If I Don't Break, I Break Him

The moment Tarian gripped the wooden sword, his whole presence shifted.

Even with a killing intent so sharp it felt like he could cut me down on the spot, I calmly met his gaze.

That stings.

A knight who had reached the rank of Sword Expert. A far stronger opponent than I could handle right now.

Tarian lightly drew a circle on the ground with the tip of his wooden sword.

"Within this circle, I shall face you using only my left hand."

Presumably he was right-handed, so he was giving himself a handicap. And on top of that, limiting his range of movement...

In that case, one clean hit might actually be possible?

Yeah. No reason to let fear get a head start.

"Hoo."

Letting out a low breath, I slowly raised my sword.

Refusing to move would mean breaking the Covenant. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And I had no intention of trampling on the Covenant I'd made.

Which meant...

I have to move.

Whoosh—

I charged straight at him and swung, but Tarian evaded with a single step.

"Just as I thought."

The instant an opening appeared, his sword came for me.

Fast!

If I tried to read and react, I was already too late. All I could do was block on pure reflex—and even then, a massive impact slammed through me.

"Ngh..."

My grip tore open in an instant, and blood I hadn't shed in a long while dripped to the ground.

Was this what it meant for a strong opponent to truly be strong? The gap was overwhelming. His blade carried such killing intent that for a moment, I genuinely thought I might die.

Still.

If it doesn't work, I keep going until it does. That was the whole reason I'd clawed my way this far while clinging to this damned game.

"Haap!"

I swung. Rough and heavy, but solid—pouring in everything the Northern Swordsmanship I'd trained had to offer.

Thud—

But my blade was knocked away with ease. And in the same breath—

"One."

The wooden sword had already kissed my throat. Slowly, I shifted my gaze up to him.

"Shall we go again?"

Under that cold stare, I steadied my sword without a shred of hesitation. By now, one thing was absolutely clear.

The gap is way too big. Even dumping everything I've got probably won't be enough.

No—I hadn't even fully understood everything I had to begin with.

Several more sparring sessions followed after that, and every single time, Tarian played me like a toy.

Crack—!

Whump—

Attacks I couldn't even hope to block came flying in, and wounds piled up all over my body. And amid it all, a realization struck me.

Wait, he's just been beating the hell out of me without explaining a single thing?

Weren't you here to teach? And on top of that, this bastard had been quietly getting under my skin this whole time.

"Kgh."

"That's what happens with a lack of combat experience."

"Kck!"

"If you don't know, you learn by taking the hits."

"Khaak!"

"Impressive endurance as always, my lord."

This lunatic. That's not how he was in the game... right?

Big bro, THIS is the famous instructor?

"Hm. There's no meaning in continuing like this. I acknowledge your persistence, but let us stop here."

"..."

The moment those words landed, my blood boiled.

Ha. You son of a bitch.

Before I knew it, the corner of my mouth had twisted. And then, unbidden, the past surfaced.

A personality that sees everything through to the end.

My life had been like that. Born with nothing in this world, I'd had to survive by any means necessary. Because of that, I'd believed anything was possible if I just worked hard enough.

-Why do you try that hard?

A question I'd heard countless times. Effort was never guaranteed a reward. And so, at some point, I'd fallen into games. Because in games, effort did pay off.

Then came Last Savior.

It was supposed to be like any other time. Clear it fast, move on to the next thing. I never imagined it would stretch into five years.

I gathered information, developed my growth strategies, came to understand the world. I'd hit a wall, grind through it with effort, only to feel a new wall bearing down on me.

It was fun, though.

Time and again, I broke the wall, grew stronger, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and claimed my reward. Which was exactly why I'd wanted—more than anything—to smash through that final remaining wall. To take one more step forward.

And now that world had become my reality.

I had worked harder ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than ever before in my life.

So.

What, was I supposed to give up here?

"Hey. Again."

"Continuing would only be..."

"You said you'd teach me the sword."

By now, I didn't even care about the Covenant anymore. Only one goal remained.

Break him.

Somehow, some way, I was going to land one clean hit on that bastard. Because otherwise, I didn't think I'd be able to sleep a wink.

"Haa, hoo..."

Exhaling a low breath, I picked the fallen sword back up off the ground.

"Again."

"..."

I leveled my blade at Tarian, who was watching me with a slightly stiff expression. Seeing him without so much as a hint of exhaustion just made my blood pressure spike.

And so we sparred all day long, my defeats stacking one after another.

But I'm definitely getting better.

Simply acquiring a skill and raising proficiency through the Covenant was on a completely different plane from moving your own body and grinding the technique in firsthand.

"Shall we continue?"

"Again."

The sun had long since set, and a thick darkness had settled over the training grounds. But I still had no thought of stopping. Push through to the end, and a path would open.

A knight.

An existence beyond mortal reach. In practice, knights were treated more like tactical weapons than people—but in this moment, that didn't register at all.

How the hell do I land one on that smug face?

The repetitions piled up, and the night bled into the small hours. At first, my grip had simply torn open like it did during any training session. But as time wore on, I could feel my senses dulling more and more. Eventually I could barely move the hand holding the sword at all, so I wrapped it in bandages and bound it to the hilt.

"..."

Tarian said nothing. He simply stared at my hand.

"Again."

I let out a quiet breath. Only then did Tarian seem about to open his mouth.

"Keep it shut till the end. I'll show you."

At that one line, Tarian closed his lips again.

And there I stood, motionless, calmly studying him.

Northern Swordsmanship.

Rough. Simple. And heavy as a mountain.

Which was why, until now, I'd always opened with the initiative, more often than not. But...

Now I'm starting to get it.

I recalled every form of Northern Swordsmanship I'd ever seen. And Tarian, facing me with that very same art.

When he unleashed it...

He never moved first.

It was a style that answered the opponent's attack. Endlessly heavy. Endlessly composed. Yes—that was Northern Swordsmanship.

Rush in too eagerly, and you shatter like glass.

So I waited. Until he came at me.

And then—

Tak—

In the blink of an eye, Tarian's wooden sword was suddenly right in front of my face.

Block it.

Little by little, the meaning behind the Northern Swordsmanship I'd known only as a game skill was coming into focus. A simple motion—yet one that read the opponent's movement and turned the blade aside.

Crack—!

As expected, it didn't break easily. Even absorbing the heavy shock, I tracked his next movement. Half a step sideways, flowing into a follow-up strike.

Now.

I aimed for the gap, heavy and deliberate. From vertical to horizontal again—the seam between those naturally connected motions—and I swung with everything I had. Rough. Solid.

Crack—!

A sharp crack rang out, and pain bloomed. Tarian's blade had struck my shoulder dead-on—the force of it lifted my whole body off the ground with the sheer agony—

Thump—

But my sword had already slammed into Tarian's side.

As I lay sprawled there, the sky spread out above me—and Tarian's expression came into view.

"Finally..."

Looking at his slightly crumpled face, a laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.

"There it is! I did it, you bastard!"

An incredible rush. I hadn't drawn blood, but I'd done it. Dopamine came flooding through me in a tidal wave.

"Said it was meaningless? Go all the way to the end, and I win. I win it ALL!"

"My lord."

"...?"

While I was busy celebrating on my own, Tarian approached me with an utterly serious expression.

"What?"

"I ask that you please forgive my rudeness in testing you so carelessly."

He even bowed his head as he apologized, and for a moment I was at a loss for words.

"From this day forward, I pledge my honor to aiding your growth, my lord."

"..."

"And."

Tarian's complete acknowledgment. But it didn't end there. Having put away his sword, Tarian studied me carefully before continuing.

"You've had a realization within Northern Swordsmanship. I was genuinely impressed. For the time being, you should rest—"

Listening to him, I opened my mouth without thinking.

"What are you talking about? We spar again tomorrow."

"Pardon?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

The way to get stronger was sitting right in front of me. Only a fool would walk away from that.

-Ha, this madman!

Looking at the explosively grown proficiency earned through training with Tarian, I smiled. It even felt as though an immense surge of elation and accomplishment was coursing through my entire body.

This is just the beginning.

My growth was only now getting started.

As he sparred with Ian, Tarian realized he was sweating without realizing it.

When Kain Rashid had first offered him the position of swordsmanship instructor, he hadn't thought much of it. A lesson for the second son of an impoverished house—he'd assumed the young man wouldn't take it seriously either. Patch up his basics, grant him a few spars, then be on his way. That had been the plan. It truly had.

He'd never imagined he'd end up flustered like this during a spar meant purely to instill discipline.

Why doesn't he tire?

No—why is he training at this hour?

Why won't he quit?

One question chained into the next without end.

"Again."

"...!"

He'd announced it out of nowhere and immediately reset his stance—Ian, again. How many sparring sessions had that single word purchased by now?

Worried for the boy, Tarian had wanted to suggest rest again and again, but whenever he met those eyes, he found he couldn't.

Those are the eyes of a swordsman.

With no real combat experience, he'd expected the boy to be afraid. Or, failing that, to struggle just to stay standing, barely enduring. But it was neither.

Again and again and again, Ian had thrown himself at the challenge. Hands torn open, fingers nearly broken and still forcibly bound in bandages. Bruises not yet faded from one part of his body before new ones bloomed elsewhere—he'd even skipped meals to keep the sparring going.

How is that possible?

Neither the urgency nor this obsessive fixation on growth made any sense to him. House Rashid might be humble, but it was still a noble family ruling a territory. There was no need whatsoever for the second son of such a house to push himself this hard.

A lunatic.

Words unfit to say of a noble—but Tarian found himself thinking it all the same. And along with it, the thought that this had to stop.

If he goes any further, he could break.

Yet every time that thought formed, Ian took another step forward instead. Like a man trying, against all reason, to shatter an unbreakable boulder.

Stopping him now would be discourteous—unworthy of a swordsman who had properly taken up the blade. That was the choice Tarian arrived at: it wasn't consideration for Ian, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but rather, as he instinctively understood, a path that would only strangle the boy's growth.

And all the while, Ian's skill kept climbing. Of course, Tarian had no intention of simply handing him hits. For a swordsman, knowing his own limits and how to counter them mattered above all else.

"Hoo..."

But the one shattering those limits had been Ian himself.

And then, Ian's final strike.

This is—!

It was, without question, a strike that had caught even Tarian off guard. The boy he'd judged a rank amateur had chosen to give flesh in order to take bone—and while playing to the very strength of Northern Swordsmanship, no less. That was a judgment even a seasoned swordsman could not so easily make. Trained body or not, no one strikes themselves for free.

This is—true madness.

Before he knew it, a thrill was bubbling up inside Tarian.

Ian Rashid was obsessed with victory. And for the sake of growth, he had hurled himself headlong into the wall that was Tarian—carrying the pain of the process as if it were nothing. Judging by how much more refined his Northern Swordsmanship had become, the realization had clearly landed.

In Northern Swordsmanship, at least, I needn't lay a finger on it.

It might still be too early for such an assessment, but the boy was a genius. Or else a monster.

Struck by Ian's blade, brow furrowed in a wince, Tarian nonetheless felt a smile threatening to break through.

Perhaps, with this person beside me, I might break my own wall as well.

And so, the next day arrived.

"Ready."

"You've finished?"

"Yeah. We're sparring today too, right?"

Ian approached as naturally as breathing, a smile still plastered across his face. Apparently, landing a single hit on him a few days ago had pleased the boy that much.

Well.

Handicap or not, however many times they'd sparred, he had landed a clean blow on an opponent several ranks above him.

Excuses, though. That's all those were.

Ian Rashid had simply been exceptional. His smugness, then, was more than understandable.

"...Very well."

Tarian hesitated a moment, but in the end, he couldn't refuse. A good teacher helps his student grow—he must never stand in its way.

A heaven-sent talent.

There had been no rumors of the second son of House Rashid possessing any particular gift. If anything, the rumors all centered on Kain Rashid, the current head of the house. But what Tarian had confirmed with his own eyes was entirely different. An obsession verging on madness. Something he hardly dared evaluate himself—but if forced to put it into words, a talent bestowed by heaven itself.

That was the Ian he saw now.

"What, why are you staring into space?"

"It's nothing."

"Bland as ever."

Watching Ian snicker as he said it, a thought rose in Tarian unbidden.

Perhaps teaching this man the sword might be, for him, nothing short of a fated encounter.