Nobody approached my table after the debacle. Eyes lingered, half pity, half disdain. To them, I was still the outsider… a pampered brat playing soldier in a world that devoured the weak. Their silence was heavier than any insult. It pressed down on me like chain mail soaked in blood.
Fine. Let them think I'm weak. That I don't belong. The quickest way to change their minds? Survive the fight. Defensive skills, that's what I need. With the knights' level gap, the match won't be a clash of blades. No, this would be a bare-knuckle lesson. A reminder that strength isn't granted, it's earned in bruises.
Unless the commander has the Skill Training Battle. Then maybe, just maybe, I'd get a fair shot. But fairness isn't the point here. This is a test. Survival is the only passing grade.
And titles… gods, how I had neglected them in my last life. No more. This time, I'd wear titles like armor. First on the list: Relentless. It was practically a rite of passage for knights. If the training yard has those training doors, then this is my chance. That title was more than just a badge, it was a core trait. Essential for anyone who plans to survive long enough to matter.
Still, no one looks at me directly. The knights avoid me like I carry a disease. Enough of this. I march toward the commander, chin raised, heart hammering.
Then it hits.
A chime, subtle and cold as steel.
[Quest Added: Training Spar]
Quest: Training SparType: InstantDifficulty: Tier 2Description: Training isn't just about swinging swords. You must learn how to fight with everything you have.Objectives (complete at least one):
1. Survive 5 minutes
2. Survive 10 minutes
3. Survive 30 minutes
4. Win
Rewards(Retroactively given with corresponding objective):
1. Skill: Learning
2. Skill: Observe
3. Title: Hardheaded
4. Skill: Training
I freeze mid-step. My breath catches. The timing, the phrasing... Is the Watcher still observing me? These quests,they don't feel random. They feel like design. Like he's nudging me through a script only he can see.
Why now? Why this task? And why does it feel like I'm being sculpted,slowly, methodically,by a presence that isn't quite divine, but no less terrifying?
.
Again, my thoughts spiraled, dragging me away from the moment. When I looked up, the commander's eyes were already on me, sharp, expectant, waiting.
I straightened my posture, swallowing the sudden tightness in my throat. "Uhm… Commander, is there a training door available to acquire the title Relentless?"
His eyes scanned me, slow and clinical, from my still-soft hands to the tension in my shoulders. I half-expected a bark of laughter or a dismissive scoff. Instead, his voice dropped to something gentler than before. Still rough, but almost... respectful.
"You can call me Fredrick from now on." He nodded toward the far end of the training yard. "The doors are to your left, near the south wall in the weapons hall."
That caught me off guard. "Thank you… Commander Fredrick."
He grunted in acknowledgment and turned away, his voice rising like a war horn once more.
"You! With the spiky hair! Are you trying to slice air or tickle it? Straighten your back!"
"Sorry, Commander! I think I pulled..."
The rest of his scolding faded as I made my way to the door. The noise of clashing steel, barked orders, and grunts of effort followed me like a distant storm. I opened the door.
The second it closed behind me, silence fell.
Not quiet.
Silence.
The air in the hall felt unnaturally still, as if even the dust was holding its breath. Weapons of all kinds were strewn across the floor, some resting neatly on racks, but most lying about like they'd survived a bar fight. It looked less like a training hall and more like a battleground for drunk blacksmiths. And yet, standing there smug and upright amidst the chaos, was the training door. A singular, stubborn wooden slab bolted into stone, looking utterly useless from an architectural standpoint, but every knight knew its real value: pain and perseverance distilled into a rite of passage.
The door itself was unassuming, a wooden frame reinforced with metal, bolted into a squat stone pillar. I stepped up and did the usual awkward routine: first pulled, then pushed. The hinges groaned like an old man waking from a nap, and the door creaked open with the enthusiasm of a reluctant retiree. I closed it firmly, locked it, and walked five paces back.
Then I charged.
With all the determination of a boy hoping to impress a commander and earn a title, I rammed my shoulder into the door. It burst open. My shoulder throbbed.
Round two.
Same process. Same pain. A little less dignity.
By the fifth attempt, the door flew open, and something else did too. A sharp pop cracked through my arm like dry twigs snapping, and I knew my shoulder had officially quit the mission.
I cradled my limp right arm like a broken chicken wing and sighed. No sense quitting now.
So I switched sides.
Ramming a door with my non-dominant shoulder was exactly as glamorous as it sounds. Less strength, more awkward angles, and a lot more cursing. I probably looked like a deranged bird flinging himself into a window repeatedly. But I kept going.
And on the tenth, glorious, arm-numbing, borderline-hallucinatory attempt, I heard it.
A soft chime rang in my head.
[Title Acquired: Relentless]
Totally worth the bruised ego and dislocated shoulder.