The midday sun hung in the sky like a ball of fire celebrating its freedom. Its heat was relentless, bouncing off the dusty ground and making the air shimmer like a thin curtain swaying under an invisible breeze. Beneath the scorching glare that made everyone squint, the rhythmic clack of wood striking wood echoed sharply through the training grounds.
Tok.
Tak.
Tok.
The simple training camp was filled with young men and women giving everything they had. Some were running laps around the field, some were sparring with their partners, and others pounded away at wooden dummies shaped like expressionless men daring fate to come closer. Sweat poured from their bodies like water squeezed from a drenched cloth.
Amid all the noise and effort, only one person seemed out of sync with the rest of the world.
Clive.
He stood before a wooden beam and struck it with a wooden sword. Every movement he made looked slow, lazy, and almost lifeless. His body was healthy enough, neither thin nor overweight, yet the way he moved made him seem like he was underwater.
His bored expression was obvious. Even his messy black hair looked as if it was complaining about the heat bearing down from above. Each swing of his sword produced only the bare minimum of sound, just enough to prove he was still alive and had not collapsed under the blazing sun.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
Clive stopped, letting out a long sigh. There was no attempt to hide the frustration in it.
"How long do I have to stay here," he muttered loud enough for anyone within two meters to hear. "Training every day. Over and over. I feel like I've memorized every grain of dust in this place. I just want to go hunt bandits, take quests, make tons of money, buy good equipment, get a cool horse, and eventually marry a noble's daughter. Now that sounds like a proper life."
A wide grin spread across his face, as if he could already see a future filled with wine, gold, and comfort.
"Hey, Clive. What did you just say? That smile looks suspicious. Don't tell me you're hallucinating again."
The light and elegant voice came from his right. A young man with neatly combed blond hair approached with confident steps. His face was handsome and well-proportioned, his posture straight and steady. Even with worn-out training clothes, Edgar's presence was unmistakable.
Clive glanced at him with tired eyes, as though Edgar's arrival had interrupted a beautiful dream.
"What do you want. You're ruining something wonderful in my head," Clive complained.
Edgar chuckled softly. His laughter sounded like something belonging to someone who had never known hardship. "You're the only person in this entire camp who can talk about marrying a noble's daughter in the middle of training. I came to challenge you to a duel. I've fought everyone else here. Only you're left."
Clive inhaled deeply, the kind of deep breath people take right before a long nap.
"Duel, duel, duel… aren't you tired? I'm sick of hitting this stupid wooden beam. I just want to leave this place and go on an adventure."
"Then you need to improve your skills first," Edgar replied, lifting his wooden sword. "How do you plan to fight bandits if you run away from a duel with me. Come on. One round. It won't take long."
Edgar had already taken his stance. His wooden sword was raised gracefully, a stark contrast to Clive's posture which looked more like an old man leaning on a walking stick.
"Fine," Clive said, raising his wooden sword lazily. "But don't blame me if I'm too strong."
A few trainees passing by turned to look and nearly choked.
Clive, the laziest trainee in the camp, boasting about his strength?
In his previous life, before ending up in this world, Clive had been a veteran player of Banner of the Freeblades. He had spent over five thousand hours in that game. He knew every combat mechanic by heart, from perfect parry timing to managing stamina in long duels. All of it was ingrained deep into him.
With that much experience, he truly believed a real duel wouldn't be so different from one on a screen.
He smirked confidently.
Edgar struck first.
Clive didn't move. He waited. He wanted to perform a perfect parry with the same elegance he used in the game. In his mind, he could already see the victory scene, complete with imaginary slow motion.
"Oh, right-side attack," Clive whispered. "Time to parry."
His thoughts were certain.
Reality was not.
THWACK.
Edgar's sword slammed straight into Clive's shoulder without mercy.
"ARRGH. That hurts!"
Clive jumped back like a startled cat, but Edgar didn't give him even a second.
THWACK.
THWACK.
THWACK.
"Hey. Ow. Stop. That actually hurts. Aaaah."
People watching began to wonder if this was a duel or a punishment.
Clive couldn't block. Couldn't dodge. Couldn't deliver a proper counterattack. Every movement he made was slow and predictable. Edgar blocked every attempt effortlessly, almost casually.
Sweat dripped down Clive's face. His breath grew raspy. Only a minute had passed, yet his whole body was shaking.
Why was Edgar this fast.
Why were his attack angles nothing like in the game.
Why didn't humans move like NPCs.
Clive had no answers. Only pain.
"I give up. I give up," Clive finally shouted. His face burning with humiliation and shock. "I lose."
Edgar lowered his sword with a sigh. "You alright."
Of course he wasn't.
Clive stared at his wooden sword like it was a foreign object. He had just realized something that shattered his fantasies.
He wasn't a protagonist.
He wasn't a secret genius.
He wasn't chosen by any god.
He was just an ordinary young man who relied on a parry button.
And the real world didn't have one.
"Edgar," Clive said quietly. "All this time I thought training was boring because I believed I already understood everything."
Edgar raised an eyebrow. "So what's your plan now."
Clive swallowed. "If I leave this camp in this condition, bandits might skin me first before robbing me."
Both of them glanced at the camp gate, as if imagining bandits waiting outside while waving mockingly.
Edgar patted his shoulder. "Then let's train under Instructor Garron. It's the right move."
The name alone made Clive shiver.
Instructor Garron was the camp's living nightmare. His voice could rattle bones. His discipline was more terrifying than any punishment.
But this time, Clive had no excuse left.
With bruises all over his body and his head hanging low, he followed Edgar to the main training grounds.
With bruises covering his body and his head lowered, Clive dragged himself toward the main training grounds. Every step felt like a small impact traveling up from his ankles to his thighs. His skin protested. His shoulder still burned from where Edgar's wooden sword had landed cleanly without the slightest mercy.
But none of that pain compared to the voice waiting ahead.
"Hold that position!"
"I said hold it, not shake like a leaf in winter!"
"Are you planning to be fighters or a bandit's breakfast!"
The voice boomed through the air like thunder splitting the sky. No one could ignore it. Even the birds that usually perched on the rooftops of the barracks had flown far away.
The closer Clive walked, the clearer the scene became. Dozens of trainees stood in a deep horse stance. Half squatting, knees bent low until their thighs trembled, their arms raised high while gripping wooden swords. Their bodies were drenched in sweat as if someone had dumped a bucket of water on each of them.
In front of the line paced a massive man with a shaved head and a thick mustache that looked like stiff steel bristles. He moved up and down the row like a bull searching for someone to gore. His gaze was never gentle. One look was enough for Clive to know this was the kind of man born to make others suffer.
Garron.
The head instructor of the training camp.
Clive stopped at the edge of the training field. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, trying to convince his body it could still move. Alright. Breathe. You can do this, Clive. Only a few hours of torture. That's all.
He stepped into the outermost row of trainees. He didn't want to stand out. He didn't want attention. He raised his stance and tried to imitate the others. The moment he bent his knees just a little deeper, his muscles screamed as if tiny knives were jabbing him from the inside.
Then the footsteps stopped. And not just any footsteps.
Clive felt the hairs on his neck rise before he even saw who it was. Garron slowly turned his head. His gaze was the gaze of a predator that had spotted fresh prey.
"Oh…" Garron's voice was low, but the threat in it pierced straight through Clive's spine. "Look who finally decided to show up."
Every trainee held their breath. Some even turned away immediately, afraid they might get dragged into Clive's misfortune.
Clive attempted a smile. A terrible mistake.
"Are you smiling. At me." Garron's voice rose half an octave.
Clive froze. His legs weakened instantly. "I… it was reflex, Instructor."
"Reflex? And where can I buy a reflex like that. A reflex to smile when you're about to die?"
Some trainees almost laughed, but their faces stiffened immediately when Garron's eyes swept toward them. No one dared react when the bull was raging.
Clive cleared his throat, trying anything to salvage the situation. "I… I want to train more seriously, Instructor."
Garron stepped closer. Very close. Close enough for Clive to see the long scar cutting across his eyebrow. It was old and rough, and definitely not from training accidents.
"Oh. You want to train seriously now?" Garron's eyes narrowed. "Did your lovely little dream of becoming a hero finally break apart?"
Clive lowered his head. "Yes, Instructor."
Garron laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. It sounded like a rusty blade scraping against stone. "Now that is something that finally makes sense. More sense than anything you've said before."
He raised his voice again. "But I don't care what nonsense brought you here. Get in position. Lower your stance. Lower. Lower!"
Clive bent lower. His knees felt as if they were about to snap. His quads burned immediately. Sweat trickled down his temple.
"Good," Garron said right next to his ear, his voice as loud as a gong. "Here we deal with reality. Not the pretty fantasies inside your head."
Clive nearly toppled over, but he held on. This time, he wouldn't run. He would rather pass out than embarrass himself again.
Garron moved to the center of the field. "You think fighting is about cool sword swings? You think it's about style? Wrong!"
He tapped a few trainees on the chest with his wooden sword. Not painfully, but enough to jolt them.
"Foundation. That is what decides life and death. Not courage. Not talent. Foundation."
He paused and slowly turned toward Clive.
"And we have the perfect example right here."
Every pair of eyes turned to Clive. His body tensed. His heartbeat pounded as if trying to escape his chest.
"Clive," Garron said.
Clive swallowed. "Yes, Instructor?"
"Tell them."
Clive blinked. "Tell… what, Instructor?"
"Tell them what it feels like to think you're an expert… then get beaten into the ground by your own fellow trainee."
All eyes immediately shifted toward Edgar. Edgar offered a stiff smile and raised one hand. "Uh… sorry, Clive."
Clive drew in a long breath. He had no choice. He had to admit it. So he spoke honestly, without exaggeration or excuses. When he finished, Garron simply nodded and moved on.
"You. Stay in that stance. Lower."
Clive dropped lower. His thigh muscles screamed louder. His vision began to shake. But he endured.
"Hold," Garron commanded. "Five minutes."
"Five… minutes?" Clive nearly cried.
His breathing grew heavier. His knees trembled. His back grew slick with sweat. The position tortured him without mercy. But he did not fall. He refused to fall.
"Your posture is still awful," Edgar commented from beside him, sounding like an art judge critiquing a sloppy painting.
Clive had no energy to respond. He cursed Edgar silently using every word he knew.
At the front, Garron continued speaking. "A month of basic training. That is the bare minimum to keep you from dying like idiots when you meet bandits. You think I'm exaggerating? I know what the outside world is like."
Clive shivered hearing that. He remembered the threats about bandits. About lives stolen in an instant. About the weak being turned into slaves or amusement.
He had barely spent an hour with Garron and already felt like collapsing. What would happen if he faced real bandits?
The trainees in the row began trembling. Some looked like they were seconds away from falling. Garron didn't give them any chance.
"You think your knees hurt? Your back burns? Good. That means your body is working!"
Clive clenched his teeth. "I…" He forced a tiny smile even as his face twisted in pain.
"…will endure."