Chapter 20 : 8 months

In those eight relentless months, Nerion had endured defeat after defeat — each harsher than the last. Bones broke, feet bled, and his body was battered by the merciless training dummies, yet his resolve never wavered. With gritted teeth and unyielding will, he trained to the edge of collapse, healing only to rise and fight again. His muscles tore and rebuilt, bones cracked and reformed — but he never stopped. Pain had become his mentor. Perseverance, his only companion.

The training grounds were no longer just a place to grow — they had become a battlefield. And weakness was the enemy.

Day by day, blow by blow, he rose — not just in flesh, but in spirit. In something harder to break.

Along the way, Nerion unearthed truths hidden deep within himself — about his body, his limits, and the very mana that coursed through him. He discovered that every skill demanded mana in its own way. Some surged to his arms like fire in his veins; others sank into his legs, fueling bursts of speed and power; a few sharpened his senses until the world slowed around him like a still frame.

Each technique had its rhythm. Its path.

The more he aligned his mana to those flows, the faster, cleaner, and deadlier his execution became. Mastery, he learned, wasn't about force — it was about harmony. His control over mana was like a sealed faucet turned slowly open, drip by drip, until it finally began to flow freely.

He'd learned that lesson the hard way — especially with Ashstep Mirage.

At first, he had thought it was a skill of speed. Jump faster. Land cleaner. Move quicker. He had fallen from the same floating pad again and again, his breath ragged, his muscles screaming, thinking sheer physical effort would get him there.

But Ashstep Mirage had never been about speed alone.

Weeks passed. Then months. Bruises layered over bruises. He pushed harder, yet progress came at a crawl. It wasn't until he stopped chasing the pads and started listening — truly feeling — that everything began to change.

The first shift came like a whisper.

Every time he stepped, he sensed something — a faint pulse, a subtle echo. A wave of mana left behind, ghostlike, like ripples across still water. The moment his foot struck the pad, a tiny surge resonated outward. Not from muscle — but from mana.

That was the secret.

He began to tune into that rhythm. Each step wasn't just a movement — it was a beat in a larger dance. A wave to ride, not resist. His body adapted. His mind followed. His agility stat, once stagnant, began to climb. 48… 49… 50… 51… 52. One point at a time — each earned through pain, sweat, and resolve.

Then, in the seventh month — it happened.

He stepped onto the pad. The wave surged behind him. But this time, it didn't vanish. It split — and in his place, an illusion bloomed. A faded echo of himself, flickering like mist in the air.

A mirage.

Ashstep Mirage had awakened its true form.

By the end of that cycle, he could leap across ten consecutive pads. Each step smoother than the last. Each motion sharper, more precise. The skill had reached 10% mastery — the threshold before its first bottleneck.

But he didn't care about the wall ahead.

Because for the first time, he knew he was walking a path shaped not just by strength — but by understanding.

And just like Ashstep Mirage, Fangcoil Sword Doctrine had taught him the same lesson.

Back then, he'd believed swordsmanship was all about hitting fast and hard. So that's what he did in those early weeks. He rushed the dummies, swung wild, took hits, and tried to land a blow before being knocked back. But it hadn't taken long for the training dummies to show him the truth.

They weren't mindless machines.

They adapted. They punished mistakes. They exposed every flaw without hesitation.

He lost. Again and again.

At first, his only goal had been to land a single clean strike. Even that felt like a distant dream.

But something shifted when he stopped trying to overpower them — and started watching. He noticed their attacks came in sequences — flows of motion like a rehearsed dance. And that's when he understood.

The Doctrine wasn't about brute strength.

It was about rhythm. Precision. Patience.

He began to move with the dummies instead of against them — studying their patterns, learning their tempo. Each swing of his blade curved, weaved, and slipped past their guards like a serpent winding through tall grass. His footwork adjusted. His posture adapted. His strikes no longer clashed — they coiled.

Pain remained. His bones still ached, and his body still bruised.

But now, pain felt like progress.

And in time, his blade began to bite back.

Each strike flowed more naturally. Each motion carried intention. His Strength stat began to rise — slowly, but steadily. From 50… to 51… to 52.

Then, in the seventh month — it happened.

One clean slash. No resistance.

His blade curved mid-strike, spiraling into the gap between the dummy's defense.

A perfect Fangcoil counter.

He had reached 10% mastery.

He didn't shout. He didn't smile. He simply stood there, breathing hard, blade steady, heart calm.

Because in that moment, he knew:

He had taken his first real step toward becoming a knight — not by birthright, not by fate — but by climbing, inch by inch, through the mountain of his own limits.

Nerion sat still by the pond's edge, the breeze brushing gently against his face, stirring ripples across the water's surface. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues over the tranquil clearing, and the soft rustle of leaves provided a quiet rhythm to the stillness around him.

For once, there was no shouting, no impact of blade against steel, no pain in his bones.

Just peace.

He watched the reflection on the water — not of the boy he had been, but the one he had become. Eight months. Eight months of bleeding, breaking, and rebuilding. Eight months of failure, struggle, and understanding.

And now, for the first time, he could breathe without urgency.

He had done it.

He had met every goal he'd carved into his mind back at the beginning — mastered his foundation skills to their first thresholds, rebuilt his body from scratch, and forged a spirit that didn't shatter in the face of pain.

He didn't smile, but there was quiet satisfaction in his eyes — a steady calm born not of pride, but of earned clarity.

The pond's stillness mirrored his own. In that silence, he didn't need to prove anything.

Not to anyone.

Not even to himself.

This was his moment — not of triumph, but of rest.

A moment carved out of eight relentless months.

A moment he had earned.

Nerion's gaze shifted from the serene water to the system screen hovering before him. The faint glow of the interface was a stark contrast to the calm nature around him, yet it offered a tangible reflection of his journey — a way to measure the intangible growth he had fought for, through sweat and blood.

His fingers hovered over the display, and the stats filled the screen:

[Current Stats]

Strength: 56

Agility: 58

Vitality: 60

Endurance: 60

Intelligence: 50

Perception: 39

Charisma: 30

Willpower: 36

He had come a long way from where he had started — a raw, unawakened youth, barely able to withstand the simplest of attacks from the training dummies.

His Strength had risen steadily, each ounce of power forged through the unrelenting pain of training. Agility had gained a sharp edge, honed with every leap, every sprint, every shift of his foot. Vitality and Endurance had grown equally, forged in the crucible of relentless effort, his body rebuilt over and over again to endure what it once could not.

But it was the smaller shifts — the subtle increases in Perception and Willpower — that told him he was growing into something more than just a warrior. His perception sharpened with every focused step, every moment of stillness, and his willpower had grown unshakable, like an anchor in the storm of his training.

Nerion took a breath, allowing himself a moment to appreciate what the numbers couldn't truly convey: his growth wasn't just measured in points. It was in the way his mind now moved in sync with his body, how his blade and footwork had become an extension of himself. He had earned each point. But most of all, he had earned the quiet confidence that came with them.

Then, Nerion stood.

His body moved with quiet strength, no longer the awkward, unrefined motions of a boy. Each step toward the small training house was steady, deliberate — the walk of someone who had earned his pace through suffering and solitude.

It had been eight long months.

Eight months without proper rest, without a warm bath or soft bed. Eight months wearing nothing but reinforced training gear, torn and patched more times than he could count. His simple clothes — the ones he had left folded and untouched on the wooden shelf inside — waited like a memory of a quieter time.

Now, as he stepped through the creaking door of the small house, he paused. The air inside was still and dry, the scent of old wood and faint herbs clinging to the walls. He touched the edge of the table where his old tunic lay, fingers brushing over the worn fabric.

With a breath, he stripped off the training shorts , letting it fall like the skin of the boy he once was. When he pulled on the soft, light shirt and fitted the belt around his waist, it was as if he were donning another identity — not the one of the naive youth who had arrived here, but the one forged through pain, patience, and perseverance.

His reflection in the dusty metal plate on the wall surprised him. His hair had grown long, falling past his shoulders in dark waves. His face bore faint scars and a subtle edge of sharpness, the baby fat replaced with lean, hardened lines. The loneliness was etched in his eyes — not sorrowful, but deep, reflective. A look that said he had endured.

He smelled faintly like a swamp frog, sweat and dried blood baked into his skin from countless days of toil — he laughed softly at that. No one told you the path to strength would stink.

In these long months, only Verran had come — occasionally, just to drop off food and leave a few muttered words behind. No one else. No audience. No applause. Just the quiet battle between him and the wall he had chosen to climb.

Now that wall was behind him.

And before him — something new.