Grand Knight Verren.
Michael wasn’t sure what to make of the man.
Powerful? Absolutely.
But welcoming? Not in the slightest.
Michael honestly couldn’t tell who had the colder expression—Verren or a block of ice.
The man was too cold.
The first time Michael saw the old knight was when he volunteered to stay behind with the two hundred knights. The reason was simple.
All this preparation—they had to lead somewhere.
The Land of Origin was meant to be a place where one grew stronger, and Michael, who believed he should be strong enough to personally handle the monster, saw it as a golden opportunity.
An experience pack, in his own words.
He had to be the one to kill that monster. So, with the Princess’s permission—though he hadn’t really needed it—he stayed behind.
That was also when he first laid eyes on Verren.
This man.
If he wasn’t swinging his sword, he was practicing his breathing technique. There was no in-between. Ironically, for someone of his status, he despised crowds and preferred solitude. A lone wolf, really.
Which was why Michael found it odd—downright strange—that this lone wolf had bothered to seek him out today.
“You practice the way of the spear?”
The tone was strange. So were the words.
But Michael understood soon enough as he glanced down at the spear in his hand.
It had been three days since the kingdom’s forces departed. After watching Verren train daily with unwavering intensity, Michael—who hadn’t had the chance to spar or grind with his undead humans—felt the itch returning. Restlessness clawed at him.
What he hadn’t expected was for the old man to seek him out.
Cautiously, Michael answered, “Yes. I use the spear.”
“Fight me.”
“…Huh?”
The challenge came out of nowhere. But before Michael could respond properly, Verren had already drawn his sword and struck.
The swing wasn’t fast—just average human speed.
Michael was confused, but his body reacted on instinct, matching the speed and power exactly.
Their weapons clashed with a dull thud.
Michael took a step back, adjusting his grip. The strike hadn’t been dangerous, but it hadn’t been careless either.
Another swing came, and again, Michael parried. Then another.
It was strange. Verren wasn’t using his true speed. He wasn’t using his aura. No mana. Just pure technique—deliberate, measured, almost slow.
But within ten exchanges, Michael found himself being pushed back.
By twenty, he was struggling to keep up.
And by thirty, Verren had disarmed him.
Michael’s spear was on the ground, his fingers numb from the final strike.
He stared in disbelief. That shouldn’t have happened. Not at that speed. Not when the old man was holding back so much.
Verren didn’t speak at first. He simply stood there, sword lowered at his side, eyes fixed on Michael with that ever-frosted gaze.
Then he frowned.
“A spear user who doesn’t know how to control his distance.”
His voice was flat, almost annoyed.
“Sloppy. Wasteful.”
Michael stiffened.
He didn’t speak. But those words dug in.
Thanks to Spartan and the others who had served as grindstones for him, Michael’s {Spearmanship} was less than 30% away from Advanced Mastery.
This made his close-quarters combat with a weapon especially strong.
However, it also made him painfully aware of his shortcomings.
He knew how to wield a spear—but not how to truly use it.
It was like having strength, but not knowing how to apply it effectively.
For those who could, even against a stronger opponent, victory was possible through pure skill and precision.
That was the difference—and Michael knew it.
Still, a part of him didn’t appreciate Verren’s words, especially not after such a blunt and dismissive approach.
With a sharp motion, Michael grabbed his spear from the ground and struck at Verren, channeling the full weight of his skill into the attack.
Verren parried with ease.
Not just ease—grace. His sword met Michael’s spear with a lazy flick, redirecting the thrust like a branch brushing off falling leaves.
Michael’s momentum collapsed, his balance staggered, and Verren stepped in, the flat of his blade tapping Michael’s chest.
Michael gritted his teeth and attacked once more, this time more cautious, more calculated. A feint, a twist, a low sweep—
Parried. Deflected. Countered.
Each clash rang with the sound of metal, but none favored Michael.
The power was equal. They both suppressed their strength to a standard level—but technique? Technique was another matter.
Verren’s every movement was efficient, his every motion minimal but purposeful.
In contrast, Michael realized how much excess movement he used, how many unnecessary steps filled his footwork, how often he left himself open in the milliseconds between attacks.
Why?
They were using the same level of force. The same restrictions.
But he couldn’t overpower him. Couldn’t even touch him.
Is his swordsmanship… that much better?
He knew Verren was strong, but this was something else.
This wasn’t just a difference in technique.
This was understanding.
A mastery of the blade so refined that even when holding back, it felt like he was fighting uphill.
The thought suddenly hit him.
Is he at Advanced Mastery?
No…
Michael’s eyes widened slightly as the possibility formed.
It would explain the distance control. The flawless transitions. The oppressive rhythm.
More than that—it would explain the feeling.
There were moments during the exchange where Verren didn’t even need to move.
Where Michael felt his intent from meters away.
A faint pressure that made him hesitate before a strike.
Verren suddenly came to a pause, and Michael followed.
“You’re obviously at Great Achievement in your Spearmanship, but why is it so unrefined?”
Great Achievement? Is that what they call intermediate mastery here?
A brief look of confusion flickered across Michael’s face—but Verren caught it.
“Don’t tell me you don’t even know the level of your skill?”
Michael didn’t reply.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—Verren seemed to have entered a teaching mood.
“Entry, Small Success, Great Achievement, Perfect, and Transformation,” he listed plainly.
“Among these five stages, you’re in the third one.”
He spoke as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.
Unfortunately, what was obvious to him wasn’t so obvious to Michael.
“For spells, advancing in stage usually just means gaining more control. But for weapon users, each stage is a transformation. Eventually, the realm itself becomes irrelevant.”
“Entry is when you’re just finding your way around the weapon—learning, fumbling, discovering what works,” Verren continued, stepping back with his sword now resting against his shoulder.
“Small Success is when your movements start to take shape. When what you’ve learned becomes usable in real combat. You stop swinging blindly and start fighting with intent.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed in thought.
That sounds like what I always considered basic mastery.
Basic, Intermediate, Advanced, Perfect.
So Great Achievement… is intermediate here?
“Great Achievement,” Verren continued, “is when your weapon no longer controls you. Your strikes are deliberate. You move with awareness, precision. You start to understand your weapon—not just wield it.”
That was where Michael was now. Or, at least, should be.
“Perfect,” Verren said, “is when instinct and intention merge. Every move is efficient, no hesitation. The spear becomes an extension of thought. Your body follows without conscious effort.”
“And Transformation?” Michael asked, voice quiet.
“That,” Verren’s gaze sharpened, “is when the weapon ceases to be just a weapon. It becomes a truth. A concept. At that stage, even those in higher realms will hesitate to face you. Because skill surpasses power.”
“Of course, it’s better to have the realm. Ultimate power is still a thing.”
“You’re strong. But strength without refinement is just wasted potential. Next time—fight me properly. With your spear, not your ego.”
Michael swallowed.
Yet a part of him still harbored doubt.
Are weapons really that powerful?
It seemed Verren caught onto the thought. His expression darkened further, disappointment flickering in his eyes.
“I suppose this is what you get from a mage,” he said flatly. “I thought you’d be more interesting.”
But he wasn’t done.
He took a step forward, sword still at his side, eyes sharp.
“Watch closely.”
“This—” he raised the blade, and suddenly, the air around him shifted. The world seemed to still, as if holding its breath.
“—is the Perfect Stage. When thought, intent, and weapon become one.”
A faint shimmer of energy gathered around the blade. It wasn’t mana.
It was something else entirely.
“Sword Qi,” he said, though he held a sword.
The air split with a whisper as the pressure rose, sharp and focused. Invisible, but undeniable.
Michael’s eyes widened.
He felt it.
Not just saw—but felt—the presence of the blade, the intent behind it, as if it could cut him without ever touching skin.
Then it happened.
The ground split.
A thin, perfectly straight line carved itself into the earth beneath them—extending outwards from Verren’s blade, trailing a few meters before stopping.
It wasn’t deep. But that wasn’t the point.
It was clean.
It was sharp.
Michael stared at the cut, a chill creeping up his spine. That had been Sword Qi?
He gulped once more.