The training ground was a wide, open area, surrounded by stone walls and wooden dummies marked by countless cuts. To one side, rows of racks held blunt swords, spears, and practice shields. The sun was barely peeking over the mountains, but the place already exuded tension and anticipation.
Upon arriving, we saw two figures standing in the center of the field. Our instructors.
One was tall and thin, with a long gray mustache and eyes so sharp they seemed to cut the air. The other was a mountain with legs, muscles tense under his uniform, arms crossed as if already bored with the spectacle.
"Line up, worms!" the mustachioed one roared. His voice cut through the air like a whip.
We scrambled to form a line. I was at the front, captain by default, still feeling the weight of their gazes on the back of my neck.
"Today we start from the basics. And when I say basic, I mean what's going to keep you from dying with an enemy's dick impaled through your ass," he spat with disdain. "What you're going to learn here is called the Eight Steps of the Plum Blossom. Eight goddamn movements. If you can't master them, you might as well go back to milking cows."
The burly instructor stepped forward. He did not say a word. He just drew a practice sword and positioned himself in front of us.
And then, he moved.
The first strike was clean and low, an upward diagonal from hip to shoulder.
The second, a downward slash, brutal, as if to split a skull.
Third, a horizontal cut, fast, direct to the neck.
Fourth, a spin with a reverse thrust, using the momentum as if dancing with death.
Fifth, a thrust to the abdomen, merciless and unadorned.
Sixth, a feint that turned into a backhand slash to the side.
Seventh, a wide arc designed to unbalance the enemy.
And the eighth... a vertical strike, with both hands. As if judging and executing in a single movement.
When he finished, he stood motionless, sword forward. The field fell into pure silence. Not even the wind dared to interrupt.
"These aren't flourishes. This isn't noble boy fencing. This is military doctrine," the instructor said. "Memorize them. Repeat them until you bleed. On the battlefield, there's no time to think. The body moves... or dies."
I observed every movement like a hawk. My eyes absorbed the rhythm, the weight, the intention.
And then, something clicked in my mind.
Angel.
"Angel," I whispered internally, "can you run a simulation? Compare those eight movements with the fight against the bandits."
"Simulation initiated. Reconstructing data... synchronizing muscle memory... loading predictive combat model."
The world around me faded. In a blink, I saw myself fighting the forest bandits... but this time, using the Eight Steps.
Every blow I had struck that night now had structure. Every dodge was more precise. Every counterattack, cleaner. The chaos of that battle transformed into a lethal rhythm, a dance of death with meaning.
The difference was abysmal.
"Angel, estimated increase in combat efficiency?"
"Result: if the Eight Steps are integrated into your current style, combat efficiency will triple. Precision, energy use, and lethality will increase by 321%."
My heart pounded.
I had the instinct. Now I had the method.
A system.
A code.
A goddamn path to power.
I returned to reality when the instructors began pairing us up to practice the first two movements. But my mind couldn't stop reviewing them.
The Eight Steps were not just techniques.
They were a language.
And I was going to master it until my sword spoke fluently... in blood and bone.
Despite my high expectations, reality slapped us in the face. Our movements were not even a thousandth as elegant as the instructor's.
"Angel, start the simulation. Tell me what I'm doing wrong."
"Initiating simulation... Displaying results."
In an instant, in front of me, two figures executed the movements in unison, superimposing their bodies: mine and the instructor's. It wasn't just a matter of speed. The angles were twisted, erratic.
During the swing, my center of gravity was imbalanced downwards, while the instructor's remained dispersed and firm in his upper body. Even I, being a novice, could see that his posture allowed him to react from any of the eight movements. In contrast, I would be knocked down by a minimal counterattack.
"Angel, help me correct my movements."
"Activating auxiliary system."
I breathed deeply and exhaled. My body shot out. I launched the first step: an upward diagonal that was, for the first time, almost perfect. But just as I tried to follow the flow with the downward slash, my hip exploded in a dry pain, as if a hammer had mercilessly struck my bone.
"Warning: user does not have the physical capacity to execute all eight blows continuously. Analyzing data..."
I let myself fall to a sitting position. The instructors barely looked at me before turning their attention back to the others.
"Problem detected. The eight blows form a chain that uses muscles from the big toe to the neck to maintain posture like a solid building. According to data, Strength 5.0, Agility 5.0, and Vitality 5.0 are required to execute them properly."
Seeing those numbers, I understood why even common commoners could become battlefield monsters. The technique itself forced you to become stronger.
"Angel, design a training plan to reach those statistics in six months."
"Analyzing... Training plan generated. Three problems detected:
The amount of energy and protein needed for physical growth.
Bodily damage will be high; massive consumption of bitter peaches will be required.
The body will generate resistance to said fruits in less than three months. After that, they will have no effect."
The situation was damn complicated, but not impossible.
Now I was just another commoner. But it wouldn't be long before someone discovered I was a fallen noble. According to the original William's memories, there were relatives of the Redvales and Draymores in this academy, and some of them were surely in this same recruitment.
It was only a matter of time before they recognized me.
And if I didn't have enough strength, they would kill me without a second thought.
Only by demonstrating real talent could I attract support.
And stay alive.