Chapter 6: Basic Swordsmanship

The manor was divided into three distinct areas: the residential district for the Mestring family’s direct and branch members near the gold mine, the servants’ quarters with stables and miscellaneous storage, and the training and private school section.

As the name implied, the training area was dedicated to combat and physical conditioning, serving as the drill ground for the family’s private guards. Here, one could also see a number of young boys and girls, drenched in sweat as they ran laps, trained with weights, or practiced swordplay.

When they noticed the two people entering through the training ground’s main gate, all of them showed clear reverence, throwing themselves even more earnestly into their exercises.

“Young master, it’s a bit late for you to start martial training, but that’s nothing to worry about. If you follow my methods, you’ll definitely make progress,” Marcus said enthusiastically as they walked.

“All right, Uncle Marcus,” Charles replied with a smile.

His desire to learn martial arts wasn’t born of a passing fancy; it was the result of careful contemplation the night before. This world was still firmly entrenched in the age of cold weapons. Perhaps due to a lack of saltpeter and other such resources, firearms and cannons had never developed, leaving personal strength and military power as the main forces.

To better protect himself, Charles wanted to master the basics of martial arts, aiming to develop a physique superior to that of ordinary people.

Marcus, who walked before him, was the strongest warrior in the territory—a man who had once charged alone into a group of nearly a hundred bandits and slaughtered over half of them single-handedly!

Upon learning of this feat, Charles immediately envisioned the martial heroes from his previous life; Marcus’s strength was nearly superhuman. Compared to him, the prizefighters and black belts of his past life were as weak as infants.

A nonhumanly robust body, refined combat skills, and battle-hardened experience enabled Marcus to cut down common soldiers with ease, earning him a fearsome reputation.

Yet this fearsome man, known as the Ironblood Butcher, now wore a warm, kindly smile as he explained the fundamentals of training, gentle as the neighborly uncle next door—provided one could overlook his nearly two-meter-tall, burly frame.

It was no exaggeration to say he resembled a black bear, his physique nearly double that of Charles’s.

The training ground was about half the size of a football field, dotted with stone pedestals, weapon racks, and other equipment.

Marcus approached a weapon rack and picked up a wooden sword, tossing it casually to Charles.

Charles hurried to catch it, surprised by its heaviness—almost the same as a sword of steel.

The wooden sword was a standard-issue weapon, identical to those used by the family’s guards and the chosen reserve youths in training.

Marcus took a wooden sword for himself, gripped it with both hands, stepped forward with his right leg, and swung it straight down.

Whoosh!

A sharp whistle cut through the air. With a simple swing, Marcus stirred up a gust of wind, carrying a chilling murderous intent. Charles felt as though a dreadful beast had set its sights on him, sending a shudder through his body.

“No matter what training methods you use, the goal is to fully mobilize your inner strength, to control it at will and unleash power equal to, or even many times greater than, your own,” Marcus explained, demonstrating a series of basic sword techniques.

Slash, strike, thrust, flick, chop, crush, press—each movement elicited a rush of wind, so much so that many of the training youths paused and watched in awe.

Charles strained his eyes, trying to absorb every detail. Such strength was inconceivable in his previous world—some of Marcus’s movements even left afterimages!

He asked, full of envy, “Uncle Marcus, is there an official ranking system for martial artists?”

“Ranking system? Oh, you mean combat strength? There is, of a sort,” Marcus replied, seeming to relish Charles’s astonishment. “But it’s not very precise—mainly based on how many ordinary soldiers you can defeat.”

“If you can defeat one, you’re at the Soldier rank. Ten, and you’re at the Sergeant rank. A hundred, and you’re at the Captain rank. A thousand, and you’re at the General rank.”

“What rank are you, Uncle Marcus?” Charles asked, growing more serious.

The martial prowess of this world was astounding—there truly existed those who could fight a hundred or a thousand men, like the legendary heroes of old tales. That meant a General could rival the likes of Zhao Yun from the Three Kingdoms, single-handedly holding off thousands.

“Me? I’m just a Captain,” Marcus said, casual but unmistakably proud, “Oops,” he added, “let me show you something,” and, with a slight twist of his hands, snapped the wooden sword in two with a crack.

He tossed the broken sword aside and shook his head with a chuckle. “Too light and brittle. Once you’ve made some progress, I’ll get you a real treasure.”

Charles’s mouth twitched. The wooden sword weighed over five pounds, but in Marcus’s hands it was like a pair of chopsticks.

Charles had tried just now, but even using all his strength, he couldn’t budge the weapon a bit.

Clearly, Marcus was showing off. After witnessing Charles’s efforts, he began to patiently instruct him in the basics.

The process quickly became monotonous and grueling. Charles, a frail young noble, soon found himself exhausted after only a few swings. Within minutes, his whole body ached, his arms felt filled with lead, and he could barely lift them.

“Young master, your constitution is far too weak. You’ll need a great deal of practice before you can make any progress,” Marcus said, shaking his head, clearly troubled.

He’d taught others before, but never someone this hopeless—after only twenty or thirty swings, Charles was panting like a dog.

The other boys here had to perform hundreds or even thousands of repetitions daily!

Bent over with hands on knees, Charles ignored Marcus’s disappointment, focusing intently on a spot in the air before him.

There, a small line of text appeared before his eyes:

“Basic Swordsmanship: Uninitiated.”

“Young master, for now just keep practicing your basic sword techniques,” Marcus sighed.

Charles didn’t reply but focused on the “+” sign next to the line of text.

After three seconds, the plus sign vanished, and the line changed. A stream of information flooded his mind, and his body gained a kind of instinctive memory.

He looked up and grinned. “Uncle Marcus, I think I might have learned it.”

“No rush, you just—what?” Marcus frowned, suspicious.

Charles didn’t explain. He simply picked up the wooden sword and began practicing. Each move was perfect—so precise that Marcus was momentarily stunned.

But the good fortune didn’t last. In the midst of a swing, Charles suddenly felt a sharp pain in his shoulder; the sword slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground—he had dislocated his shoulder.

“That’s what you get for showing off!” Marcus’s astonishment turned to exasperation. In three quick strides, he reached Charles, grabbed his arm, and with a deft movement—

Snap!

A jolt of searing pain shot through Charles’s arm, then everything returned to normal. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he felt helpless.

He’d mastered the skill in an instant thanks to his modifier, but his feeble body simply couldn’t withstand such forceful movements.

Right now, improving his physical condition was paramount. It was also a prerequisite for advancing his totem inscription.

Before he could say anything, Marcus pressed a weary hand to his forehead and said, “Enough. I’ll take you to see that fellow. You need some medicinal cuisine—after a few soaks, maybe you won’t be so frail.”

Charles smiled awkwardly and followed Marcus out of the manor by carriage, arriving at an apothecary on the western edge of the town.

“Hey, old man, come out and see your customers!” Marcus shouted boisterously, making Charles’s mouth twitch. Was this really the way to greet someone?

A moment later, a hearty voice called from inside, “Marcus, what are you here for this time? And you’re the old man! I’m still young and strong!” The owner emerged, showing not a trace of deference.

Charles was quite surprised—he hadn’t expected anyone in Goldflash Town to treat Marcus so familiarly. Weren’t they afraid of his strength?

Marcus grinned and introduced him, “Young master, this old guy may not look like much, but he’s one of the best pharmacists in Fawn County. Just call him Uncle Niu.”