The training field was wide and open, surrounded by stone walls and wooden dummies scarred by countless cuts. To one side, racks held blunted swords, spears, and practice shields. The sun had barely peeked over the mountains, but the place already breathed tension and expectation.
When we arrived, two figures stood at the center of the field. Our instructors.
One was tall and thin, with a long gray mustache and eyes so sharp they seed to slice the air. The other was a mountain with legs—tense muscles bulging under his uniform, arms crossed like he was already bored of the show.
"Line up, maggots!" barked the one with the mustache. His voice cracked through the air like a whip.
We rushed to form up. I ended up in front, captain by default, still feeling the weight of their gaze on my neck.
"Today we start from the basics. And when I say basics, I an the shit that'll keep you from dying with so bastard's cock shoved up your ass," he spat with disdain. "What you'll learn here is called the Eight Steps of the Plum Blossom. Eight fucking moves. If you can't master them, go back to milking cows."
The bulky instructor stepped forward. He didn't say a word. Just drew a practice sword and stood before us.
And then, he moved.
The first strike was clean and low—a rising diagonal from hip to shoulder.
The second, a downward slash, brutal, skull-splitting.
Third, a horizontal cut, fast, straight for the neck.
Fourth, a spin ending in a reversed thrust, like dancing with death.
Fifth, a stab to the gut—no rcy, no flourish.
Sixth, a feint turned into a backhand slash to the ribs.
Seventh, a wide arc designed to knock the enemy off balance.
And the eighth... a vertical strike with both hands, like passing judgnt and execution in a single motion.
When he finished, he stood still, sword held forward. The field fell into absolute silence. Even the wind held its breath.
"They're not flourishes. This isn't noble fencing. This is military doctrine," said the instructor. "morize them. Repeat until you bleed. On the battlefield, there's no ti to think. Your body moves—or it dies."
I watched every movent like a hawk. My eyes soaked in the rhythm, the weight, the intent.
And then sothing clicked in my mind.
Angel.
"Angel," I whispered inwardly, "run a simulation. Compare those eight movents with the fight against the bandits."
"Simulation initiated. Reconstructing data... syncing muscle mory... loading predictive combat model."
The world around vanished. In a blink, I saw myself fighting the bandits in the forest... but this ti, using the Eight Steps.
Every strike I'd thrown that night now had structure. Every dodge was sharper. Every counterattack, cleaner. The chaos of that battle transford into a lethal rhythm, a dance of death that made sense.
The difference was night and day.
"Angel, estimated increase in combat efficiency?"
"Result: if the Eight Steps are integrated into your current style, combat efficiency will triple. Precision, energy usage, and lethality will increase by 321%."
My heart skipped a beat.
I had the instinct. Now I had the thod.
A system.
A code.
A fucking path to power.
I snapped back to reality as the instructors began pairing us off to practice the first two movents. But my mind kept replaying them.
The Eight Steps weren't just techniques.
They were a language.
And I was going to master it until my sword spoke it fluently—in blood and bone.
Despite my high expectations, reality slapped us in the face. Our movents were a pathetic shadow of the instructor's.
"Angel, start a simulation. Show where I'm screwing up."
"Simulation activated... displaying results."
In an instant, two figures appeared before , executing the moves in sync—mine and the instructor's. It wasn't just a matter of speed. My angles were off. Wild.
During the swing, my center of gravity dropped too low, while the instructor's remained balanced and strong in his upper core. Even as a novice, I could tell his stance allowed him to react from any of the eight moves. ? I'd get knocked over by a light jab.
"Angel, help correct my form."
"Activating auxiliary system."
I took a deep breath and exhaled. My body shot forward. I launched the first step—a rising diagonal that, for the first ti, felt nearly perfect. But when I tried to flow into the downward slash, my hip exploded in dry, brutal pain, like a hamr smashing bone.
"Warning: user lacks the physical capacity to perform all eight strikes in sequence. Analyzing..."
I collapsed onto the ground. The instructors barely spared a glance before returning to the others.
"Problem detected. The eight strikes form a chain that utilizes muscles from the big toe to the neck, maintaining posture like a stable structure. According to data, you require Strength 5.0, Agility 5.0, and Vitality 5.0 to execute them properly."
Seeing those numbers, I understood why even commoners could beco monsters on the battlefield. The technique itself forced you to grow stronger.
"Angel, design a training plan to reach those stats in six months."
"Analyzing... Training plan generated. Three problems detected:
1. The amount of energy and protein needed to support physical growth.
2. High risk of physical damage—massive intake of bitter peaches will be required.
3. Body will develop resistance to said fruits within three months. After that, no effect."
It was a fucked-up situation—but not impossible.
Right now, I was just another commoner. But it wouldn't take long for soone to realize I was a fallen noble. According to William's mories, there were Redvale and Draymor family mbers here, and so of them were likely in this very training batch.
It was only a matter of ti before soone recognized .
And if I wasn't strong enough, they'd kill without a second thought.
Only real talent would earn support.
And keep alive.
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