Spartan Training Begins
“What the hell...”
Orwen’s face rapidly cooled.
Was he really saying this at his age?
He seemed too young to know what he should and shouldn’t say.
I’ll have to drill some discipline into him today, she thought.
But Arthur continued before she could act.
“Did I offend you?”
“Apprentice.”
Orwen smiled sweetly as she picked up a nearby baton.
Arthur spoke in a polite tone.
“What’s the difference between what you just said to me and what I said? ‘He’s so short.’ That was your first impression and assessment of me. Short stature, young age. Ah, this kid won’t be good at fighting like the others, and raising him will be a pain like dealing with a child. That’s what you thought, right? I just said the same thing.”
Orwen nearly dropped the baton she’d gripped tightly.
“Big chest. Must be inconvenient for swinging a sword. And plenty of other annoyances as an instructor. What’s the difference? Sure, you’re the teacher and I’m the student, but if you show me respect, I’ll keep up as best I can.”
What... what is this?
Orwen couldn’t help but feel intrigued.
Usually, the nobles who first entered this room looked down on her while ogling her figure.
They’d even say things like,
‘I want to make her my plaything.’
Those brainless fools got beaten like dogs by Orwen until they came to their senses.
Even the older commoners weren’t much different.
But this kid in front of her was different.
How was he so mature?
Crucially, she no longer had any pretext to thrash him with her baton.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem. Just watch it next time.”
Cheeky little brat.
Orwen made a vow.
I’ll train you even more Spartan-style!
He showed real potential.
But unlike her, Arthur was satisfied as he heard the notification.
Don't Be Underestimated
Rewards: Strength +1, Agility +1
1,000 Cash acquired
A satisfied smile crossed his face, but Arthur felt a twinge of curiosity.
Why does this instructor look so familiar?
This was three years earlier than his previous Monarch Game.
Yet she felt strangely recognizable.
But he didn’t dwell on the question long.
Theory class.
The theory lessons spanned about a month.
Lords initially summoned to Asgard were typically exempt from the training camp.
But now, apprentice lords had to go through it for a simple reason.
The gap between them and the early arrivals was massive.
Even so, basic theory wouldn’t close it much.
Still, it was better than nothing.
Over two months, they received truly foundational lessons, while strategy and tactics varied by individual aptitude.
Orwen plunked down eight thick books in front of Arthur from her arms.
Arthur eyeballed the stack and noted their considerable heft.
“I’ll give you exactly four days, apprentice. Read them all and take the basics exam.”
Orwen acknowledged Arthur was exceptional.
But she’d suffered the humiliation of her pride being dented.
This was partly revenge—and a declaration of her intent to raise him Spartan-style.
To Arthur, devouring all those books in four days seemed grueling.
Unless he read day and night.
“Understood.”
But Arthur nodded readily and picked up one volume.
It was titled Soldiers' Studies.
He skimmed it by eye.
Watching him, Orwen smirked inwardly.
No matter what, I need to establish the clear line between master and disciple.
If he couldn’t finish, she’d have grounds to punish him.
That would settle the score from day one, or so she thought.
But Arthur nodded as he flipped through.
Just the real basics. How tough this used to seem back then.
Just thirty days.
How much could anyone improve from a month of theory?
And those exams were brutally hard.
But Arthur had already weathered every trial Asgard could throw in his past life. The knowledge was etched into his very body, crystal clear.
Early morning.
Orwen headed to the training room with grim determination.
The training room looked small but held infinite potential.
One button press transformed it into a vast parade ground.
Mornings were for apprentice lords’ basic physical conditioning.
He’s probably still asleep.
Orwen flung the door open.
And bellowed in a booming voice.
“Up, apprentice! No dawdling, get mo—”
But Arthur had already folded his blankets neatly and stood waiting in comfortable attire.
“You knew I was coming?”
“No, I don’t sleep much. I was thinking of finishing the book I left off last night.”
Not some old geezer. Doesn’t sleep much?
Orwen chuckled.
She pressed a button, and the room shifted into a parade ground in an instant.
“Impressed?”
“Whoaaa~ That’s really surprising.”
Orwen furrowed her brow.
Playing along too perfectly?
How many laps can he do?
Orwen wondered, eyeing the young boy.
All instructors checked their assigned apprentices via the instructor communicator upon arrival.
But Arthur’s info was inaccessible; he’d claimed to have picked up a Lord Nurturing Device from his continent.
Orwen found it odd—no such case before.
As a result, his stats were unviewable, leading to the absurd situation where Arthur had to report them himself.
Even equals in stats varied in laps around the parade ground.
Running was a battle of mental fortitude.
Four laps would be lucky.
Orwen figured that was his limit.
“Ten laps. Fall behind me, and you won’t like the consequences.”
She had no intention of beating him over this, of course.
No matter how strong the mind, the body had limits.
Even the Witch Orwen wouldn’t flog someone whose flesh couldn’t keep up.
Unless their spirit was rotten from the start.
“Go!”
She took off, and Arthur followed.
Better than I thought.
Arthur breathed in twice quickly, out once, matching her pace.
One lap: Steady as ever.
But he didn’t stop.
Two laps: Sweat beaded.
Three: Calves tightened.
Yet Arthur ran with surprising ease.
All those quests had boosted his stats considerably.
What? Is this really a kid?
Orwen couldn’t hide her shock.
Five laps... Can a sixteen-year-old even manage that?
She scowled.
Arthur didn’t look like some exercise fanatic.
Frail, fragile.
Yet after five laps, no complaints—he kept up calmly.
And Orwen’s pace wasn’t slow.
Nine laps now.
“Huff... huff... huff...”
Arthur’s lungs pumped furiously.
Ten laps here equaled about 6 km.
The field was larger than expected; exhaustion was inevitable.
But he endured on willpower alone.
This much running was tough for Arthur, but bearable.
On the tenth lap, fatigue showed plainly.
Still, he pushed.
Orwen understood why he hadn’t collapsed.
What kind of sixteen-year-old has that mental strength?!
Incredible resolve.
At that breathlessness, vision would spin, ears ring.
Lungs burning with agony.
Yet no complaints—he stuck to her side.
Ten laps complete.
Suddenly, a quest window appeared before Arthur.
One Last Lap
📍 Rank: F
💰 Cash Reward: 500
🎁 Rewards: Strength +1, Vitality +1
⚠️ Penalty: None
Your lungs are at their limit. Squeeze out one more lap with your final endurance!
Perfect!
The specialized Lord Nurturing Device’s quests triggered on even trivial things.
He loved it.
Orwen slowed, but Arthur tugged her sleeve.
“O—one... more lap!”
With a final desperate burst, he surged ahead.
Orwen stood frozen, mouth agape.
“Y-you could’ve stopped...”
She’d doubted he’d make three.
Yet here he was, eleven laps in.
Vision blurring, balance faltering.
He looked ready to drop any second, but kept going.
Just a bit more... just a bit...
Orwen found herself cheering silently.
As Arthur crossed back in front of her, he collapsed.
“Gah... huff... huff!”
A metallic rasp escaped his throat.
But seeing the rewards, he was content.
One Last Lap
Rewards: Strength +1, Vitality +1
500 Cash acquired
Stats up again like this.
As the thought crossed his mind, something shimmered before his eyes.
Blinking it into focus, he saw a water bottle.
“Good work, apprentice.”
Orwen wore a wry smile.
Orwen stared in disbelief at Arthur’s words.
“No way. You just skimmed them, right?”
“I really read them all.”
Arthur said calmly.
Reading them was one thing—but acing a test on eight books after one day? Absurd without genius-level memory.
Of the eight, six covered lord basics, soldiers' studies, weaponry—stuff any noble from his old continent would know.
But the last two were pure Monarch Game content.
Memorizing that in a day? Tough.
“You don’t believe me?”
Orwen narrowed her eyes.
It was hard to buy.
“Then, if I may suggest a wager?”
“A wager...”
Orwen snorted.
She was the Witch Orwen.
No apprentice had ever been this bold.
“Yes. If I lose, I won’t complain about any treatment from you going forward.”
I can shut that righteous mouth of his.
Orwen liked the idea.
“Fine. What do you want?”
“Just grant me one request of my choosing. I’m confident I won’t miss a thing from these books.”
Orwen nodded.
“First question.”
She racked her brain for a tough one.
Then chuckled despite herself.
Am I getting too competitive with a kid?
Still, his surprises made her want to test him.
“The five essentials before war.”
“First, tally your people. Second, know cold and heat, the changes of the four seasons. Third, grasp the enemy’s position—near or far, wide paths or narrow, all terrain. Fourth, be strict and prepare tactics and strategy. Fifth, scout the enemy’s key figures, grain routes, supply lines.”