.
Thick texture, sickly sweet.
"Potion to prevent post-training PIO."
Anticipating the question, Roden explained first.
A day later, amid lingering agony, Shan felt his body markedly improved.
Muscles denser, damaged joints softened with fresh cartilage, frame sturdier to wield and withstand greater power.
Unlike day one, day two skipped full nudity for training.
Sir Darcal said the body needed time to solidify gains.
"Combat theory today. Draw your sword."
In the inner courtyard garden waited training longswords: blunted blades, curled tips, several times heavier.
Sir Darcal and Shan each took one, sparring in slow motion.
More precisely, he demonstrated specific moves, explaining principles and usage.
If it'd been real combat, Shan would've vented yesterday's grudge by cracking the old man's bald head ten times over.
In the process, Sir Darcal unpacked techniques Shan had instinctively grasped into theory.
Advantages and drawbacks of a low guard. Why block attacks near the hilt, not the blade.
Not just reacting optimally in the moment, but anticipating two or three moves ahead, like chess.
The distilled essence of humanity's millennia of warfare.
The beast who knew only swift strikes to vitals now wielded psychology and predictive theory.
Next day: cultural theory, not combat.
Basics a knight needed: reading and writing, history, etiquette, faith.
"Studied the Goddess's teachings?"
"Yes."
Shan nodded at Sir Darcal's question.
Priest Ador, one of the few who'd treated him kindly, had given him decent religious knowledge compared to other common sense.
After some Q&A, Sir Darcal remarked oddly.
"What? You an Old Faith follower? Your prayers and doctrines are all..."
"Yeah? Probably."
Libert Kingdom was peak Old Faith, so Ador's teachings naturally were too.
Sir Darcal scowled in disbelief.
"Believing a faith that calls you devil spawn? You're a weird one! Well, I'm Old Faith too."
"Then shouldn't you avoid teaching me?"
"I follow the old ways, but no grudge against you Altoins. Had an old Altoin pal. Just can't split from family, so I stick with it!"
The Cordo family held a barony in Pendia's west.
Western nobles, culturally close to Libert, were mostly Old Faith—like his kin.
"So if I say later I trained under Sir Darcal after knighting, your family'll flip."
"Maybe! Life's like that—you can't have it all. Gain something, lose something!"
Sir Darcal then ranted on Pendia's religious divide.
Commoners and nobles alike split between Old and New Faith.
Nobles leaned Old, commoners New—but east-west split was cleaner.
"Good thing the royals compromise between Old and New. King Gisel III leans New provisionally. Otherwise, Altoin knights? Dream on."
"That's how it is?"
"How else'd we get a mage princess?"
Soon the gossip shifted to King Gisel III's kids.
Eldest prince too immersed in traditional Old Faith; second wild from Luman roots; Old Faithfuls follow pope over king, New Faithfuls shallow in belief...
Old folks' politics bored the young, so Shan nodded along while zoning out.
After monologuing, Sir Darcal summoned a servant for Roden.
"You called, Master?"
"You handle his theory lessons."
"Huh?"
"Funny cramming Old Faith into an Altoin? Folks who'll treat him human are mostly New Faith. Your house is New Faith!"
"But Master, I'm busy lately..."
Roden's recent busyness: formal heir training for Webers Merchant Company.
With aging Callion at risk, he'd inherit and keep sponsoring Shan.
Years lost to knighthood training as a kid meant much catching up.
"Quiet! Do it!"
The cranky old man's yell got a sighing nod from Roden.
With Sir Darcal off "on errands," lessons resumed their travel days' style.
Teach, confuse, reteach.
Still, sitting properly beat learning on the move.
Though sleepiness persisted...
Thwack! Roden smacked dozing Shan's head with a rod.
"Ow."
"No sleeping. Hear what I just said?"
"Sorry, too tired."
"I get the fatigue from all the exertion, but learn anyway. Read this."
"Lam."
"It's 'ran'!"
After culture days twisting him up, hellish physical training resumed.
Round two: not muscle-melting squeezes, but expanding range, boosting lungs and endurance.
"Run! Faster! No slacking!"
Under Sir Darcal's roars, Shan lapped the Webers inner courtyard till his heart felt ready to burst out.
Legs failed? Crawl with arms too.
Training ended only when utterly drained—Sir Darcal's rule.
Next day post-potion recovery: combat theory again.
This time, dirty tricks.
"In battle, use every dirty means. Screw chivalry! Losers die unheard. Excuses after victory!"
Alongside: blinding with sword-flat sunlight, kicking dirt in faces, spitting to provoke.
Morality-free Shan absorbed it all.
Then: penmanship, bigger rocks, weapon counters, lady etiquette, sprinted in custom chainmail, monster behaviors...
This cycle spun endlessly like a hamster wheel.
Abuse body, hone knight skills, cram culture till brain ached. Repeat.
Time passed: body bulked tougher, mind filled with knowledge, face gaunt.
Training scaled with strength; fatigue never eased.
Every three days: body-ripping agony.
Post-training luxuries and progress highs numbed the ordeal.
Eventually, Shan questioned his suffering.
Want to be a knight? Why? For what?
Many Altoins scraped by as mercs in Hasra—why not him?
Answer: To grow stronger. So no one bosses him, threatens dignity.
To stack wealth, honor, earn respect, praise.
Faces flashed: Willow Village tormentors, fearful Leaf Villagers, Roden dreaming futures together.
Kind circus Altoins treating him family despite short time.
Obilos folk revering troll hunter.
Contempt, fear, friendship, admiration.
All from gaining power, achievements.
Genius warrior outdid plain Altoin kid; mighty knight would fare better.
In quitting temptations, Shan recalled this, stepping forward.
Till summer heat passed, leaves fell, first snow came.
In Webers inner courtyard blanketed in snow, Shan stared down a straw dummy.
His hands gripped training longswords: blades thickened for weight, several times heavier.
Training: swing once over minutes till it hit.
Half-year hell had lengthened, thickened arms; they trembled but held the iron slab.
One minute, five, ten...
The sword crept like a snail, finally slicing the thick torso.
The blunt edge, meant to press straw, sheared through like a razor.
Shan stared blankly, then burst laughing unwittingly.
Painful days flashed by.
"Haha..."
A mere graze from a dull blade cleaved as desired.
Vast will reshaping reality by force.
Shan realized: he'd finally grasped knights' power, their spirit.