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墨書 Inktalez
The sounds of combat echoed continuously, and a foul, metallic odor filled the room. The scent of blood was not from a battlefield soaked in the enemy's essence, but rather from comrades locked in a deadly struggle against each other.
Long Xingchen stood still, observing the man before him, whose body was covered in wounds. He looked like a Shinra Evil Spirit, rolling in filth and blood, squeezing out the last remnants of laughter through crimson teeth. Long Xingchen realized he had been mistaken; he would not apologize to anyone, but he would correct his errors. He had thought that in this apocalypse, strength was the only rule for survival. Yet there were those who could not be silenced no matter how hard one struck them. This man's fighting spirit was unwavering; his fists moved with precision and rhythm, perfectly timed compared to the beginning of their battle.
The man was rapidly absorbing real combat experience through the punishment he endured. His growth rate was the fastest Long Xingchen had ever witnessed. Fighting required physical contact to achieve breakthroughs; Long Xingchen prided himself on his high talent, but fighting was not something one could master in one breath. It required careful consideration and often needed a skilled coach to point out mistakes.
The pain from his fists was not the only thing awakening him; with each punch thrown, the sound of lead-filled wraps echoed. Suddenly, his speed increased. He alternated between powerful strikes and swift jabs while nimbly evading incoming threats.
Long Xingchen's speed was equally impressive. More often than not, he stood aside to observe his opponent's movements before preparing himself for either an offensive or defensive maneuver. Of course, this required absolute perception, which was one of his abilities—absolute foresight.
As he sensed threats approaching, he launched his attacks before they could reach him, locking those dangerous strikes away as if sheathing a blade. This was something only those with extraordinary talent could achieve, and what he demonstrated was merely Gene Chain—just a fraction of his capabilities.
The disparity in their abilities was evident. Moreover, Long Xingchen utilized Gene Chain—a technique that consumed stamina exponentially with movement—but even after more than an hour had passed, he seemed unfazed. He effortlessly dodged heavy punches and appeared where his opponent least wanted him to be. With a swift kick to the back of Freyr's head, Freyr collapsed to the ground, darkness enveloping him as he lost consciousness.
Twenty minutes later, this should have been Freyr's best performance during his explosive state, yet the scoreboard already marked a loss for him. On the other hand, Long Xingchen maintained his usual high score—only ten points lost—something he would not allow himself to exceed.
In previous matches, he had managed to keep the score difference within five points—five mistakes—but this time he had made ten errors. This should have been considered a failure on his part; after such an extended struggle, even someone with an iron constitution would be exhausted. After all, he was just an ordinary person with mortal limitations.
This match was the last of the day. Long Xingchen looked out into the dark night through the window and walked barefoot to the edge of the room. He scooped water from a barrel and splashed it forcefully onto Freyr's unconscious form.
Freyr jolted awake instantly, wiping his face before glancing at the scoreboard. The repeated errors indicated yet another unsatisfactory performance for him. He shook his head in frustration and said, "I lost this time; I’ll honor my promise and accept my punishment."
"I'll watch you accept your punishment. Now go ahead; once you finish running, today's training will be over," Long Xingchen replied calmly.
Freyr nodded without responding further and turned to continue with his punishment exercises. After changing back into his upper clothing, Long Xingchen stood still in place, silently counting repetitions for him. However, deep down, he felt proud of this junior's progress as he noticed scratches on the floor caused by Freyr’s intense efforts. Suddenly it struck him—these marks were typically only seen when a car made an emergency stop. Could humans generate kinetic energy comparable to that of a vehicle? This realization seemed instinctual for him.
Out of a hundred attempts, even one significant success felt like a considerable probability.
After some time, Freyr finally completed his punishment exercises. He had no idea how many times he had been penalized today; three months of training had never felt as exhausting as this moment. His entire body felt drained as he removed the lead-filled gloves from his hands and allowed his arm muscles to relax. These muscle strains had occurred numerous times before; each time he took painkillers and continued training without regard for his own body until he fainted. A splash of cold water would bring him back to consciousness so that he could resume training.
This cycle of falling down and getting back up again continued relentlessly—training until fainting—and it remained uncertain how much injury this would inflict on his body. After training sessions ended, Freya would always take him to the Treatment Room for care.
Inside the Treatment Room were Freya and Freyr along with an elderly medic who wore a white coat and had kind eyes. The room smelled like a hospital—filled with formaldehyde and pungent alcohol—but upon closer inspection, there were no traces of disinfectants anywhere within it.
Entering the deepest part of the Treatment Room, a massive Regeneration Cradle machine was placed at the end of the corridor.
"Let him lie down," the doctor said, gripping a bottle of liquor in his left hand and taking a swig to force himself to calm down, though he had already consumed quite a bit before arriving.
Freya supported Freyr as they stepped into the cradle. As Freyr opened his eyes, he found that his limbs were unable to move. He was sliding into a place filled with glowing lights, feeling as if he had entered a cradle, surrendering his consciousness to its gentle rocking.
"Doctor, is he going to be okay?" Freya's voice suddenly broke the silence.
"Well, you only come to find me in situations like this. The diagnostic fee remains the same—a bottle of liquor will do."
The Regeneration Cradle was a form of regenerative technology akin to cloning. With advancements in Gene Technology and Nanotechnology, it had become a new product that gradually replaced the need for surgeons. Minor injuries could be completely repaired at the cellular level using the Regeneration Cradle, leaving no scars behind. Consequently, athletes' retirement periods were extended by many years.
Hidden dangers lurking within muscles were meticulously unearthed through the surgeon's skilled hands. The glowing lights inside the machine were non-radiative Light Spots that illuminated the skin, replacing the function of muscle cell regeneration. Over time, even dead skin could rejuvenate after being treated by these Light Spots.
They attempted to extend muscle regeneration capabilities through this method. Thanks to this approach, Freyr would no longer experience the painful chain reaction of exertion after intense exercise, which could severely affect his condition and take a long time to recover from. Clearly, utilizing the capabilities of the Regeneration Cradle allowed Freyr to emerge from the dim machine twenty minutes later.
He appeared revitalized; damaged cells had returned to their fullest health stage. The injured muscles were completely repaired at the genetic level while retaining their developed cellular capabilities from training. Now, each time he entered, his physical condition improved significantly.
"Don't treat this place like your training camp; frequent use will get noticed. From now on, you can use it once a week," the surgeon instructed simply.
Freya promptly handed over a bottle of fine vodka and then pushed open the door to leave.
"You can only use it once a week; your body clearly can't withstand all the tests yet. You'll have to gauge your path moving forward," Freya said kindly before walking out.
Freyr followed behind in confusion. Before long, he could no longer see Freya's figure. He returned to Cambrian Hall, changed into a new Kendo Uniform, sent his training gear to be washed, and packed it away for drying. Afterward, he headed to Kendo Hall.
Kendo Hall.
Pushing open the door to Kendo Hall, he immediately spotted a solitary figure sitting in darkness at the dojo. The sound of their breathing was clear even from afar. Closing the door behind him and stepping barefoot onto the tatami mat, that solitary figure swiftly rose with a Bamboo Sword in hand. The shadow moved like lightning, striking down towards him with an intensity that made it nearly impossible for anyone to evade.
Freyr watched as the sword shadow approached and quickly rolled aside to avoid it. "Teacher, it's me!" he exclaimed.
"I know. I was in a meditative state, and you disrupted my aura, so that moment was a lesson for your rudeness."
From the shadows stepped an elderly man with graying hair, clad in black armor. If he hadn't removed his helmet, one might have mistaken him for a creature resembling the Shinra Evil Spirit standing opposite him; no human sword could move that quickly.
"You've come quite late today. Follow me, and I'll teach you some basic swordsmanship. Just practice more when you return," the old man said, turning his head slightly.
"I trained late today," Freyr awkwardly scratched his neck.
"You must have been punished. I've heard rumors about you. You just don't learn your lesson. What's so good about hanging out with them? The true path is to study diligently. You're always getting punished, and it does you no good. If we had more time, I could teach you some other techniques as well. For now, I'll teach you some basics, and next time when there's more time, I'll pass on more to you," the shadowy figure continued as he removed his armor. "Take your practice sword and come here; I'll demonstrate. Pay attention."
"Okay."
Freyr picked up a wooden sword from a nearby rack and approached.
"To others, a sword may seem like a lifeless object; to soldiers, it's even a joke. But I believe that a sword has a spirit, just like people do. A Peerless Swordsman must cherish their Sword. When a sword has spirit, it will bestow its power upon you. As a Famous Sword user, never abandon your sword; those who do will surely fail. This is the fate of our swordsman clan—remember this."
As soon as he finished speaking, the teacher drew out his genuine Famous Sword, its cold light gleaming fiercely like a wild beast unleashed, filled with murderous intent. Under the pressure of this Famous Sword user, the sword seemed to gain its own consciousness. With the Sword Technique in play, the brilliant blade seemed capable of piercing through the night.
Once the demonstration of the Sword Technique was complete, Freyr stepped forward and drew his Bamboo Sword. Just as he remembered, he swiftly began to dance with the Bamboo Sword in hand.
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