Chapter 77: Untitled
"You may begin whenever you feel like it."
Ghost’s voice resounded once more before completely shutting off, leaving the arena submerged in silence.
’The kid must remember the help I granted him back in the caravan and is hesitant to attack. He’s still young after all...’
Standing opposite Ethan, Servos quietly ran through a string of thoughts as he watched the young summoner remain rooted in place. His eyes never left Ethan’s face, searching for even the slightest change in expression.
He could understand the hesitation.
After all, it had been because of him that Ethan had managed to obtain his second summon. If he hadn’t stepped in during the caravan incident, things could have unfolded very differently.
If not for him...
Before that thought could fully form—
Shinngggg!
Ethan moved.
Without the slightest warning, his figure shot forward, crossing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His blade descended with decisive force, slicing straight toward Servos.
Cling!
Steel collided with steel.
The instant their weapons met, a violent wave of energy exploded from the point of impact, surging directly through Servos’ body. Every muscle in his frame instinctively tightened as an unfamiliar pressure forced its way into his limbs.
His relaxed expression disappeared almost instantly.
The attack itself wasn’t particularly overwhelming.
It was the strange force hidden behind it.
Tribulation Might.
Before Servos could properly process what he had just felt, Ethan’s body twisted with surprising fluidity.
Another strike followed.
Slash!
The blade skimmed across the side of Servos’ leg, leaving behind a shallow wound.
It wasn’t deep enough to cause any real damage.
Yet the terrifying force contained within the strike erupted once more, flooding into Servos’ body.
Only this time...
It was twice as powerful.
’What the hell is this?’
’Why is it getting stronger?!’
For the first time since entering the arena, panic flashed across Servos’ face.
His instincts screamed at him.
Whatever this technique was, allowing the strikes to continue connecting would only make things worse.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Servos planted one foot firmly into the ground before launching himself forward.
His leg shot out.
Boom!
The kick landed squarely against Ethan’s chest.
The impact echoed throughout the arena as Ethan was sent flying several meters backward, his body skidding violently across the stone floor before finally coming to a stop.
Servos slowly lowered his leg.
His breathing remained steady, but the caution in his eyes had completely replaced the indifference from earlier.
Being caught off guard once because he underestimated the boy was understandable.
Allowing himself to continue getting hit after realizing how dangerous those attacks were would simply be stupidity.
Only now did he understand why Ghost had claimed fifty successful strikes could kill him.
Perhaps the statement hadn’t been as exaggerated as it initially sounded.
"Remember the techniques in the manual. They are there for a reason."
A feminine voice echoed through the arena.
This time it wasn’t Banshee.
It was Arian.
Lying on the ground, Ethan couldn’t help but glance toward the direction the voice had come from.
Only then did he truly realize something.
The people observing this trial were far more numerous than he had originally believed.
It wasn’t just Ghost watching.
There were others.
People silently evaluating every movement he made.
Every mistake.
Every improvement.
"Easier said than done," Ethan muttered beneath his breath as he slowly pushed himself back onto his feet.
His chest still ached from the kick.
Servos wasn’t simply stronger than him.
The difference in combat experience between them was enormous.
The macaque warrior had spent decades fighting battles against enemies far more dangerous than Ethan.
Unlike humans, demi-humans began learning how to fight almost as soon as they could walk.
Combat wasn’t merely something they practiced.
It was part of their upbringing.
Their instincts.
Their culture.
Every movement Servos made was efficient.
Every reaction happened naturally.
There wasn’t a single unnecessary motion.
Meanwhile, Ethan had only recently begun learning how to properly wield a sword.
The difference between the two couldn’t have been more obvious.
They were asking him to defeat an old monster whose experience alone eclipsed everything Ethan had accumulated throughout both of his lives.
Not only that—
Servos was stronger.
An entire realm stronger.
Even landing a clean strike required threading a needle while standing inside a storm.
"You think the Tier Six is overboard?"
Ghost asked quietly as he looked toward the two women standing beside him.
Even he had to admit the challenge bordered on absurd.
To be honest...
There wasn’t a chance in hell Ethan was winning this fight.
Forget defeating Servos.
Even landing fifty successful strikes seemed almost impossible.
Against a human opponent, perhaps perseverance could eventually bridge the gap.
Against a demi-human veteran?
The odds became infinitely worse.
"I don’t have an alternative," Arian answered calmly.
Her eyes never once left the battlefield below.
"Besides..."
"Fifty strikes can’t exactly kill a Tier Six macaque."
"And he knows that."
Her voice remained composed.
There was no trace of concern.
Servos understood perfectly well that Ghost’s statement wasn’t meant literally.
The purpose wasn’t to place his life in danger.
It was to pressure Ethan.
To force him into adapting.
To push him beyond his limits until every movement became instinct.
The true requirement of the Tyrant Blade inheritance had never actually been fifty strikes.
That number was merely a benchmark.
A target.
A suggestion.
The real objective was far simpler.
Burn the technique into Ethan’s bones.
Etch every movement so deeply into his body that he could execute it without conscious thought.
Once that happened...
The inheritance would naturally acknowledge him.
If Ethan possessed the level of talent they believed he did, he wouldn’t need all fifty strikes.
He would master the essence of the technique long before then.
If he didn’t...
Then he simply wasn’t worthy of inheriting the class.
And so...
It began.
Day after day.
Hour after hour.
Ethan repeatedly threw himself against Servos.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each battle ended almost exactly the same.
Sometimes he managed to land a strike before being sent flying.
Other times he couldn’t even force Servos to move his feet.
His body became covered in bruises.
His muscles screamed with exhaustion.
The ligaments in his sword arm repeatedly tore apart under the strain of channeling Tribulation Might beyond what his body could comfortably endure.
Every successful strike came at a cost.
Every failure left him sprawled across the arena floor.
Whenever the damage became too severe, the training would pause only long enough for him to absorb more Tribulation Might and recover enough to continue.
Then the fighting resumed.
There was no celebration.
No praise.
No encouragement.
Only endless repetition.
Swing.
Miss.
Countered.
Stand back up.
Swing again.
Each exchange forced him to refine the movements hidden inside the manual.
Little by little...
His stance became steadier.
His footwork cleaner.
His timing sharper.
The unnecessary movements gradually disappeared.
The Tyrant Blade slowly stopped feeling like a foreign technique and began responding naturally to his body.
Still...
It wasn’t enough.
Servos remained an immovable wall standing before him.
Every improvement Ethan made was immediately met by an adjustment from the veteran warrior.
Whenever Ethan believed he had finally found an opening...
It disappeared.
Whenever he believed he had gained momentum...
Servos effortlessly shut him down.
The cycle continued relentlessly.
The days blurred together.
Pain became familiar.
Failure became routine.
The arena floor itself seemed to memorize the countless times Ethan had fallen upon it.
Yet every single time...
He stood back up.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until...
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