Hwoong! Hwoong!

“......”

The swordsmanship cadets, who were once again vigorously jumping rope today, watched as some of their fellow cadets either collapsed from being hit by the heavy iron ropes or struggled for breath due to exhaustion. They stared blankly at their instructor’s training routine.

No, calling it training seemed too kind—this was closer to torture. It was an unbelievable sight, almost surreal.

“…Hey, young master, is that really how knights are supposed to train?”

“Stop with the sarcasm and just call me by my name, mercenary.”

“Hmph, says the guy who’s always sarcastic himself.”

“You started it.”

The young man and the boy bickered. Though they were the same age, Garand, the mercenary apprentice, looked much older due to his rough upbringing, while Arno Offen, the noble’s son, had grown up in relatively gentler conditions. While Arno secretly envied Garand’s more masculine appearance, he kept that jealousy hidden and responded with a retort.

“…Don’t ask obvious questions. What knight in their right mind would train like that?”

“But he’s doing it right now.”

“That’s why it’s hard to believe even as I’m watching it.”

“…I see.”

Swinging a metal rod with an 80-kilogram steel bar attached to it, without hesitation—it was an unbelievable sight.

Even if they tried to tell someone, who would believe such a thing?

It was just that incredible.

Creak! Creak!

Every time the instructor swung the iron bar, ominous sounds echoed from his body. It sounded like bones breaking, but if you listened carefully, it wasn’t that.

It was the sound of muscles tearing.

The muscles were screaming in agony.

“Ugh!”

It wasn’t the instructor who groaned, but the cadets. Having experienced that pain themselves, their groans came out automatically.

This was one of the inevitable consequences of undergoing systematic training from a young age to become stronger—the pain of muscles tearing.

It was practically an injury, and the agony was unbearable.

“That must hurt. Kunta doesn’t like pain.”

The foreign-looking boy with a clumsy manner of speaking, Kunta, who was a full head taller than Garand, flinched at the sight. Though he seemed somewhat naïve, it wasn’t ignorance but rather untainted innocence that made Kunta's emotional expressions all the more genuine.

He understood that the tearing of muscles and the sound it made indicated an unimaginable level of pain.

‘It hurts like hell… No, pain alone can’t even begin to describe it.’

It felt like the inside of your body was burning, like your flesh was being slashed by knives. The more severe the tearing, the more unbearable the pain became.

…That’s what it should have been.

“Instructor, doesn’t that hurt?”

“It hurts. But it’s bearable.”

“…Instructor, you’re strange.”

“Strange? Any knight could do this.”

“…That’s a lie.”

“Hah, you’re not falling for it.”

Even the innocent barbarian didn’t believe such nonsense. Ihan had been hoping to trick him, but Kunta had wisely kept his distance. Though, even so, Kunta kept observing Ihan’s training.

Boom!

“Hoo!”

When Ihan finally set the metal rod down, the ground shook beneath him.

He casually leaned the iron rod somewhere and wiped his sweat-soaked body with a towel, before immediately picking up his personal jump rope.

It was a rope ‘slightly’ heavier than the 10-kilogram ones used by the cadets—this one weighed 50 kilograms, with each handle weighing 20 kilograms like a pair of dumbbells.

Ihan had wanted to make the rope even heavier, but if he did that, it would be too large to spin, so 10 kilograms was the limit.

A pity.

Still, as the saying goes, if you don’t have teeth, you make do with gums. Satisfied with the current weight, Ihan began to jump rope.

Whip, whip, whip, whip!

It was slow but steady. With each leap, his muscles bulged and moved.

Occasionally, the rope would whip against his bare skin, but Ihan ignored the pain and kept jumping.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

With each jump, the ground shook beneath him, making it difficult for anyone to stand still.

What on earth is that?

The cadets watched in stunned silence, unable to hide their shock.

“How long are you going to slack off? You’re not going to do anything?”

“Instructor, how do you even have the strength to talk in that condition?”

“Even if I don’t have the energy, I still have enough to scold slackers.”

“…We’re not slacking.”

“Everyone says that with their mouths.”

“Damn…”

And so, the young nobles resumed their jump rope training. Damn this crazy iron rope! One day, they swore, they’d break it for good.

Whip! Whip!

With newfound determination, they spun their ropes at a speed much slower than Ihan’s, but still far beyond their limits.

“…How much stronger are you trying to get?”

“Strong enough to always be ahead of you.”

“…”

It was even scarier because they knew he wasn’t lying.

 

Ihan didn’t feel embarrassed about training in front of others. If anything, he found it more uncomfortable to just stand around giving orders and watching others train.

At the very least, one should be able to do what they ask of others, and do it even harder and more intensely. That way, it would motivate others to push themselves as well.

‘After this, I should wrestle with Kunta.’

That boy was something else.

When it came to hand-to-hand combat, Kunta was more skilled than anyone else. He might be the strongest in hand-to-hand combat among the cadets.

That made it even better. Ihan needed a sparring partner for his martial arts practice, and Kunta was perfect. Though Ihan’s win rate was higher, that was because his strength surpassed Kunta’s. In terms of technique, Kunta was actually better.

For sword duels, there was Arno.

For spear training, there was Garand.

As for Roen…

‘That guy… he keeps avoiding me.’

Roen seemed to be avoiding sparring with Ihan, perhaps because he feared revealing his true abilities.

A strange fellow.

‘Well, I think I have an idea of what’s bothering him.’

More than anything, Ihan suspected something, which made it hard to push him too much.

A peculiar illness common among war veterans. Ihan sensed it from Roen.

‘…Regressors must have their own burdens to bear.’

Ihan wasn’t about to force Roen to confront it. It wasn’t someone else’s problem—it was a condition he knew all too well.

At that moment—

“In-instructor.”

“…Hm? Is there something you need, chick cadet number 2?”

“Irene, instructor. And why am I number 2, not number 1?!”

Despite being his neighbor and the first cadet Ihan had gotten acquainted with, Irene protested why she wasn’t ranked number one. Naturally, Ihan couldn’t just tell her that she was "chick cadet number 2" because she was the second person on his list of people to keep an eye on.

“Well, who told you to keep failing the stamina test so frequently? Normally, you’d be the last chick, but I made you number 2 because we’re acquainted. You should be grateful.”

Ihan shamelessly dodged the question.

“…Fact violence is bad, instructor.”

“What’s bad and violent is your stamina, Irene.”

“Hing…”

Irene Windler.

The only magician cadet in the swordsmanship department.

When she first arrived, countless male cadets blushed and avoided her. She was simply too beautiful, like a fairy.

Her long, golden hair was like spun gold, her eyes sparkled like embedded sapphires, and her skin was flawless and white as porcelain.

Her beauty could easily be compared to that of the mystical races.

And she was also a magician, possessing a mysterious aura.

It wasn’t long before she stole the hearts of many male cadets.

…But now?

‘It’s not easy to have such terrible motor skills.’

Instead of admiring her beauty, most people now worried about her, as if she were a fragile glass figure that might shatter at any moment.

‘That was shocking, for sure.’

Even the most frail noble ladies managed to do at least a hundred jump ropes before collapsing, but Irene?

‘She collapsed after three.’

She did exactly three jumps before breaking into a sweat like a waterfall and gasping for breath.

And that wasn’t even with the heavy ropes—it was with the light ones.

Yet she jumped rope like some kind of marionette.

How could her arms and legs move so independently of each other?

At this point, Ihan wondered if there was some hidden defect in her body.

He even brought her to the healing room, thinking she might have a serious condition, but the priest gave him an incredulous look and said:

“She just seems to have an unbelievably low stamina. How does someone get this weak? Even magicians have basic physical strength, but… this is…”

Later, Ihan found out that Irene used magic for almost everything in her daily life.

With her exceptional talent, she could substitute basic tasks with telekinesis, using magic as naturally as one would use their hands.

“How long have you been living like this?”

“Um, since I could use magic.”

“And when was that?”

“…Since I was twelve.”

“……”

For seven years, she had lived as if bedridden, so it was only natural her stamina was lower than that of a three-month-old baby.

She truly was a “chick cadet.”

…From behind.

“Hoo, Irene, the cadet who’s weaker than a chick. How’s your new diet going?”

“I’m eating a lot of meat and vegetables, just like you told me.”

“Good. Don’t worry about health for now, just focus on eating. You need to put on some weight before you can do anything. Make sure to eat at least five meals a day.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“Got it? It’s all about survival now. Survival! You have to eat to stay alive!”

“…Yes, sir.”

Her reply was weak.

Ihan wasn’t confident about her future.

And, as expected—

“You’ve stopped relying on magic, right?”

“Well, um…”

“…At least try not to use magic when you come to class. I’m saying this for your own good.”

“…Yes, sir.”

…When would this chick ever get stronger than a chicken?

No, would she ever reach the strength of a normal human being?

‘No wonder the heroines in romance fantasies are always collapsing. With bodies this weak, it’s no surprise they’re constantly getting hurt.’

The typical romance fantasy heroine. Always fainting, always getting injured, until she eventually falls ill.

It was no mystery why.

Ihan looked at Irene with a pitiful gaze, and she flinched.

Embarrassed.

Thank goodness you know how to be embarrassed, Irene. I’m still ashamed of you, though.

‘Shut up, you witch! I know I’m pathetic!’

She had only used magic because it was convenient—how could she have known it would make her as weak as a patient?

In a way, joining the swordsmanship department had been a godsend. If she hadn’t, she might have eventually died just by stepping on a pebble.

‘I can jump rope ten times now, though!’

[What an achievement.]

The ghost girl’s sharp criticism.

Irene blushed in shame as she shook her head and turned to Ihan, who asked:

“So, why did you come to me? Did you have something to say?”

“Oh, right!”

Realizing she had been distracted by the conversation, Irene hurriedly spoke up.

“It’s just… there might be some trouble during today’s class. I wanted to apologize in advance…”

“Trouble, huh? Are you talking about that?”

“…Yes?”

“That thing over there.”

“……”

Irene hesitantly turned her head.

There stood the person Ihan had referred to as “that thing,” and before she could stop herself—

“Oh! You’re right, it is that thing.”

She had just called Odwal Bernard, the professor of the Magic Department, “that thing.”