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Translator: penny
Chapter: 225
Chapter Title: They Say Effort Requires Talent Too (2)
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Hippolyte's training methods were heavily focused on real combat.
"You'll develop a feel for where your opponent's aiming just by taking hits directly."
She'd basically pummel my chest, abdomen, and face with that kind of approach.
Of course, I didn't think she held any ill will toward me. Still, getting one-sidedly beaten like this day after day often left me fuming.
"Your little sister would be faster than you, Samaritan. Oh, but that's to be expected."
"Ugh...."
"You've got great strength and stamina, but you're way too slow on the uptake. So you need to dodge right at the last second, just barely avoiding the strike. That's your best bet. And the only way to learn it is through your body."
Traveling from inn to inn, I'd often seen people tenderizing meat with rods to make sausages. And that's exactly what I was—like a sausage.
She beat me so thoroughly that my whole body turned black and blue with bruises.
Thanks to that, every night Luna would watch me groaning in pain and seethe, "Hippolyte, that wicked girl! How could she beat someone up like this!"
"Hassan, isn't the training too harsh? What if you die like this!"
"No way I'd die. The human body is tougher than you think."
But as two weeks, then three passed since we started, and my enrollment at Hippolyte Academy neared its end, I began feeling anxious.
I'd come here to learn Aura, hadn't I?
I couldn't even see the first hint of Aura, and I was too busy dodging Hippolyte's attacks every day.
Still, with fists, I could roughly dodge about two out of five strikes. But just as I thought I was making progress, now I had to evade attacks from Hippolyte wielding a wooden stick.
"Think of this stick as a blade. If the red paint on the tip touches your body, you're dead. In reality, strong swordsmen can kill with mere twigs like this."
Like John Wick killing with a pencil, the powerhouses in this world could apparently slay with thin branches.
Whoosh, smack!
"There, you're dead once. Samaritan, Hassan, Hassan—? Hey, focus—."
* * *
Hippolyte seems to be teaching you the Spartan way.
"Pardon?"
In true Spartan fashion, they abandon those who fall behind in rigorous real combat. I don't know if they still do it now, but back in my time, the Spartans were like that.
The skeleton knight sat across from me by the campfire.
His explanation made me recall what I'd heard about Spartans—a nation of mercenaries made up of tough warriors, men and women alike?
They were certainly as brutal and merciless as Amazons or Samaritans, often grouped together when talking about hardy fighters.
So this brutal training method was the Spartan way.
Survival of the fittest. The weak get weeded out. Nothing beats it for forging strength. Only the strong survive, and survivors become strong.
Swoosh.
I felt the skeleton's blue glow shift toward my face. His eyes were probably fixed on the swollen, bruised bags under mine.
Of course, that's only if you can endure it.
"If I endure, will I get stronger?"
I asked gingerly, feeling my throbbing face and the ache in my chest beneath my breastplate.
I had a sense of just barely hanging on day by day. But I couldn't honestly feel like I was getting stronger or improving.
Sure, expecting major progress after just a month was ridiculous. Even on Earth, what could you really learn in a month of boxing or jiu-jitsu?
Slowly.
Steadily building physical skills.
No dramatic breakthroughs, so it felt frustratingly vague.
But unlike my worries, my Necromancy proficiency had risen quite quickly.
Watching the crude bone goblins I'd made scuttle around repairing the skeleton knight's house, I even thought maybe I should focus more on honing Necromancy than rolling around in the dirt.
The skeleton knight, however, seemed displeased with me using Necromancy.
Getting strong the easy way is a false path. Like mages call it, akin to black magic. What comes easy will betray you just as easily. In the end, it's a loss.
For a bag of bones, the skeleton knight was awfully strict.
If Hippolyte's training felt like hardcore practical PE, the skeleton knight's teachings leaned theoretical, almost spiritual.
In the final moment, all you'll have is your experience and your body. That's why that girl Hippolyte is building your foundations from the ground up.
"I see."
You seem anxious, but it's not so bad. You're learning well. Give it a few years like this, and no street thug in town will beat you.
A few years.
A long time, but hearing I was learning well eased my mind a bit.
More importantly, tell me more about that Karma Value. They measure strength with numbers out there?
"Yes, it's shown in stats like strength, agility, stamina. They add them up for a comprehensive value to calculate levels, which determines tier promotions."
Hah, scoring the body like that is laughable. Experience and skill can't be quantified. With this trend of reducing everything to numbers, more fools like you obsess over stats impatiently.
Don't put too much faith in levels.
The skeleton knight echoed what other seasoned adventurers had said.
For people like Hippolyte or this guy who'd reached a certain level, were levels just meaningless numbers?
Still, since I had the amazing ability to raise my Karma Value and level up, I agreed with them to an extent but also felt a rebellious spark.
If I raised my level so high they couldn't even squeak, would they still insist numbers mean nothing?
I pictured myself at level 30, no 40, no 50.
Level 50.
Level 50 Hassan.
Would earthquakes rumble just from me walking?
I suddenly wondered how high levels could go.
In modern terms, what was the max level?
Did it go on forever?
Level 99 Hassan.
Strength, agility, stamina all at 33.
Whoa, fuck, that sounded horrifying.
Imagining myself hulking out, smashing buildings, firing laser beams from my mouth—then my eyes shifted to the text floating in front of me.
A familiar notification now.
It meant my minions' battles had been tallied, and I'd gained Karma Value.
My bone wyvern and Agumon must've been rampaging through the valley near this abyss, wrecking the ecosystem—my Karma Value was now at 210.
With Luna's totem, I could definitely hit at least level 26.
Awooooooo—.
Lost in happy delusions, a gruesome roar erupted from below me. Something in the pitch-black darkness under that cliff let out a massive cry.
I couldn't imagine what might cause such a scream, nor did I want to picture it.
Maybe that massive manticore, or Elfride's party that had gone down there.
It had been three days since the skeleton knight spotted Elfride's group.
Those exploring the abyss usually start cracking mentally by day three. If they don't escape today, those girls will taste true living hell.
According to the skeleton knight, all sorts of ordeals begin around day three.
Walking through deep darkness muddles your sense of time and space. Plus, the abyss's poison is potent—hell mana. Without resistance, it rots your mind from the top down.
I'd heard about hell mana before.
Mana spewing from the rift between the underworld and the surface world?
Immensely powerful, but once addicted, it destroys a person—an terrifying energy.
Paranoia popped into my head.
The nymph corrupted by hell mana, Paranoia.
Thinking of Elfride's party member, the White Rose, turning like that made her seem pitiful.
You should heed this too, Necromancer. Prolonged Necromancy use can corrupt you with hell mana, ruining your personality first.
"Is that so...?"
Personality issues.
It wasn't entirely unfamiliar, sending chills down my spine, when the skeleton knight added more.
Unless you're Pluto's priests, specially trained to endure it—which even they, Necromancers included, mostly go mad anyway.
"Specially trained priests? How do they train?"
Pluto's priests stuff themselves with all sorts from childhood to acclimate to hell mana—poison herbs, venomous bugs—turning their bodies into bug jars.
The skeleton knight explained the bug jar ritual.
Throw venomous bugs in a jar; they eat and fight until one survives.
That survivor becomes a curse of immense poison.
Likewise, Pluto's clerics turn themselves into massive venomous bugs from youth, using their bodies as jars.
Eating bugs and poison herbs from childhood to build tolerance.
Seemed gruesome and barbaric, but thinking back—fuck, I'd lived similarly.
My dad used to jab me with bee stings whenever he could, claiming it'd make me poison-proof.
The bugs I'd eaten were countless; the taste resurfaced, so I stopped thinking.
* * *
Emerging from the valley, the sun was already dipping low, casting a yellowish dusk.
Considering summer's long days, it was probably around seven in the evening.
I thought of heading home for dinner with Luna when, at the north gate of Little Mora in the distance, a familiar pink head waved at me.
"Hassan, over here—!"
Luna had come to meet me.
Exhausted from the grueling training, but seeing her face lifted my spirits a bit.
"Hassan, you went to the valley again today? I told you it's dangerous."
"Got to do risky stuff to rack up achievements."
"Hmm—."
Hippolyte hadn't liked me going to the northern valley either, and Luna felt the same.
If the roles were reversed, I'd worry too.
If a soft girl like Luna went traipsing through monster-infested areas picking herbs, I'd be concerned.
"Hassan, you must be tired! I'll make dinner tonight! Let's go eat!"
Her words snapped me alert.
"Luna, you're cooking dinner?"
Had I ever seen Luna cook? Nope, never.
Someone treating me to a home-cooked meal? It'd been ages, so my fatigue vanished.
I hurried to her cabin.
『Grotesque Salad Filled with Tiny Nighttime Affection.』
『Temporarily boosts stamina stat upon consumption.』
"How is it? To your taste?"
That's when I learned Luna was a terrible cook.
A salad of poorly seasoned veggies, greens, and bizarrely charred meat bits.
Honestly, it tasted awful.
But she'd clearly put effort in and was awaiting my reaction. What to say?
Tell her it's bad?
Or say it's good?
Pondering, I suddenly recalled a similar dilemma from the past.
Like a submarine surfacing unexpectedly, an unbidden flashback hit.
Maybe the first time a woman—excluding mom or my sister—cooked for me.
Hey, arsonist, wanna try this? Just whipped it up.
A few weeks after becoming a slave?
Elfride had once offered me what she called a pancake—basically a flat, broad mung bean pancake.
It looked charred black and reeked of salt; I thought it was a new torture method.
You Samaritans haven't had this, right? Alvheim-style pancake.
But it really tasted bad.
Burnt and super salty. Sprinkled with sugar, maybe edible—but nope, it was salt.
Do elves like this stuff?
Saying it sucked might upset Elfride and earn a scolding.
Just close my eyes and say it's good?
If it's good, uh..., I could make it every day.
Fuck, eat this crap daily?
I'd take a whipping instead.
No desire to eat this horror every day. If it were mildly bad, I'd endure. This crossed the line.
Slave or not, I had a God-given right to refuse such food.
John no taste.
Y-you bastard? That's an insult...!
Hieeek—!
Come to think of it, from that day, Elfride started giving me pocket change for meals. I saved it and eventually scraped together 30 silvers.
If I'd said it was good, I'd have kept eating that garbage, never saved the silvers, and stayed under Elfride forever?
A chilling thought.
This moment echoed that perfectly.
"How is it? If you like it, I'll keep making it! You're training so hard, Hassan—I felt like I should do something. I put in everything that's good for the body. Oh, that meat's viper. Good for men!"
"...I see. Feels nourishing."
After washing off sweat, my languid, fatigued body surged with vitality. Unbidden, my dick stiffened—super awkward.
Viper meat effect was killer.
Weird food buff or not, my stamina rose by 3 to 11. My mind sharpened, making it even more awkward.
How to sleep now.
Pushing the empty bowl aside with that thought, Luna suddenly straddled me.