Lua Gharne didn’t outwardly express her astonishment.

Engaging in swordsmanship training in this situation—no matter how insane someone might be—seemed implausible.

Yet somehow, it was the correct answer.

Because it’s him.

With Enkrid, such madness somehow made sense.

Enkrid gripped the sword, trembling as he endured the experience, then released it and stepped back.

Has he given up?

Giving up once is easy. Twice, even easier.

And once someone retreats, the Tutor becomes an insurmountable wall.

For Enkrid, that would have been a fatal flaw.

Lua Gharne watched him with concern.

“I can’t allow it to show me something new,” Enkrid muttered, taking a breath and grabbing the sword again.

“...?”

“Well, you see,” Kraiss explained, “our captain’s unit is called the Mad Platoon for a reason.”

Was that supposed to be subtle? No, it wasn’t subtle at all. Kraiss had essentially just declared that Enkrid was a madman.

It wasn’t an insult, though—it was just fact.

As Esther continued her nap undisturbed, Enkrid grabbed the sword four more times, each time releasing it and returning with a faint smile.

“This is it,” he said.

He swung his sword in the air. Lua Gharne realized by now that trying to stop him was pointless.

What was left to do?

“Well, he really is insane,” she muttered in admiration.

And if admiration wasn’t enough, she decided to guide him.

Fighting to win and mastering swordsmanship were two entirely different matters.

Lua Gharne possessed an extensive understanding of combat, rich with experience and refined techniques. She taught Enkrid how to deflect, strike, and read his opponent’s intentions.

Swordsmanship was like an orchestra: a story told through the blade. Enkrid learned by observing and experiencing, while Lua Gharne refined his understanding.

The spirit within the Tutor possessed great skill, but it was nothing compared to Lua Gharne’s expertise.

If only the sword had a simple hook or grip mechanism that activated something on touch, Lua Gharne could have solved the problem herself.

But Kraiss had tested it—nothing happened unless the sword was gripped firmly.

It required deliberate effort.

Lua Gharne’s attempts to interact with it remained unsuccessful.

Swish!

She tried several more times, but the result was the same.

“I can see something, but…”

The time she had to perceive the vision was too brief. As always, Enkrid was the only one capable of truly gripping the sword.

“It seems like progress is being made,” Finn muttered, setting up a sleeping area. She pulled a blanket from her pack, sliced the rind off a hard piece of cheese with her knife, and placed thinly shaved pieces on a slice of stale bread. Her meal preparation was complete.

“This is partly my responsibility,” Kraiss muttered, and for some reason, he decided to grip the sword himself.

The result?

He died. His body remained intact, but his mind endured an agonizing collapse.

When Enkrid wasn’t holding the sword, Kraiss had thoughtlessly decided to experiment and paid the price.

“Urgh…” Kraiss foamed at the mouth and collapsed. It had been a foolish endeavor.

Meanwhile, Esther simply continued sleeping, and the group naturally fell into their respective roles.

Enkrid would grip and release the sword, returning after each attempt.

Lua Gharne would build on that, teaching him swordsmanship based on his experiences.

Finn and Kraiss focused on setting up camp and preparing food.

Esther would eat, sleep, and wake.

With the barrier sealing off their surroundings—even extending underground—they had little choice but to dig shallow pits for their necessities.

The area resembled a dome-shaped prison with a slightly convex floor.

They used the small, dug-out pits as makeshift latrines.

“We could go over a week without needing to relieve ourselves, if necessary,” Lua Gharne commented.

Finn nodded, envious of Lua Gharne’s physiology.

By the end of the first full day, Lua Gharne felt a quiet admiration.

Normally, she was overflowing with advice and critiques—things she couldn’t help but express.

But in this moment, Enkrid didn’t need those words.

What did he need for the next step?

Lua Gharne had intended to guide him toward the answer, but he was already finding it on his own.

Still, a bit of advice couldn’t hurt.

Kraiss, wracked with guilt, had remained silent throughout.

He blamed himself for their predicament—what should have been a simple retrieval of a silver coin had turned into an inescapable nightmare.

His mind raced with ideas for escape, but no solution came to him.

“I got greedy for Krona,” he thought, silently berating himself.

This situation stemmed from his failure to anticipate the worst-case scenario.

While Kraiss stewed in regret, Finn chose to stop thinking altogether.

She simply watched Enkrid.

“He’s still swinging that sword,” she noted.

It was consistent, almost admirable in its absurdity.

But to surpass the Tutor, he had no choice but to keep swinging.*

Still…

“This isn’t normal.”

That was Finn’s thought every time she looked at him.

His incredible skill must have been forged through such insane efforts.

Watching him stirred something in her—a spark of realization, a quiet epiphany.

She had long since defined her own limits and come to a halt in her growth.

But ever since meeting Enkrid, those limits had begun to crack. Today, she grasped the beginnings of something profound.

Limits aren’t for me to define.

Her training in Ailcarazian martial arts and her ranger expertise—why had she stopped pushing herself?

Because everyone told her she had reached the peak.

But Enkrid didn’t adhere to such notions. Without saying a word, his actions, his attitude, and his perspective on life conveyed a different message.

Finn found herself quietly moved.

Meanwhile, Esther was locked in her own thoughts.

“It was such a trivial curse,” she thought bitterly. “Barely worthy of the term.”

It hadn’t even reached the level of true magic.

And yet she had failed to notice it and allowed herself to be trapped?

The Esther of her past—before she became a leopard—would have bitten her tongue and ended herself in shame.

She had her reasons, of course.

She’d expended too much magic reinforcing Enkrid’s blade and repeatedly enhancing her own body.

Her strength had been depleted, her magical reserves drained, and her enchanted constructs were failing.

All of it had taken its toll.

“But still!”

Failing to recognize such an elementary trap was inexcusable.

She had assumed they’d have time to recover on the way back, which was why she hadn’t focused on healing.

Now, she needed rest to restore her energy and plan her next move.

Lying down with her head buried in her paws, Esther resolved to regain her strength. With at least a week of rest, she would recover enough magic to break this feeble barrier.

Drifting into a half-sleep, Esther plotted her comeback.

Time flowed in a peculiar rhythm, blending their individual struggles into a strange harmony.

“Knowing what you lack is important,” Lua Gharne said at one point, her voice calm and instructive.

Her lessons were separate from the swordsmanship of the Tutor. They were purely her own teachings.

Fighting to win and mastering swordsmanship were entirely different paths, something Enkrid was coming to understand deeply.

Lua Gharne was a remarkable teacher—better than any instructor Enkrid had ever paid with his hard-earned Krona.

“What happens when you play a card game without holding any cards?” she asked, presenting an unfamiliar perspective.

Her follow-up explanation surprised Enkrid and reaffirmed her exceptional ability as a mentor.

She wasn’t just a teacher—she was someone who could light the path forward.

***

"Basics. Start from the basics."

"Before you do anything, you need to build your foundation."

"If you don't know how to hold a sword, you can't lift it. If you can't lift it, you can't swing it!"

"If your eyes aren't opened, there's no next step. But do you really need to keep grabbing that sword?"

"And so, all that remains is to reflect and think. Burn your life like a candle, and as long as it doesn't go out, you'll rise using your body as fuel. If you don't die, you'll gain something in the end."

"Why not just become a farmer? Why must it always be about the sword?"

There had been countless instructors.

They all said the same thing: basics were key.

And so, he adhered to the basics.

Enkrid practiced with intense focus, moving his feet swiftly, ensuring that every swing of his sword had intent.

Yet no matter how hard he worked, the retort was always the same:

"Why not just farm? Do you really need to hold that sword?"

Lua Gharne, at first, tried to stop him and found the entire situation absurd. But at some point, she seemed to enjoy it. Or so it appeared to Enkrid—it could have been his imagination.

Reading the expressions of a Frokk was no easy task for a human.

It was just a hunch, a gut feeling.

“You can’t sit at a gambling table without holding any cards.”

“You’re right, cards. Right now, you’re just a fool sitting at the table with a purse full of silver coins.”

Silver coins were the basics. No one sat at a gambling table without at least a handful of coins, though no one came with just a few coppers either.

Strangely, her words brought a sense of pride to Enkrid.

“Lay a foundation,” she had said, and now she was acknowledging that foundation.

Yet the slow progress had frustrated him, leading him to seek out methods like the Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship.

Could that style of swordsmanship serve as his cards?

“Yes, but something honed and refined over time would be better. That Valen style? It’s overly aggressive. If all you’re holding are jokers, your hand is useless.”

What a perfect analogy.

Jokers only shine when paired with other cards.

The Valen-style mercenary swordsmanship was just like that—reliant on complementary techniques to truly shine.

Swordsmen like Lioness Oniac had defined the branches of swordsmanship, and later practitioners had developed them further.

Northern greatsword techniques and central continental formal swordsmanship were not singular schools but amalgamations of methods refined through trial, error, and talent.

What Lua Gharne referred to was one such refined style. Specifically, the swordsmanship taught by the Tutor.

“This is a cursed sword, but what it holds inside is genuine.”

Enkrid, for the most part, had only skimmed the surface of swordsmanship.

His knowledge had always been shallow.

Lua Gharne reiterated the importance of learning swordsmanship properly.

“With a technique derived from formal styles, you’ll feel as though your opponent can see through your every move.”

He was already experiencing that.

The spirit residing within the Tutor employed such precise, predictive methods.

“I see.”

Enkrid nodded, his eyes alight with a fiery determination. The torchlight reflecting in his gaze turned his usual blue eyes into a mix of crimson and blue.

When it came to learning, Enkrid was unreserved in expressing his emotions, a trait Lua Gharne found endlessly fascinating.

This man is truly obsessed with the sword.

If one were to simplify it, he was a sword fanatic—a “Swordnut.”

Everything Enkrid had learned so far wasn’t about wielding a sword but preparing to wield one.

This was the crux of Lua Gharne’s teachings.

Through the Tutor, Enkrid came to understand this truth.

“I’ll just go grab some swordsmanship real quick,” he joked, gripping the sword once more.

It was repetition, yes. But this was far gentler than truly dying—a tolerable agony that allowed him to learn.

To be honest, for Enkrid, it was both simple and enjoyable.

He grabbed the sword, moved briefly, and returned again.

Blinking, he shook his head.

“Did you get hit again?”

“This time, both my legs were cut off.”

Despite his words, he was surprisingly calm.

“The last attack looked like an overhead slash, but it shifted to a diagonal strike mid-swing.”

He had seen and understood the process.

What was needed now?

Enkrid picked up the broken sword he had been using as a training blade, sheathed and all.

Lua Gharne’s heart raced unconsciously.

Her excitement made her cheeks puff out slightly.

“You’re really…”

Fascinating.

The Tutor couldn’t restrict him. In fact, it seemed the sword’s influence was already falling behind his progress.

While she was bound by certain oaths preventing her from teaching entirely new techniques, she could guide him in perfecting what he had learned.

And so, that’s what they did.

He would enter the trial, steal techniques, and bring them back to replicate them.

Thanks to his complete control over his body, such a feat was possible.

Lua Gharne then polished his movements further.

Once he mastered a skill, he would grab the sword again.

“Lost a finger this time,” Enkrid remarked after returning.

“Then the blade curved like a snake and thrust for the throat.”

“It used a wrist snap,” Lua Gharne explained.

They continued training. Despite the dark circles forming under his eyes, Enkrid remained calm.

Occasionally, he rested, eating and drinking to prevent his body from breaking down.

During one such break, Finn observed the sword with a thoughtful expression.

“It reminds me of an old legend,” she said. “Something about pulling a sword to become king.”

Enkrid, overhearing, chuckled at the thought.

Become a king just by pulling a sword?

It seemed like such a crude and exaggerated tale. A king was someone shaped by politics and countless interconnected factors.

Legends, after all, were always embellished.

Enkrid devoted most of his time to mastering swordsmanship.

He had gripped the Tutor over a hundred times, each attempt bringing him closer to mastery.

It should have seemed like an act of self-torture, yet Enkrid remained unfazed.

Though the pain lingered in his body, it felt diluted—perhaps the result of his many repeated deaths.

This will work.

Enkrid felt a renewed sense of exhilaration from learning swordsmanship.

It took a day and a half.

Instead of reliving the same day endlessly, he exchanged time for high-quality techniques each time he gripped the sword.

Short but intense, the time had been enough.

“It’s done now,” Lua Gharne declared.

Was this thanks to the Tutor?

No.

Above all else, Enkrid himself was different. He was no longer the man struggling desperately with his limited talent.

He reflected on the repeated days.

Each trial, each review, had taught him to see what he had previously overlooked.

What had he gained through this process?

Though it was impossible to sum up in a few words, if asked, Enkrid would reduce it to two:

“Talent.”

Among those who dwelled in mediocrity, he had unearthed something within himself.

The Heart of the Beast, instincts honed for evasion, strength, speed, and reflexes—all of it aligned with his newfound mastery of his body.

It was supported by boldness, focus, and sharpened senses.

“You… What are you?” Lua Gharne asked, astonished.

For her, it seemed as though Enkrid had developed talent out of thin air.

Gripping the sword once more, he felt the sticky sensation of the muddy ground beneath him.

Clang!

Blades met.

The difference now was clear: Enkrid had deciphered the opponent’s swordsmanship.