When he first lifted the rock, Shan could only marvel. So this was how training worked. He knew from experience, at least, that the more he used his body, the stronger it became. Though he was not quite sure what getting better at lifting rocks had to do with fighting.

Yet for some reason, even long after Shan had raised the rock above his head, Sir Darkal gave no order to lower it. He merely scrutinized Shan—or rather, his scar-covered body, clad in nothing but underwear—with an almost merciless gaze.

“Still...?”

“If you have enough breath to talk, it’s not time to lower it! Keep going!”

Shan gritted his teeth against pain that felt as though his arms were being torn off, but did not put down the rock. Muscles writhed all over his body, working together to rest overloaded areas and shift the strain elsewhere, over and over.

He could not hold on any longer. Should he put it down? If he stayed like this, he might never be able to move as freely as before. He might even lose the use of his arms altogether...

Shan wavered for a moment at that inner temptation, then clenched his teeth. Roden had said this man was a good teacher. Even if Shan did not quite understand his instructions, they must be necessary to become a great knight. As he repeated that to himself, he felt his body squeeze out more strength despite having reached its limit.

Fortunately or unfortunately, enduring senseless pain was one of the things Shan did best.

How much time had passed? Sweat poured down like rain, stinging his eyes and forcing him to squeeze them shut. At last, his fully extended arms gave out. At that very instant, as though he had been waiting for it, Sir Darkal reached out with both hands, caught the rock falling toward Shan’s head, and tossed it aside.

“Good. Not a bad first step.”

This was the first step? Having quite literally wrung every last drop of strength from his body, Shan could barely muster the energy even to say that.

A short while later, apparently deciding he had rested enough, Sir Darkal kicked Shan where he lay sprawled on the ground.

“Get up! You’ve had enough rest!”

His body screamed that he had not, but Shan staggered to his feet and stood before him. His nearly naked body was a mess, thickly coated in dust that clung to the sweat streaming down him.

“Stand right there! Spread your legs a little farther... Yes, about there! Now squat until your knees bend at right angles! Right angles! I said right angles! Don’t you know what a right angle is?”

“I... don’t...”

“Damn it! Now I have to be a mathematics teacher too!”

Despite bellowing like a madman, Sir Darkal explained what a right angle meant with gestures. Following his instructions, Shan realized that this stance was meant to strain a different set of muscles from before. Where holding the rock had pounded the muscles of his arms, shoulders, and upper body to a pulp, this stance was attacking his lower body.

Once he understood that, Shan closed his eyes and adjusted his stance slightly as he tracked the changes in his body. Legs and knees a little farther apart, waist a little farther back, buttocks tensed to support him—this eased the strain on his knee joints while increasing the pain in his thighs and calves. Rather than shouting at him to resume the original stance, Sir Darkal watched with interest.

Once again, the exercise ended only when he was utterly exhausted and could no longer hold the position. Sir Darkal stared down at Shan as he collapsed, legs trembling, then glanced up at the sky as though checking the time before kicking him back to his feet.

“That’s enough rest! Next, put both hands here and face the ground!”

After a long stretch of countless exercises—whether tens of minutes or several hours, he could not tell—Shan finally reached the point where he could barely twitch a finger. His breath had a sweetish smell, and his vision swam so badly that he could scarcely make anything out. Sir Darkal looked down at him squirming like an insect, then addressed Roden, who had been watching nearby for some time.

“Roden!”

“Yes, Master!”

“Take care of him!”

The instant the order came, Roden scooped Shan up from the ground, utterly unconcerned about the sweat and dirt getting on his clothes.

“You worked hard. Time for a rest.”

Truly, even during his years of persecution as an Altoan, Shan had never suffered pain like this. His entire body had been driven beyond its limits until every muscle felt melted into mush... The man had fucked him up so meticulously that not a single muscle seemed to work properly. Worse, the intensity had been so excessive that Shan was certain this would do the opposite of strengthening him. Even after he had time to recover, his physical abilities would deteriorate rather than improve.

‘Roden, you were wrong. I don’t think that crazy old bastard is a proper teacher at all.’

That was what he wanted to say, but he did not even have the strength to move his lips. All that escaped him was a groan like an animal’s death rattle.

Hearing it, Roden spoke with a look of pride.

“Yeah, it’s rough, isn’t it? I was the same. On my first day I sobbed that I couldn’t do it and tried to run away, then got beaten for it... I never thought you’d stick it out to the end.”

Was he supposed to have said he could not go on halfway through? While Shan was still puzzling over that, they reached the baths. For some reason, instead of the usual pool of warm water, a small tub just large enough for one person had been filled with foul-smelling black liquid.

“You’ll feel a little better in here.”

As he spoke, Roden carefully adjusted Shan’s position so his whole body was submerged while keeping his head above the surface.

Shan lay still with his eyes closed, and before long he noticed an astonishing change beginning throughout his body.

‘Ah...’

He could feel something from the mysterious liquid rapidly healing him. Muscles that had been pushed beyond injury to the point of beginning to dissolve regained their shape, while the parts of his joints worn down by friction were replenished. His bones, though unbroken, had also been damaged by constant pressure; now he felt them growing thicker and denser.

“What... is this...?”

“Training medicine. You saw it at the alchemy shop, remember?”

There had been something like that. It had been labeled a training medicine for knights, and when he asked what it did, Roden had said he need not concern himself with it yet. Shan had not given it much thought at the time. He would never have imagined this was what it was for.

After a long while, Shan realized his body was no longer healing and staggered out of the tub. The water, pitch-black when he entered, had somehow turned ashen gray, as though its color had leached away.

“Hah...”

“How do you feel?”

“I thought I was going to die. I mean it.”

Because Shan knew his own body better than anyone, he could be certain. If he repeated that training without medicinal help, he would lose the ability to walk on his own—or die—long before he became a great knight.

“This is how it’s done in Pendia.”

“What about other countries?”

“They rely on priests’ healing miracles. The ingredients for the bath additives aren’t easy to obtain, after all...”

One such ingredient, he explained, was the teeth of water ghouls, the creatures they had first killed after entering Pendia. The reason they used medicine instead of a priest was Sir Darkal’s conviction that it produced better training results than healing miracles.

“Do I go back to training now?”

In truth, although his muscles had recovered, the sensation of his entire body being torn apart remained. Watching Shan’s limbs tremble from the overload to his nervous system, Roden shook his head.

“You’re done for today. Drink this and get plenty of rest.”

He held out a cup of vivid yellow liquid, and Shan gulped it down like a baby bird being fed. It was thick, with a rather sickening sweetness.

“Medicine to stop you pissing blood after training.”

As though anticipating the question “What’s this?”, Roden explained before he could ask.

* * *

After a day of terrible pain, Shan could feel that his body had distinctly improved. His muscles were denser, cartilage had filled out his damaged joints again to let them move smoothly, and his bones had grown sturdier, capable of exerting and withstanding greater force.

Contrary to his expectations, on the second day he did not strip down for training as he had before. From what Sir Darkal said, his improved body apparently needed time to recover until its gains had stabilized.

“Today we study combat theory. Take up your sword.”

Training longswords with blunted edges and curled tips had been laid out in the courtyard garden. Sir Darkal and Shan each took one and sparred in slow motion. Strictly speaking, it was less sparring than instruction in particular movements, with explanations of their principles and applications. Had they truly fought, Shan would have vented yesterday’s resentment by cracking the old man’s bald skull a good ten times.

In the process, Sir Darkal explained the theory behind various techniques Shan had acquired purely by instinct: the advantages and disadvantages of lowering the sword into a defensive guard, and why an opponent’s attack should be received on the part of the blade nearer the hilt rather than farther along its cutting length. Shan also learned how to respond while looking two or three moves ahead, as in chess, instead of simply taking the most appropriate action for the moment.

It was the very essence of martial arts, honed through hundreds and thousands of years of human conflict. The beast that had known only to move faster and strike at vital points now gained new weapons: psychological warfare and prediction grounded in theory.

The next day brought lessons in general learning rather than combat theory: the basic education a knight needed, beginning with reading and writing and extending to history, etiquette, and religion.

“Have you ever studied the Goddess’s teachings?”

“Yes.”

Shan nodded in answer to Sir Darkal. Priest Ador had been one of the few people who treated him well, so his religious knowledge was reasonably sound compared with his grasp of other everyday matters.

After a few more questions and answers, Sir Darkal spoke in puzzlement.

“What’s this? Are you a follower of the Old Faith? Everything from your prayers to your doctrine...”

“Pardon? I probably am.”

Libert was a leading nation of the Old Faith, so naturally Priest Ador’s teachings would have followed that tradition. At Shan’s reply, Sir Darkal frowned incredulously.

“You’re a strange one, believing in a religion that teaches you’re a devil’s child! Well, I follow the Old Faith myself, mind you.”

“Then shouldn’t you refuse to teach me, Master?”

“I follow the old teachings, but I have nothing against you Altoans. Had an Altoan among my old friends, too. I only keep the faith because I can’t split with my family!”

House Cordo, to which Sir Darkal belonged, held a barony in western Pendia. Most western nobles followed the Old Faith, being culturally close to Libert, and most of his relatives were no exception.

“Then when I become a knight and tell them I learned from Sir Darkal, they’ll get angry, won’t they?”

“They might! Well, you can’t have everything in life! To gain something, you have to give something up!”

Sir Darkal went on at length about the country’s religious situation. In Pendia, nobles and commoners alike were divided between the Old Faith and the New Faith. Strictly speaking, a larger proportion of nobles followed the Old Faith and more commoners followed the New, but it was far simpler to divide the country into east and west.

“Fortunately, the royal family advocates a compromise between the teachings of the Old and New Faiths. For now, His Majesty himself leans closer to the New Faith. Otherwise, an Altoan could never even dream of knighthood.”

“Really?”

“How else could we have a mage princess?”

Before long, the conversation shifted to Pendia’s reigning king, Giselle III, and the character of his children. The eldest prince was too deeply immersed in traditional Old Faith teachings; the second prince was dissolute, perhaps because he came from Luman; followers of the Old Faith obeyed the pope rather than the king, while those of the New Faith lacked depth of belief.

Naturally, the political talk so beloved of old people was painfully dull to the young. Shan nodded along while letting his attention wander. After talking to his heart’s content for quite some time, Sir Darkal called over a passing servant and had him fetch Roden.

“You called, Master?”

“You take over this boy’s academic lessons.”

“Pardon?”

“Isn’t it absurd to drill the Old Faith into an Altoan? Most of the people who’ll treat him like a human being will follow the New Faith anyway. Your family follows it too!”

“But, Master, I’m rather busy these days myself...”

Roden had been constantly busy since returning home because he had begun serious instruction in taking over the Wievers trading company. If anything happened to Kalion, who was entering his old age, Roden would need to inherit the business and continue supporting Shan. Having already spent several years of his youth training as a knight, he had a great deal left to learn himself.

“Quiet! Do as you’re told!”

At the crotchety old man’s shout, Roden finally sighed and nodded.

Once Sir Darkal had foisted Shan on Roden and left, announcing he was going out, their lessons became a continuation of the learning they had squeezed in during their travels. Roden taught, Shan failed to quite understand, and Roden taught him again. Still, sitting down properly to study seemed to help him learn better than when they had been constantly walking and moving. Of course, it made him just as sleepy...

THWACK!

Roden tapped the dozing Shan on the head with a stick to wake him.

“Ah.”

“Don’t fall asleep. Did you hear what I just said?”

“Sorry. I’m so sleepy.”

“I understand you’re tired after all that exertion, but you still have to learn. Now, read this.”

“Ram.”

“I told you, it’s ‘ran’!”

After a day of general studies so tedious it made him want to squirm out of his own skin, it was time for hellish physical training once more. In his second session, rather than wringing out his muscles until they seemed ready to melt, he worked on increasing his range of motion, cardiovascular fitness, and endurance.

“Run! Run! Faster! Stop dawdling!”

To Sir Darkal’s bellows, Shan ran lap after lap around the Wievers mansion’s courtyard, until his heart felt ready not merely to burst but to leap out of his mouth. Once his legs gave out and he could no longer run, he had to keep moving even if it meant crawling on his hands as well. Sir Darkal’s unshakable principle was that training must continue until every last bit of strength had been drained from the body.

After that punishment and another healing medicinal bath, the following day brought more combat theory. This time, he learned all manner of underhanded fighting techniques.

“Use every means at your disposal in a fight. Chivalry can go fuck itself! Nobody listens to a loser who’s dead! Save your excuses until after you’ve won!”

Accompanying those words were tricks ranging from reflecting sunlight into an opponent’s eyes with the flat of a polished blade to scooping up dirt with the top of the foot and flinging it into their face, or spitting to provoke them. Naturally, Shan, who had no moral scruples about such things, absorbed every lesson.

Then he learned to write in cursive, lifted larger rocks, learned to counter different weapons with all manner of weapons of his own, learned how to behave when meeting a lady, ran in his custom-made mail, learned how various monsters behaved and how to deal with them...

The cycle thus established went on without end, like a squirrel running in a wheel. Day after day, he punished his body, learned the many skills a knight required, and taxed his mind with troublesome academic knowledge. As time passed, his body grew larger and sturdier and his mind filled with knowledge, but his face grew haggard. The stronger he became, the harsher the training grew to match, so the fatigue and pain never lessened at all. Every third day, he had to endure agony that felt as though his whole body were being torn apart.

Only the material comforts awaiting him after the grueling training, and the satisfaction of knowing he was improving little by little, served as an anesthetic that let him bear it. At some point, Shan began asking himself why he was putting himself through such an ordeal.

Had he wanted to become a knight? Why? What for? Plenty of Altoans lived ordinary lives here in Hasra. Couldn’t he simply earn a living as a mercenary?

Whenever he asked himself, the answer came back. Because he wanted to grow stronger, so that no one could push him around at will or threaten his dignity. Because he wanted to build wealth and honor, to be respected and praised.

Faces passed through his mind. The people of Willow Village who had persecuted him, the people of Leaf Village who had feared him, and Roden, the first to invite him along and ask him to dream of a future. The members of the Alto circus, who had treated him kindly, like family, despite their brief acquaintance. And the people of the city of Ovilos, who had looked up to him as a troll hunter.

Contempt, fear, friendship, admiration. Those changing emotions had followed his growing strength and accomplishments. A prodigious warrior had received better treatment than an ordinary Altoan boy. Surely a powerful knight could expect better treatment still.

Whenever the hardship made him want to give up, Shan remembered that and took another step. He kept going as the heat passed, the leaves fell, and the first snow arrived.

* * *

In the snow-heaped courtyard of the Wievers mansion, Shan stood still, staring at the training dummy before him. He held a longsword in both hands, its blade deliberately thickened for training to make it several times heavier than normal. The exercise was to swing it just once, taking tens of minutes to bring it into contact with the dummy.

His arms, longer and thicker after half a year of harsh training, trembled but supported the heavy mass of steel. One minute, five minutes, ten... After moving at a snail’s pace for that long stretch, the sword finally touched the dummy’s thick body.

The blunt longsword should merely have pressed into the straw. Instead, it slid through both straw and wooden post as though its edge were sharp. Shan stood staring blankly at it for a long time, then laughed without meaning to. All those days of unbearable suffering flashed through his mind in an instant.

“Haha...”

He had done no more than draw a blunt sword lightly across it, yet the dummy had been cut, just as he had so desperately wished. His powerful will had joined the stroke and forcibly altered reality. Shan realized that at last he could wield the power of knights: spirit.