A few villagers gathered around me, murmuring in concern. Someone placed a hand on my shoulder, trying to steady me, but my body still felt like it wasn’t fully here. My breaths came short and uneven, my chest tight like a vice was pressing down on it. The world flickered—stable one moment, hazy and distorted the next.

  “Someone fetch some water,” a voice said.

  “I’m fine,” I tried to say, but the words barely made it past my lips. My head throbbed, the lingering shock from the realization refusing to fade.

  And then, just as I thought I might collapse again, the buzzing started.

  A low, electric hum filled my skull, crawling down my spine like static. The air thickened, warping at the edges as jagged, flickering text forced itself into existence.

  The voice cracked and jittered, overlapping like a broken recording.

  My pulse pounded in my ears.

  A cold chill shot through me. Overtaken? The word burned itself into my mind, sinking in deeper than it should have.

  The text violently flickered, breaking apart before reassembling into something barely readable.

  A sickening lurch twisted my gut.

  And then—silence.

  The buzzing cut out, and the world snapped back into focus.

  The villagers were still there, their worried faces looking at me like I had just seen a ghost.

  Maybe I had.

  I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Two weeks. I had two weeks before something—someone—overtook this village.

  And I wasn’t even close to ready.

  I clenched my jaw, my head still spinning. The system had spoken before, but it hadn’t been this broken. The words barely stitched themselves together, each syllable jagged and unstable.

  Weren’t you speaking a bit better last time? I thought bitterly. Why do you keep turning even shittier? Fix that speech of yours.

  For a moment, there was nothing but static. Then, the system’s text flickered violently before a response came through.

  I stared blankly at the air where the text had just been.

  “…Are you serious?” I muttered under my breath.

  No response.

  Of course.

  Not only was my system glitched, but now it apparently had a speech level requirement. Fantastic.

  A deep breath. Then another.

  Slowly, the pounding in my skull faded, the crushing weight of realization easing—just enough for me to focus again. I forced my fingers to unclench from the dirt and exhaled shakily.

  That’s when I finally noticed him.

  The man crouched beside me, one hand on my shoulder. He was older, probably in his late forties or early fifties, but sturdy—his frame packed with the kind of strength that didn’t just fade with age. His beard was neatly trimmed, streaked with gray, and his sharp eyes studied me with an unreadable expression.

  And I recognized him.

  He was the same one I had seen earlier, the one training those men with swords.

  Something inside me clicked.

  Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed onto his shirt, my grip desperate. "Teach me swordsmanship in two weeks."

  The words came out rushed, almost frantic, but I didn’t care.

  The man blinked, clearly thrown off. He gave me a long, puzzled stare before grunting, "What nonsense are you spouting, boy?"

  "I’ll do anything to pay you back," I pressed, my voice firm despite the shakiness still clinging to me. "Anything. Just teach me."

  His brow furrowed, and for a moment, I thought he was going to refuse outright. He exhaled sharply, prying my fingers off his shirt and standing up.

  "You’re serious about this?"

  "As serious as it gets."

  He shook his head, rubbing his temples. "Learning the sword in two weeks? Impossible."

  "I don’t care."

  His expression darkened. "You should care. This isn't something you pick up in days. It takes years of discipline—years you don’t have. What makes you think you can do the impossible?"

  I gritted my teeth. "Because I have to."

  He scoffed, crossing his arms. "That’s not an answer."

  I clenched my fists. "Then what about this? I don’t have a choice. If I don’t learn, people die. I don’t know how, or who, but I know it happens. If there’s even the slightest chance I can stop it, I have to take it."

  His gaze didn’t waver. "And what if you fail?"

  "I won't."

  The words left my mouth before I could even process them. Not because I was confident, not because I knew I could do it—but because I couldn't afford to think otherwise.

  The man was silent for a long moment, his sharp eyes locked onto mine, searching for something. A lie. Doubt. A reason to tell me no.

  I stood my ground.

  Finally, he sighed heavily. "You really are a stubborn bastard." He rubbed the back of his neck, then pointed a finger at me. "Fine. I’ll train you. But when you're puking your guts out from exhaustion, don’t come crying to me."

  I didn’t hesitate. "Noted."

  I rushed back to Elira’s house, my mind still racing.

  The moment I stepped inside, she turned from the fireplace, her silhouette outlined by the glow of the flames. And for just a second—just a second—I saw someone else.

  My breath hitched.

  My mother.

  The image was fleeting, gone before I could grasp it, but the ache it left behind was real. I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  She must have been losing her mind back on Earth. I had just disappeared without a trace. What was she going through right now?

  Guilt curled around my chest like a vice. I had to find a way back.

  I would find a way back.

  No matter what it took.

  Pain.

  That was the first thing I became intimately familiar with over the past seven days. A deep, bone-weary kind of pain that refused to let go. If I had to choose between another round of training or getting hit in the head with a brick again, I’d take the brick. At least that would be over in a second.

  My body had been pushed to the breaking point every single day. Wake up at dawn. Swing a sword until my arms felt like they’d fall off. Spar until I was beaten into the dirt. Repeat. The first few days had been nothing short of hell. The other trainees—most of whom had been at this for years—watched as I stumbled, fumbled, and collapsed more times than I could count.

  But slowly—very slowly—I was getting better.

  And I had noticed something.

  The system—my glitched, pain-in-the-ass system—was actually doing something when I trained.

  At first, I thought it was just me adjusting, but after enough grueling hours, I realized that my body was adapting faster than it should. My swings became steadier, my footwork sharper. The pain was still unbearable, but I was lasting longer before collapsing.

  Then, one night, when I had dragged myself back to Elira’s house, sore and half-dead, the system had finally acknowledged my suffering.

  A faint buzz filled my skull, followed by a flickering message.

  I had stared at the glowing text for so long that my vision blurred. So I really can grow stronger through training? It was painfully slow, but it was possible.

  And then there was the skill.

  "System," I muttered, keeping my voice low. "Show me Arc Step."

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a flicker and a faint buzz in my skull, a panel appeared in front of me.

  I frowned as I read over the description and also the system could read out info pretty neatly without stuttering like a tsundere. Was it cause the data already existed and the system didn't have to come up with it? Anyway...

  So it wasn’t teleportation or anything insane—it was just damn good footwork. The kind that let me react faster than I normally could.

  The biggest part that stood out, though?

  The moment I focused on its description, something shifted in my body—an understanding that hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t like memorizing a move or learning a technique. It was like my body already knew how to execute it, even if my mind didn’t.

  It felt unnatural.

  Then, before I could dwell on it too much, the system buzzed again.

  I sat up slightly, blinking at the notification.

  So I could gain experience through training too? It wasn’t much—only 40 EXP after a full week of hell—but it was something.

  Fighting probably gives way more, I thought, staring at the glowing numbers. If just surviving this hellish training got me that much, actual combat might push me further.

  I dismissed the panel, letting my eyes shut as exhaustion finally won over my thoughts.

  Tomorrow was going to be hell again.

  But at least now, I had something to work with.

  I was back in the dirt.

  The blade in my hand trembled, my lungs burned, and my opponent—one of the senior trainees, a guy built like a damn ox—looked down at me with a mix of pity and mild disappointment.

  "You're fast, but your footwork’s garbage," he said, sheathing his sword. "Speed means nothing if you’re unbalanced."

  I gritted my teeth, barely managing to push myself up. That had been the third time he’d sent me flying in a single match. The others chuckled from the sidelines, and I felt frustration boil in my chest.

  I needed to get better.

  I needed something more.

  "Alright," I muttered under my breath, gripping my sword tighter. "Let’s try the new skill."

  I locked eyes with my opponent. His stance was steady, his grip unwavering. He wasn’t expecting anything different from me. Just another desperate attempt, another predictable failure.

  I’d prove him wrong.

  He moved first, lunging with a downward slash. It was fast—but not unpredictable. Normally, I would’ve stumbled back, barely dodging in time.

  Not this time.

  Arc Step.

  The moment I willed it to activate, something inside me clicked. My body reacted instantly, shifting before I even fully processed what was happening. My foot slid back, my stance adjusting at the perfect angle. It was like my weight had been redistributed without my input, my movements more natural than they had ever been.

  I was just outside his blade’s reach, and before he could adjust, I pivoted.

  Now!

  I surged forward, my sword cutting through the air toward his exposed side.

  Clang!

  His blade met mine at the last second, but this time, his eyes weren’t calm—they were surprised.

  “The hell?” he muttered.

  A second ago, I had been an easy target. Now, I was behind him, repositioned in the blink of an eye.

  It worked. It actually worked.

  For the first time, I wasn’t just scrambling to survive. I wasn’t blindly swinging or relying on brute instinct. My movements had purpose, precision.

  I didn’t have time to revel in it. He recovered fast, his stance shifting as he came at me again. I braced myself, raising my sword to block. My grip was still too shaky, my counters still too slow.

  I lost. Again.

  But this time?

  I was fighting.

  But there was a problem...

  Three seconds.

  That was the cooldown for Arc Step. In a fight this fast-paced, three seconds felt like a damn eternity.

  I had to do more than just dodge—I had to create a gap, immediately. If I repositioned but stayed in range, I was still a sitting duck.

  I picked myself up and reset my stance. Again.

  The next spar began. My opponent swung—a fast diagonal slash. I activated Arc Step, slipping just outside his attack range in a smooth pivot.

  Now!

  The moment I was in position, I lashed out. My wooden sword struck his side—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to land a clean hit. Then, before he could retaliate, I jumped back, putting distance between us.

  A gap.

  This was the key. If I kept moving like this, I could control the flow of combat.

  I kept drilling it into myself, forcing the sequence over and over. Dodge. Strike. Retreat.

  And I was getting faster.

  The fifth match of the day. My opponent—one of the more experienced trainees—was starting to look frustrated. At first, he had been patient, treating me like a rookie. But as I kept dodging, kept slipping just out of his reach, his swings became sharper, his stance less relaxed.

  It was getting under his skin.

  I saw it in his eyes.

  The next time I dodged and countered, his jaw clenched. And then, in an instant, his wooden sword glowed with a faint, flickering aura.

  Mana.

  Before I could react, he lunged—faster than before, his strike heavier.

  I barely had time to process it, but my instincts screamed at me.

  I activated Arc Step.

  Too late.

  I knew it the moment my feet started moving—I wouldn’t make it in time.

  The wooden blade was already coming down, and I couldn’t block it. Not with my sword. Not with my arms.

  If that hit landed, I’d be lucky to walk away with just a few fractures.

  A rush of panic flooded my system. I braced for impact—

  But the strike never came.

  Instead, the wooden sword froze mid-air, stopping just inches from my face.

  For a second, nothing moved.

  Then I felt it.

  A presence.

  A force that weighed down on the air itself, turning the training grounds dead silent.

  Slowly, I turned my head—and standing just beside me was the man who had taken me in for training.

  The one who had agreed to teach me despite my insane request.

  His calloused fingers rested lightly on my opponent’s wrist, and yet it looked like the man had been locked in place. No, more than that—it was as if his own sword had refused to strike.

  His gaze was calm. Steady. But something in his presence made the air feel thicker.

  "That's enough," he said, his voice smooth but heavy with authority.

  The tension shattered instantly.

  My opponent’s hands trembled as the mana faded from his blade. His face paled, his breath ragged. He stepped back, bowing his head quickly, as if shaken by his own actions.

  I exhaled slowly, my heartbeat still thudding in my ears.

  The old man let go of his wrist and turned to me. His expression unreadable.

  "You're learning fast," he said, "but you're still reckless."

  I swallowed, still trying to piece together what the hell just happened.

  "Master Cael," one of the trainees muttered.

  Cael.

  The man who had stopped that strike without lifting a weapon.

  I didn't know who he really was yet. But one thing was clear—

  He was dangerous.