The Extra's Rise - Chapter 375

Chapter 375: Martial King (3)

The second week began with a new approach. Magnus stood before me, his sword sheathed, arms crossed.

“Today, we fight with intent,” he said. “Not just technique, not just ability, but purpose. What drives you, Nightingale? What makes you fight?”

The question caught me off guard. “I fight to protect,” I answered after a moment. “To become stronger so I can safeguard those I care about.”

Magnus shook his head. “That’s a noble sentiment, but it’s not enough. During the Crown Challenge, you weren’t fighting to protect—you were fighting to win, to prove yourself, to surpass others who thought themselves better than you. There was fire in your soul then. I need to see that fire now.”

His words struck a chord. He was right. In the Challenge, my motivation had been different—more primal, more selfish perhaps, but also more powerful.

“So what do you suggest?” I asked.

Magnus drew his sword. “Fight me like you fought them. Like your pride is on the line. Like you have something to prove.”

I activated my abilities, feeling the familiar surge of power. But this time, I channeled something else alongside it—the burning desire to win, to prove my worth, to show Magnus and myself that I was more than just a student with potential.

Our blades met with a clash that echoed across the training ground. This time, there was a different quality to our exchange—not just physical, but emotional. Each strike carried my determination, my frustration, my pride.

Tempest Dance Technique flowed from my hands, each movement building upon the last. The first strike was parried easily, as were the second and third. But by the sixth, Magnus had to shift his stance to maintain his balance. By the tenth, he was actually giving ground.

“Better!” he called out, a gleam in his eye. “Much better!”

But it still wasn’t enough. After thirty exchanges, he found an opening in my pattern and exploited it, his blade coming to rest against my ribs.

“Dead,” he announced, but there was respect in his voice. “But you’re improving. Let’s continue.”

The next few days followed the same pattern. I fought with everything I had, pushing myself to the limit each time. And each time, I lasted a little longer before Magnus found a way through my defenses.

On the fifth day of the second week, something changed. During our morning session, as our swords met in a flurry of strikes, I felt an unusual clarity descend over me. Not the hyperawareness of Soul Vision, but something more fundamental—a deep understanding of the rhythm of combat, the interplay of force and counterforce.

My Tempest Dance Technique, usually a set pattern building to a crescendo, became more fluid, more adaptable. When Magnus countered in ways he hadn’t before, I found myself adjusting naturally, the technique evolving in real-time.

For the first time, I saw genuine surprise register on Magnus’s face as he was forced to work harder to predict my movements. One strike slipped past his guard, scoring a thin line across his sleeve—not breaking skin, but closer than I’d ever come before.

Both of us paused, equally startled by this development.

“Good,” Magnus said, a rare smile crossing his features. “Very good. You’re starting to understand.”

‘He didn’t even bleed,’ Luna commented dryly in my mind. ‘But it’s progress.’

Progress indeed. By the end of that day, I had managed to score three more near-hits, each one forcing Magnus to exert himself more than before.

“Your baseline is increasing,” he observed as we cooled down. “Not dramatically, but noticeably. About fifteen percent improvement in raw power and technique integration, I’d estimate.”

“Not enough,” I said, frustration edging my voice. “You said twenty percent was the goal.”

“Patience,” Magnus counseled. “We’re not done yet.”

The third week brought a new challenge. Magnus would no longer announce when our sessions began—he would attack without warning, forcing me to react instantly, without the luxury of preparation.

The first such ambush came as I was meditating at dawn. One moment, I was alone with my thoughts; the next, a blade was whistling toward my head. Pure instinct saved me, my body rolling away before my mind had fully registered the danger.

“Good reflexes,” Magnus commented as I scrambled to my feet, summoning my sword. “But reflexes alone won’t save you.”

He was right. Despite my initial escape, the subsequent exchange ended quickly with his victory. But the lesson was valuable—combat rarely announces itself politely. Real battles begin in chaos.

Similar ambushes continued throughout the week—during meals, during rest periods, even once as I was bathing in a nearby stream (a particularly humiliating defeat). Each time, I improved my reaction time, my ability to transition from peace to combat in a heartbeat.

By the end of the third week, something fundamental had changed in my approach to fighting. I was no longer thinking about individual techniques or abilities—they had become integrated, parts of a seamless whole rather than separate tools to be deployed sequentially.

During our final session, as Magnus and I circled each other under the light of a full moon, I felt the culmination of all those weeks of brutal training. My stance was more natural, my grip on my sword more assured. My abilities activated without conscious thought, flowing together in harmony.

When Magnus attacked, I met him with a counter that incorporated elements of Tempest Dance but deviated from its usual pattern, adapting to his specific approach. The momentum built as it always did, but now it felt more controlled, more directed.

For the first time, our exchange continued past fifty strikes without either of us gaining a clear advantage. My enhanced senses worked in concert with my natural instincts, allowing me to anticipate Magnus’s movements with unprecedented accuracy.

When I finally saw an opening—a millisecond delay in his recovery from a particularly complex maneuver—I didn’t hesitate. My blade darted forward, faster than I’d ever moved before, and drew a thin line of blood across his forearm.

Magnus jumped back, his eyes wide with surprise, then narrowed with calculation. With a nod of acknowledgment, he pressed his attack with renewed vigor, forcing me onto the defensive once more.

But something had changed. The intimidation I’d felt since our first encounter had diminished. Magnus was still far beyond me in skill and power, but the gap no longer seemed insurmountable.

After another hundred exchanges, Magnus called a halt. Both of us were breathing hard, though he showed far less fatigue than I did.

“Well done,” he said, sheathing his sword. “You’ve achieved what I hoped you would. Your baseline strength has increased by about twenty percent—not enough to defeat me, but enough to face the Aspect wall with a better chance of success.”

I bowed slightly, a gesture of respect. “Thank you for your guidance.”

Magnus nodded. “Remember what you’ve learned here. Technical skill matters, but it’s the integration of all your abilities—physical, mental, and spiritual—that will make the difference when you face your greatest challenges.”

As I straightened, a new confidence flowed through me. The Aspect wall was still a daunting challenge, but I was better prepared now than before. Thanks to Magnus’s brutal training, I had discovered that my limits were not as fixed as I had believed.

Not a revolutionary transformation, but a solid improvement—twenty percent stronger in my normal state. It might be just enough to make the difference when it truly mattered.