The sword wasn't truly a cursed weapon in the traditional sense.

Though it was referred to as haunted, it didn’t actually harbor a malevolent spirit.

Rather, it was a fragment of an intense mental construct.

In the distant past, a genius magician had realized an extraordinary idea through his spells.

“Is there a way to pass down abilities through generations?”

He had pondered deeply, and his brilliance had brought the concept to life.

However, while the magician excelled in magical talent, his understanding of human nature was utterly abysmal.

The soul trapped in the sword existed solely to teach, with no regard for the student’s well-being.

This resulted in countless apprentices bleeding from their ears as they attempted to learn.

The transfer of knowledge was far from effective.

After his failure, the magician sought another method to pass down the techniques of swordsmen and warriors—physical skills rather than magical ones.

“I will ensure that swordsmanship is carried forward for generations.”

And so, the Tutor sword was created.

“Dolph, was it? He must’ve really hated his descendants,” Lua Gharne remarked, slapping her cheek with her tongue—a display of irritation.

The Tutor wasn’t exactly necromancy, though it verged into that domain. It didn’t drain blood or turn its wielder into a berserker.

Instead, it trapped a human soul in the blade, a concept the magician had failed to grasp.

He had crammed human consciousness, spirit, and purpose into the sword.

As a result, the soul in the Tutor lived for one goal and one goal only: to teach swordsmanship, heedless of whether the student survived or not.

To master a single skill from the Tutor, one would need to face death dozens of times.

Only by surpassing the sword’s own techniques—matching its every strike and outwitting it—could the soul trapped within finally vanish.

The so-called "treasure" here was likely…

“Swordsmanship,” Lua Gharne said with a blink of her eye.

“All you need to do is acquire the swordsmanship. But while your body won’t die, enduring the repeated deaths in spirit will be unbearable. It’s better to search for another way to break the barrier than to deal with that sword.”

Her words hung heavily in the air.

Enkrid, however, glanced at the sword and then back at Lua Gharne.

“So, I need to die repeatedly to learn the swordsmanship?”

“Yes, it’s absurd. What human could endure that?”

Lua Gharne slapped her cheek again with her tongue—a gesture akin to a human clicking their tongue.

“Ah, damn it, this was my mistake. I’m sorry,” Kraiss apologized, lowering his head.

“Hah, this is maddening. We have enough rations to last about two weeks. Maybe we could dig a tunnel up or down?” Finn suggested, already considering alternative strategies like a true ranger.

Meanwhile, Esther was sprawled on the ground, asleep.

That leopard can sleep even in a situation like this?

Enkrid glanced around at his companions and thought, So, I just have to risk death to learn swordsmanship?

“Sounds like a scam,” he muttered. It was the kind of thing a ferryman might whisper in a dream.

To be honest, compared to being surrounded by gnolls and poisoned to death, this seemed easier.

Enkrid frowned. Could it really be this straightforward?

Since when had life ever been so simple?

Probably not.

Learn swordsmanship by dying repeatedly?

There had to be a catch.

“What are the odds it’s another trap?” he asked.

“Well, if it had a loop or hook, I could try something, but…” Lua Gharne replied, displaying her slippery palm.

Enkrid considered her words, then nodded.

“I’ll do it.”

“Repeated deaths aren’t something to take lightly. Want me to show you what happens?” Lua Gharne snapped, frustrated.

She understood that Enkrid wasn’t an ordinary man—his resilience was remarkable. But even the most disciplined mortals couldn’t endure death without consequence.

For mortals, death in any form was a harrowing experience.

“Even nine out of ten priests who serve gods of endurance and suffering fail,” she warned.

The Tutor sword was no ordinary relic.

Few of them remained across the continent, and collectors would pay fortunes for one.

And here it is, tied to a trap.

The barrier seemed impenetrable unless opened by a highly skilled magician.

While Lua Gharne wasn’t a master of magic, she knew enough to gauge the situation. She even tried striking the barrier with her whip, but it didn’t leave a scratch.

The situation was undeniably grim.

“I’ll give it another shot,” Kraiss volunteered.

Gripping the sword again, he quickly released it.

“Still being chased. Feels like a berserker.”

Releasing the sword was as easy as gripping it. That simplicity was the essence of the Tutor.

Once you let go of the sword, you return.

It allowed the wielder to abandon the challenge at any time. But that ease of quitting meant the curse tied to the Tutor would never be broken.

To surpass the Tutor, one would need an almost perverse tolerance for death—something beyond the capability of most mortals.

While Enkrid wasn’t a masochist, he couldn’t help but think: This doesn’t seem too difficult.

After all, he had faced worse challenges.

There was no sign of a ferryman or an insurmountable wall this time.

“Damn it, I really thought this was going to be as simple as picking up a fairy tale treasure,” Kraiss lamented, pacing in frustration.

“Should we ration the food and try to wait it out? Maybe the barrier will weaken over time,” Finn suggested, already planning ahead.

“It’s completely unexpected,” Lua Gharne admitted, visibly exasperated.

Yet, amidst all the chaos, Enkrid remained calm.

He reached for the sword again.

“Enkrid!” Lua Gharne’s voice rose, uncharacteristically sharp.

But it was too late.

Once again, he was in the swamp.

For the second time, Enkrid found himself standing on the sticky mud, his senses instantly heightened.

Without hesitation, he swung his sword horizontally.

Clang!

The strike connected, forcing the opponent’s blade back.

The floating sword bent unnaturally and aimed for his side, but Enkrid responded with a downward slash.

Ching!

The clash of blades rang out, sharp and clear.

Whoosh.

A gust of wind swept through, scattering the mist.

There it stood—helmet, blue flames for eyes, and partial plate armor covering its body.

Heart of Might, he thought.

It didn’t activate.

Not fair, he mused, though he wasn’t surprised.

This was a mental construct, a playground for malevolent spirits—or something similar.

He had experienced this once before.

Only once, but he had died countless times in his life. Facing death and repeating life had become his reality.

That experience allowed him to adapt quickly.

It only took him one attempt to grasp the situation.

So, even if this was unfamiliar, Enkrid remained unshaken.

“Alright,” he muttered, tightening his grip.

His Voice Echoed Clearly

Enkrid opened his mouth experimentally, testing whether he could still speak.

“Do you understand words?” he asked aloud, curious if the entity would respond.

The reply came not in words but in action.

Thud!

The armored figure, wielding a sword, lunged forward, splashing through the thick mud with heavy steps.

Whoosh.

A powerful downward slash fell from above, combining speed and force with a trajectory that was both difficult and deadly.

Enkrid met the attack head-on, blocking it in the same manner as before. He parried and pushed back, forcing the figure to withdraw momentarily.

But just as he countered, the enemy’s blade pivoted, aiming for his side. Enkrid responded reflexively in kind.

It felt like a play, a choreographed repetition of movements. Over and over, they clashed in a seamless exchange of strikes.

Then, suddenly, the enemy's blade shot upward in a predetermined move, as if it had always intended to thrust from below.

The upward swing came dangerously close, grazing Enkrid’s cheek and forehead as he twisted his body to evade it.

Using the opening, Enkrid’s sword slashed at the figure’s waist.

Clang!

It blocked that too?

As their blades clashed repeatedly, Enkrid felt an odd sense of immersion. He kept swinging, kept exchanging blows, but his attempts to read the figure’s intentions were futile.

The consequences of his failure were immediate.

The cold steel pierced his chest, the point of the blade sinking deep.

When the vision ended, Enkrid gasped awake, clutching his chest.

“Haaah.”

A faint, aching pain spread from his heart to the rest of his body.

He had died.

Again.

This was the second death. And yet, while his body remained unharmed, the pain and memory of death lingered vividly.

So this is what they mean by ‘unbearable.’

Or was it?

Honestly, this isn’t so bad. It’s much better than actually dying.

“Did it stab you there?” Lua Gharne asked, standing close by.

Enkrid nodded, rising to his feet. He took a few steadying breaths and checked his condition. Everything still worked, and he wasn’t gravely injured.

You endure the agony of death briefly, steal the swordsmanship being taught, and move forward.

Something about it felt strangely familiar.

“You’re a fool. Even attempting this is foolish unless you’ve gone mad,” Lua Gharne muttered, her tone laced with exasperation.

Was she always this nagging?

Enkrid’s mind wandered briefly to the first repeat of the day. The thrust he had faced earlier had already become part of his repertoire, internalized as his own technique.

His gaze shifted to the Tutor, the sword he had been gripping moments ago. It supposedly housed a spirit capable of teaching unparalleled swordsmanship.

“Am I doing this right?” he asked nonchalantly, completely ignoring Lua Gharne’s complaints.

Instead of waiting for a response, he swung his sword. The motion mirrored the technique he had just observed.

It was clear what he intended: practice, refine, and learn.

Lua Gharne stopped mid-rant, her eyes fixed on him, unblinking.

Her thoughts spilled out unbidden:

“Did you hit your head? Are you already damaged?”

Unfazed, Enkrid didn’t shake his head or reply. He simply continued to practice, mumbling to himself.

Was this how it went?

To Lua Gharne’s eyes, Enkrid’s movements were slow and clumsy, his talent for swordsmanship pitifully inadequate.

Is this really all he’s gained after being taught directly by that thing?

Lua Gharne prided herself as a scholar—not just any scholar, but one who studied swordsmanship extensively. Her influence on central continent swordsmanship was profound, and her understanding of the craft was unparalleled.

For all her longevity, she was recognized not for her physical might but for her exceptional ability to teach.

And yet, even under her watchful eye, Enkrid’s progress was agonizingly slow.

There were rare moments of inexplicable leaps in skill—brief, sudden bursts of brilliance that defied logic.

No preparation, no warning, no indication. He would simply improve in an instant.

Lua Gharne had never encountered anyone like him, someone so utterly incomprehensible.

“Could you take a look at this?” Enkrid asked casually, interrupting her thoughts.

“You definitely hit your head,” she replied flatly.

“Meow,” Esther agreed, nodding as she lay sprawled nearby.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kraiss asked, his tone uncertain.

“It’s not cursed, is it?” Finn muttered nervously, her unease palpable.

Enkrid ignored them all, focusing instead on his sword. His movements weren’t perfect—far from it—but there was a visible intent in his strikes.

He simulated a scenario: drive the enemy left, follow with a thrust.

Though imperfect in execution, the form was there.

Lua Gharne watched as he worked, ready to interject, when Enkrid suddenly spoke.

“I think I need to see it again.”

Without hesitation, he gripped the sword once more.

“You’re insane. Completely insane,” Lua Gharne muttered, her voice tinged with a strange mix of exasperation and awe.