Ken looked like he was about to fall asleep in the middle of the arena. He sat with his legs stretched out, holding the shortsword loosely, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at nothing.
I kept swinging the dagger.
My grip was tight, fingers wrapped firmly around the handle, thumb pressed along the side for control. I raised it just above shoulder level and brought it down in a straight, controlled motion, then lifted it back up along the same path. The movement had to stay consistent, same speed, same angle, no slowing down.
"Maan…" Ken exhaled, dragging the word. "Aren't you bored?"
"I am," I said, breathing a little heavier, but not stopping. "But it's training."
The system only counted one swing per second. If I slowed down or hesitated, the timer would reset. So I kept the rhythm steady, even as the burn in my arm got worse. My shoulder started to tighten, my forearm felt heavy, but I forced each swing to match the last one.
