In the early dawn, before the sun had yet risen.

The taverns that stayed open late were still bustling, and the only ones stirring at this hour were the farmers, slowly waking and heading toward their fields.

Huff, huff!

Thud, thud.

Suddenly, heavy breathing and the sound of pounding feet echoed through the streets, as if a horse were galloping by. Those nearby might have even experienced an illusion of something larger than life racing down the road—such was the intensity of the runner's presence.

Yet.

"Sir Knight, running again today, are you?"
"So diligent, as always."
"Keep it up!"

The farmers, who were accustomed to waking up early, shouted words of encouragement toward the man running with such force.
Though their own days were repetitive, always starting with the same routines, the energy radiating from the runner was a refreshing change for them. It lifted their spirits and provided a break from the monotony that often became a mental burden.

Especially.

"Oh my, what a sight!"
"Maybe I should cover my eyes?"
"I wish my husband had such drive, hoho."
"...Is he a man or a beast?"

The women, pretending to shield their eyes, eagerly watched the half-naked man, clearly enjoying the view and drawing vitality from the spectacle.
The men, on the other hand, gazed enviously at his physique, feeling a mix of motivation and jealousy. In some ways, this situation seemed to benefit everyone.

Huff, huff!

The man, Ihan, acknowledged the greetings with only a glance, too focused on his intense training to engage in conversation.
It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, but rather, he took his exercise seriously and had no time for distractions.
The farmers understood this and didn’t mind. In fact...

"Here, have this later!"

With a flick of the wrist, a farmer threw an apple.
Without even turning around, Ihan effortlessly caught it mid-air and waved back in gratitude.
The farmer beamed with pride.

"Quite a guy, isn’t he?"
"Not every day you see a knight living outside the city walls."
"That’s true, haha."

For the past three years, rain or shine, Ihan had run daily without fail. It was hard not to root for someone like that, even if no one knew his ultimate goal.

"He's definitely destined for greatness," one farmer declared with conviction.

"I swear, this year, I’m submitting my resignation for real!"

Crunch!

Ihan bit into the apple as he shouted to himself, reinforcing his determination for the day.
His goal? Retirement.

He was eager to quit.

As usual, Ihan ran.
But this wasn’t just any run—his goal was to complete 20 kilometers within an hour.

It wasn’t about sprinting the entire distance. His objective was to maintain a steady pace while keeping his breathing and movements consistent.
Weighted sandbags, each weighing 10 kilograms, were strapped to his wrists and ankles. Sometimes, he even ran in full armor.

Thud, thud.

The impact of his footsteps reverberated through the ground, but he paid no attention to the added strain on his body.
Running was just the beginning—there was still much more to do.

"Huff."

He approached a pull-up bar in an open field. Grabbing hold of the bar...

"Hnngh!"

He began pull-ups. Over and over, he pulled himself up, maintaining perfect form without rest.
His biceps, lats, and spinal muscles all fired up as his body reacted to the strain. He focused intently on each tiny movement of his muscles, feeling every contraction.

It was his body, and his muscles.

He needed to understand exactly how they worked, how they could be pushed harder, and how to maximize their strength. Just building muscle without purpose wasn’t enough.

‘I don’t need to move with precision like that monster, but if I can make my body strong enough to withstand even his blows, that’ll be enough!’

With a clear goal in mind, he couldn’t stop thinking about how to improve.
At some point, he strapped an additional 20-kilogram sandbag between his legs, and 30 kilograms on his back. As he continued, the intensity of the exercise escalated dramatically.

Groooan.

The pull-up bar, which was designed to bear a lot of weight, began to creak under the strain of his prolonged effort.
Was it going to break? Or was he just using too much force?

"...I need to be more careful with my strength."

Even he realized he might have been overdoing it. Gently, Ihan released his grip and dropped back to the ground.
After 90 minutes of non-stop pull-ups, his body radiated heat as if steam was rising from his skin.
Sweat pooled beneath him, and his muscles trembled from the extreme workout.

Without pause, he picked up a heavy log lying in the yard, hoisting it onto his shoulders like a barbell.
The log weighed 100 kilograms, and though it was already a burden, Ihan took it a step further by lowering himself into a squat.

Squats—arguably the best way to build leg strength, but also one of the most grueling exercises.
He repeated the motion, sitting into the squat and standing back up, again and again. His thighs screamed in pain, but he didn’t stop.
Like with the pull-ups, Ihan treated his strength training like cardio, and his cardio like strength training.
It was a reckless method, one that a professional would have warned was destructive to the body.

Thud!

After 70 minutes of relentless squats, Ihan carefully set the log down.
As much as he wanted to throw it to the ground in exhaustion, he held back. If it broke, finding a replacement would be more of a hassle.
He chose reason over immediate satisfaction.

Hack!

A sudden cough brought with it the taste of blood.
He had internal injuries.
It was no surprise, given the extreme training regimen that bordered on madness.
No prestigious knight family would train this way. They had professional healers on standby or used secret family potions to speed up recovery and healing.

In essence, Ihan’s training was nothing more than self-inflicted torture.
It was destructive—self-harm, really.
But this wasn’t because Ihan was foolish or thoughtless.

It was because...

"My recovery ability really is like a troll’s."

He had something to rely on.

Ihan immediately began eating from his backpack.
He had no intention of seeing a healer—instead, he simply stuffed himself with food.

Chomp, chomp.

He chewed thoroughly, not swallowing his food whole, but breaking it down to extract every bit of nutrition.

His meal consisted of boiled chicken breast (with all the skin removed), broccoli, nuts, and steamed potatoes and cabbage.
A healthy meal, though certainly not tasty.
There was no seasoning, no salt—just pure nutrition. It wasn’t about taste; it was about healing his body.
And though it wasn’t coated in precious healing potions, it might as well have been, for how quickly it began to restore him.

Grind, grind.

The tremors in his muscles subsided, color returned to his pale face, and though not visible, the internal injuries and aching knees were swiftly healed.
His recovery was akin to that of a fearsome monster—a monster known as the "man-eating troll" in the depths of the forest.

A troll.

That was the secret of his recovery, and it was accurate.
One of the traits he gained from the experiments in his childhood, when he had been subjected to endless tests by a sorcerer, was the genetic trait of a troll.
Of course, he wasn’t at the level of regenerating limbs like a troll. At best, he had fast healing and sturdy resilience when consuming nutrients.

If any bodybuilders were present, they would have envied his ability.
Absorbing nutrients so quickly that they were immediately converted into muscle and healing power—this was an ability that made him a perfect candidate for building a powerful body.

Huuuuuu...!

As Ihan confirmed that his strength and pain had healed, he stood up.
There were still three hours left before he had to report for duty.
During that time...

Schwing!

Whoosh! Whiiiiing!

He swung his sword.

The kingdom’s basic swordsmanship.
A fundamental technique that involved cutting in eight directions—a skill so simple even children could learn it.
Ihan could perform the moves with his eyes closed at this point, or even imagine them in his mind.
But he didn’t let his focus waver, keeping his eyes on the tip of his sword, observing how he swung it, and considering how to move his body for more power, speed, and agility.

At some point, his sword, a simple longsword, began to cut through the air with such speed and sharpness that it tore through the wind.
Eventually, his strikes became so fast that they produced no sound at all, leaving only a silvery blur to indicate the sword’s movement.

Fwoosh, fwoosh!

Each swing kicked up clouds of dust, and the ground beneath his feet bore the marks of his blade.
And with a final strike...

Boom!

Ihan brought all his strength into a powerful downward slash, creating a small crater in the dirt.
Dust and small stones, thrown up by the impact, fell from the sky, dirtying his body.

But even so...

"...Can’t I swing even harder than this?"

Ihan frowned, still unsatisfied.

The road to retirement was long and arduous indeed.