The dawn over Winston didn't bring the warmth of the sun; it brought the chilling shadow of Piaro standing over Grid's sleeping mat. Before the first rooster could crow, a heavy wooden practice sword slammed into the floor inches from Grid's ear.
"Up, Seed," Piaro's voice was like grinding stones. "The sun waits for no one, and neither does the dirt."
Grid scrambled upward, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What? It's still dark! I'm a blacksmith, I should be at the forge—"
"You are a coward," Piaro corrected calmly, grabbing Grid by the collar and dragging him toward the rear garden. "And a coward with power is a danger to everyone but his enemies. Arthur has requested I 'temper' you. Consider yourself lucky I am using a stick instead of sword."
The outskirts of Winston were painted in the early morning mist. Usually, these rolling plains were a place for mid-level players to grind in peace, but today, they had become a theater of absolute, grinding misery.
Piaro stood atop a small grassy knoll, his posture as straight and unyielding as a spear. In his hand, he held a simple wooden stick. His eyes, which had once scanned the horizons of the Saharan Empire for invading armies, were currently fixed on a sight that made his patience fray like old rope.
"Again," Piaro's voice rang out, cold and toneless. "Your center of gravity is higher than a kite in a gale. Lower your hips, boy. You are a blacksmith; you should know the strength of the earth!"
Thirty yards away, Grid let out a sound that was half-sob, half-growl. He was currently face-to-face—or rather, face-to-snot—with a Level 20 Direwolf.
To a high-ranker, a Level 20 Direwolf was a nuisance to be swatted away. To a Level 1 player with the constitution of a shut-in, it was a furry personification of the Grim Reaper.
Grid swung Mamon's Greatsword—the Level 60 weapon Arthur had "gifted" him—with a desperate, flailing motion.
Because he didn't meet the level requirements, the sword felt like a massive slab of lead, even though he has stacked several bonus stats from making Epic rank Arrows.
His movements were jerky, inefficient, and powered entirely by the panicked adrenaline of a man who didn't want to fall into minus ranks again.
Clang!
The greatsword struck the Direwolf's toughened hide, but because Grid's stance was so abysmal, the recoil nearly dislocated his shoulder. The wolf snapped at his throat, its yellowed fangs missing by a fraction of an inch as Grid fell backward into the dirt.
"Optimization," Piaro muttered to himself, his brow furrowing. "I am pointing out the path to the peak, and he is choosing to crawl through the thorns."
Piaro had taught the finest knights of the Empire. He had polished the talents of men who could split a falling leaf with a sword. He understood the flow of mana, the pivot of the heel, and the economy of the kill. But Grid was... unique.
"Boy!" Piaro shouted, his voice echoing across the plain. "When the beast lunges, do not retreat. Pivot your left foot forty-five degrees. Use the momentum of the wolf's own weight to carry your blade. It is a simple lever! You are a craftsman—understand your surrounding then feel the momentum of the kill!"
Grid scrambled to his feet, coughing up dust. "Surrounding? Momentum! I'm trying not to get eaten! You're Level 200+ or something! Of course it's easy for you! My arms feel like they're made of overcooked noodles!"
Piaro watched as Grid ignored the advice entirely, instead choosing to close his eyes and swing the heavy sword in a blind, horizontal arc. It was a miracle of pure, dumb luck that the blade caught the wolf's ribs, sending it skittering away.
Piaro felt a rare sensation: hopelessness.
In his mind, he was sowing seeds into a field of solid granite. He would explain the optimization of a strike—how to breathe into the blow, how to lock the wrist at the moment of impact—and Grid would listen with an expression of intense concentration.
Then, the moment the wolf barked, the information would leak out of Grid's ears like water through a sieve.
'It is as if his body rejects the very concept of martial grace,' Piaro thought, rubbing his temples. 'He has the 'Legendary' potential, yet he fights like a panicked peasant clutching a pitchfork. Is this truly the Successor of the Great Swordsman Pagma?'
From a distance, leaning against the gnarled trunk of an old oak tree, Arthur watched the spectacle.
He could see the flaws. Every time Grid made a mistake, Arthur felt the "impossibility" he needed to overcome.
Arthur knew what Piaro didn't: Grid wasn't a warrior. He was a man who lived through his items.
In the original story at the earlier period, Grid's strength didn't come from his techniques or his reflexes; it came from his ability to overwhelm the world with the sheer quality of his gear and the raw Stat bonus he farmed through his repetitive failure to make a Legendary Item which was able to stack him a huge amount of Basic stats.
But for Arthur to claim the title of Sword Saint, he couldn't just defeat a man in good armor and high stats. He needed to defeat a Legend who had been pushed to his limit.
Piaro caught Arthur's eye and walked over, his face a mask of weary frustration.
"Arthur," Piaro whispered, the hoe trembling slightly in his hand. "I have fought wars. I have stood against the betrayal of an Emperor. But I do not know if I can survive another hour of this. It is like trying to teach a stone to sing."
Arthur looked at Grid, who was currently being chased in a circle by two whimpering wolves. "Please, Piaro. Hang in there. He is... a late bloomer. His talent doesn't lie in the mind; it lies in the stubbornness of his spirit. If you keep hammering him, eventually the shape will hold and I've find a way to lessen his fear so don't lose hope."
Piaro sighed, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand failed lessons. "I will hammer the stone, Arthur. But do not blame me if the stone simply shatters into dust."
"That's enough for today!" Arthur's voice boomed across the hunting ground.
Grid immediately collapsed into the grass, Mamon's Greatsword falling from his limp fingers. He looked like a man who had been through a laundry cycle with a bag of bricks.
[You have reached Level 7!]
[Your Stamina is exhausted.]
"Finally," Grid wheezed, his face caked in dirt and wolf saliva. "I thought... I thought I was going to see my ancestors. Piaro is a demon. He's a literal demon. Who talks about 'pivot points' while a monster is trying to rip your junk off?"
Arthur walked over and offered Grid a hand. Grid took it, grunting as he was hauled to his feet.
"You did well, Grid," Arthur said, his voice laced with a gentle, supportive lie. "You survived. That's the first step to becoming a Legend."
Grid wiped his face, his eyes suddenly flashing with that familiar, petty spark of greed. "Seven levels in one afternoon... hehe. If we keep this up, I'll be Level 100 in no time."
Grid flashed a dark smile and thought, 'Then I'll show those bitches at the smithy. I'll show everyone.'
He didn't notice the way Arthur looked at him—the way a master swordsman looks at a blade he is carefully tempering. Grid didn't know about the "Final Hurdle."
He didn't know that every level he gained, every bit of strength Piaro forced into his stubborn bones, was merely increasing the value of the sacrifice Arthur intended to make.
"Let's get back to the smithy," Arthur said, turning towards Winston. "Khan has prepared a meal. And tomorrow... tomorrow we go deeper into the forest. But before that we need to arm you with nukes."
Grid followed, limping and complaining about his sore muscles, already dreaming of the gold he would make once he was strong enough to craft, without Piaro breathing down his neck.
Piaro walked behind them, clutching the stick and staring at the back of Grid's head. He was mentally calculating how many more wolves it would take to make the boy turn his left foot correctly.
But for now, the sun was down, the "pig" was fed, and the Legend was growing—one clumsy, resentful step at a time.