Chapter 61
A month had passed.
Aside from the 8 hours I spent sleeping each day, I had invested the remaining 16 entirely into training. It was something enforced upon me, regardless of my own will.
Ricardo, the vice-captain of the
‘I have to admit, his loyalty is admirable.’
The daily routine was simple. I wore bracelets and anklets, each weighing well over 50 kilograms. These were specially crafted items made by Winterbell’s blacksmiths through a custom order. The material used was steel.
– Lord Ran. It is time for your training.
– Lord Ran. You must climb now.
– Lord Ran. You are not allowed to use mana.
Every day, I climbed the cliff walls. Darkin's philosophy was that there was no faster way to improve one's physical capabilities than scaling sheer cliffs with bare hands.
Back when I had been Van Descartes, I had used cliff climbing as a method of infiltration into demon territory, never as a form of training.
Thanks to Ricardo's relentless encouragement, I climbed the cliffs every morning and evening. My already excellent physique steadily evolved toward perfection. The shape of my muscles changed. Their texture transformed. Not just the superficial muscles, but the deep muscles within were reinforced as well.
Though it’s said that training the body has no end, I honestly believed that after my rebirth, there would be no more room for growth. But in the face of overwhelming intensity, my body underwent new changes every single day.
As a result, my mana sensitivity also increased. Back when I was Van Descartes, I had excellent mana control, but my actual mana reserves were so poor that I could barely feel a difference. Now, however, the amount of mana I possessed was incomparable to those days.
Naturally, the way I utilized it had also changed.
In terms of potential alone, I could now say I surpassed even the days when I had been part of the Hero’s party.
Once the morning routine was done, I sparred with Ricardo. Though we called it sparring, we used real blades and fought with the intent to kill—one careless move and I could lose my life.
In fact, there were several occasions where my arm nearly got severed mid-fight.
But because the sparring was so close to real combat, my skills improved at an astonishing pace. My past experience combined with my present effort produced results that were almost miraculous.
Even Ricardo, during our sparring sessions, praised me with genuine admiration, and my stubborn master wore a satisfied smile.
‘Finally!’
And today was the day I had long awaited—the day I would learn his sword technique. A secret style created personally by the second-in-command of the Winterbell Family. How could I not be excited?
Standing in the training ground, Darkin looked at me with a solemn expression and spoke.
"Before I bestow upon you my sword, I need you to make one promise."
"Please, speak."
"This sword is the culmination of my entire life. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that my whole existence has been poured into it. And for you to learn it… means you are to inherit my sword..."
Darkin locked eyes with me, his gaze burning with intensity.
"You must become the Patriarch. That’s what it means."
In that one sentence, I felt a flood of emotions.
Regret. Remorse. Injustice. Anger. Sorrow.
After a brief moment of thought, I answered calmly.
"I swear on everything I have. I will become the Patriarch."
"Good."
I figured that a single, firm word would be better than dressing it up with fancy rhetoric.
"Do you know why I kept emphasizing physical training all this time?"
"...I do not."
"You fool. Sometimes you act like you’ve got a hundred snakes coiled up inside you, and other times, your head seems like nothing but decoration."
"...Ahem."
"I emphasized the growth of your body because it’s the minimum requirement to use the swordsmanship you’re about to learn."
"...Pardon?"
"The swordsmanship I created places a burden on the body that surpasses anything you can imagine. There's no way around it. That’s exactly what it was designed for."
Darkin continued.
"Overwhelming destructive power. A sword technique that cuts down everything in a single strike. That is my swordsmanship—Single Blade Art."
"Then... you’re saying everything is decided by just one slash?"
"Correct."
I had long known Darkin wasn’t an ordinary man, but even so, I hadn’t imagined a swordsmanship of this kind could exist.
Isn’t swordsmanship originally meant to kill the enemy? Then, if your first strike fails, it's only natural to have second and third follow-ups prepared.
That’s why many family sword styles include over twenty forms or sequences. Yet this old man was telling me that his sword style consisted of only a single slash. Then if that one slash failed?
You’d simply die.
‘What kind of absurd swordsmanship is this? If it fails, you're just dead.’
It was quite literally a technique with no second chance.
“Relax your face. Do you think you’ll use only my swordsmanship for the rest of your life?”
“I suppose not, but…”
“Same for me. It’s just the swordsmanship into which I poured my life. It’s not the only technique I use. But it is the only one I can call a true secret art. It contains the essence of a one-strike kill. If I don’t cut down the enemy, then I die instead. Isn’t that the most simple and straightforward truth?”
He wasn’t wrong.
If you couldn’t cut, then you’d be the one to die. That was the reality for swordsmen.
"Depending on how it’s applied, this technique can become a tremendous weapon. If your opponent knows your sword style, it gives you an overwhelming advantage in psychological warfare."
"Could you explain in more detail?"
Darkin nodded and began to explain.
"Let’s say there’s a swordsman who’s either on par with you or maybe just slightly superior."
I listened with an intrigued expression.
"Yes."
"And both of you know a decent amount about each other’s sword styles. Once a swordsman reaches a certain level, their usual techniques and habits tend to spread."
"That’s true."
"But the only swordsmanship your opponent knows you possess is just one—the sword technique I created, containing the essence of a one-strike kill. It’s simple. If you cut, you win. If you don’t, you die. If you were the opponent, what do you think you'd feel?"
Just like he said, I tried imagining how I would respond if I had such an opponent in front of me. But an answer didn’t come easily. There were simply too many variables to consider.
"……"
"It’s not an easy question, is it?"
"It isn’t."
"Unless they’re an idiot, the first thing they’ll wonder is, ‘Is he really only capable of that one sword technique?’ Then they’ll start thinking about its power, and how to counter it. But if that technique has no clear counter, they’ll end up thinking this—‘If I can just dodge or neutralize that single strike, I can win.’ That’s how you manipulate their mindset and bait them into a trap. The more cards you have, the better."
His eyes shone more brightly than ever. When it came to talking about swordsmanship and battle, Darkin was more serious than any swordsman I had ever met in this world.
"On the flip side, even if they really believe you only have one technique, it still works in your favor. By limiting the information you reveal, you can deceive many. Those who fail to properly assess your true power will panic—and then they die. Do you now understand how to handle information?"
I genuinely admired him.
"…Yes. That’s incredible."
I had known of such concepts before, but I hadn’t imagined that he’d thought them through in such depth. Life and death between humans isn’t determined by skill alone. In the end, we are human. Which means psychological factors, the environment, and other variables can all influence the outcome.
That’s why in this world, it was not uncommon for the weak to defeat the strong.
"Of course, this is just a discussion on how to use the information. The swordsmanship itself wasn’t created with that intention. That’s only one possible application. Don’t let it distract you from the essence. The essence is simple—no matter the situation, kill your opponent with one strike. The purpose is to end any enemy with a single slash."
"To kill with one strike…"
"Exactly. If it's not a one-strike kill, then it has no meaning. This isn’t some cheap trick. This technique wasn’t made to play mind games or humiliate opponents. Before you even start thinking about psychological warfare, one thought needs to be carved into your mind: ‘If I fail to cut my opponent here and now, I die.’ You must be prepared to die."
Just how much time had Darkin poured into perfecting this swordsmanship?
"That’s why I can say this with confidence. If I put everything I have into it, I could cut down any being in this world with a single strike."
"……"
My mouth itched to ask.
Even if that being was Arkan Winterbell, Patriarch of Winterbell and the so-called King of the North?
But perhaps he had read my thoughts.
His mouth opened again, as if in response.
"Even if it’s the Patriarch of Winterbell. Even if it’s Arkan. I truly believe it. No—I have to believe it. If I don’t, then this swordsmanship holds no meaning at all."
"…Do you really think that?"
The fire in his eyes blazed even brighter. As I watched the fierce flames dancing in his gaze, I asked again.
"I do. This sword was created for that very purpose."
A vassal of Winterbell was telling me he had created a sword technique to cut down the Patriarch. Did Arkan know this?
Perhaps… he already did.
Even so, Arkan had made no move to stop him. In fact, he likely welcomed it.
Because seeing a rival who grew stronger and stronger for the sole purpose of killing him would have ignited his own fighting spirit just as fiercely.
"That’s why you must also be prepared to die. Foolish disciple. Are you ready to die with me?"
I smiled and answered.
"Yes. I’m ready to die."