"The human slave?"
"What could a human possibly teach us about swordsmanship?"
"They hide behind summoned creatures."
"They’ve never understood the blade."
"What is the old chief thinking?"
The whispers spread rapidly throughout the Sword Training Grounds as Ethan calmly stepped into the center of the courtyard, a plain black katana hanging quietly at his waist.
None of the gathered disciples bothered to hide their skepticism.
To them, humans relied on spirit creatures.
Summoners hid behind powerful companions while others fought on their behalf.
Swordsmanship... that belonged to the Maqaue.
It flowed through their blood.
Even the weakest member of their clan had trained with a blade since childhood.
How could a human slave possibly compare?
Servos remained seated on the edge of the training grounds, listening to every murmur without interrupting.
Only after the voices settled did he finally speak.
"Naturally, there has to be a sense of danger."
His gaze swept across the gathered disciples.
"So you’ll all be fighting with real blades."
The courtyard immediately fell silent.
Several disciples instinctively tightened their grips.
Real swords. Real injuries.
That meant the old chief wasn’t asking them to spar.
He wanted genuine combat.
Without another word, Ethan reached toward his waist.
Shing.
The black katana slowly slid free from its sheath.
It wasn’t his usual weapon.
Instead, it was an ordinary training blade borrowed from the dojo’s armory.
Its quality couldn’t compare to the sword he normally carried.
Yet... the moment Ethan gripped its hilt... the atmosphere subtly shifted.
The blade seemed to grow heavier. Sharper. More dangerous.
A weapon ultimately reflected its wielder.
In the hands of an amateur... even a divine sword became little more than expensive steel.
But in the hands of a master... an ordinary blade could become just as terrifying.
A faint crimson aura quietly flowed along Ethan’s grip.
Tyrant Force.
Thin strands of violent energy gradually seeped into the katana, causing the edge to hum almost imperceptibly.
Servos watched silently from the sidelines.
Good. He wasn’t wasting time.
"Hmph!"
One of the larger Maqaue disciples stepped forward, drawing his katana with obvious confidence.
"This must be another test from the old chief."
"We’ll show him that even a lowly human slave cannot stand before the Sword Training Grounds!"
The surrounding disciples nodded.
That explanation made perfect sense.
Surely this wasn’t about Ethan proving himself. It was about testing them.
The young warrior standing opposite Ethan possessed an enormous frame.
Broad shoulders. Bulging muscles.
Old scars stretched across both forearms from years of relentless training.
Every movement radiated explosive strength.
Unlike humans... the Maqaue Bloodline naturally excelled in close combat.
Strength was their greatest weapon.
Unfortunately... strength alone wasn’t enough.
Ethan simply watched him.
His expression remained unchanged.
He didn’t taunt him. Didn’t boast. Didn’t even shift his stance.
Instead... he slowly raised his katana.
Then... with a single smooth motion... he swept the blade sideways before curling one finger toward his opponent.
*Come.*
The silent provocation instantly ignited the young Maqaue’s temper.
"You arrogant slave!"
Boom!
The stone beneath his feet shattered as he lunged forward.
His massive body crossed the distance in an instant.
He leapt high into the air, both hands gripping his katana as he brought it crashing downward with overwhelming force.
Clang!
Steel collided.
Shockwaves rippled across the courtyard.
The impact alone kicked dust into the air.
Many disciples smiled.
No matter how skilled Ethan was... blocking that strike head-on would leave his arms numb.
Or so they believed.
When the dust settled... their smiles froze.
Ethan hadn’t taken a single step backward.
His feet remained planted exactly where they had been.
The descending katana rested harmlessly against his own.
Not only had he blocked it... he had redirected nearly all of its force away from himself.
The larger warrior’s balance faltered for only a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Shing.
A streak of black flashed through the air.
Ethan’s blade lightly brushed across the disciple’s shoulder before returning to guard.
A shallow line of blood slowly appeared.
Nothing more. It barely qualified as a wound.
The disciple instinctively frowned.
"That didn’t even—"
His sentence stopped midway.
A strange burning sensation suddenly spread from the cut.
It wasn’t unbearable. But it was... wrong.
Pain twisted his expression.
His muscles felt oddly sluggish.
Even gripping his sword suddenly required greater effort.
"What...?"
Ignoring the discomfort, he roared and attacked again.
One strike. Two. Five. Seven.
Each swing carried enough force to split stone.
Yet every attack met the same outcome.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Ethan intercepted each strike with the smallest possible movement.
No wasted energy. No unnecessary flourishes.
Every block naturally flowed into a counterattack.
Every counterattack forced the Maqaue disciple into an even worse position than before.
The spectators slowly stopped talking.
Their eyes followed every exchange.
"How...?"
"He’s suppressing himself"
"So why can’t Senior Koran pressure him?"
Servos quietly smiled.
Now they were beginning to see.
Swordsmanship wasn’t merely about strength.
Position. Timing. Distance. Control.
Those things decided battles long before raw power entered the equation.
Another exchange. Several shallow cuts.
Another surge of Tyrant Force spreading through the disciple’s body.
By now... the young Maqaue’s breathing had become noticeably heavier.
His movements remained powerful, but they were no longer precise.
The accumulating effects of Tyrant Force gradually disrupted his rhythm.
He couldn’t even explain why.
He only knew... something felt terribly wrong.
Clang!
Their swords collided one final time.
Ethan twisted his wrist.
The larger warrior’s katana flew from his hands before embedding itself several meters away.
Silence filled the courtyard.
The duel had ended.
"Next."
Servos’ calm voice echoed across the training grounds.
There wasn’t the slightest hint of surprise in his tone.
To him... this outcome had always been inevitable.
Another disciple immediately stepped forward.
Then another.
Servos looked toward the gathered warriors.
"All of you. Pay close attention."
"This is why I brought him here."
"You’ll each get your turn."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I expect at least one of you... to wound him."
Several disciples immediately straightened.
If even the old chief believed Ethan could be injured... then victory wasn’t impossible.
Only Servos knew the truth.
It was an act.
He never believed anyone here could realistically defeat Ethan—not unless he himself stepped onto the field.
But hope made better teachers than despair.
If they believed victory remained possible... they would push themselves harder.
Exactly as he wanted.
Meanwhile... thin streams of blood slowly dripped from Ethan’s blade.
Almost imperceptibly... a subtle pressure began gathering around him.
The disciples couldn’t identify its source, yet each instinctively felt it.
A faint unease settled deep inside their hearts.
Like standing before a predator quietly watching its prey.
Blood Pact.
Every exchange. Every drop of blood spilled. Every victory.
Gradually strengthened the Tyrant Class.
Ethan had already realized something important during his journey.
His next evolution requirement wasn’t asking him to defeat an enemy.
It simply demanded survival.
To survive such a catastrophe... he couldn’t afford weaknesses.
Every skill beneath the Tyrant Class needed to improve.
Blood Pact. Fear Monger. Judgment Style. Everything.
Unfortunately... Fear Monger required killing intent or actual death, neither of which he could indulge here.
These disciples weren’t enemies. They were training partners.
So Blood Pact alone would have to suffice.
"Hey."
Servos suddenly called toward a group of previously defeated disciples nursing shallow wounds.
"You three. What are you standing around for?"
The three looked up in confusion.
"Can’t you see your teammates are being overwhelmed?"
They exchanged uncertain glances, then looked toward Ethan.
Finally... Servos casually nodded in his direction.
Understanding immediately dawned on them.
The old chief wasn’t asking for honorable duels anymore.
He wanted them to adapt. To fight as they would on an actual battlefield.
Without hesitation, the three grabbed their katanas once more.
At the very same moment another disciple charged Ethan from the front.
The three circled around from different directions, their footsteps quickening as they closed the distance.
Four swords. Four angles. One target.
For the first time since stepping into the courtyard... a genuine smile appeared across Ethan’s face.
Now... this was beginning to feel like real training.
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter