Leaving the real estate information area behind, Ren quickly made his way to a suitable place for training, the practice grounds near the guard barracks.
The training complex for players was usually too crowded and noisy. In the early days, when most players were still trapped and hadn't found a reason to fight, those grounds had been spacious and empty.
But now, things seemed different.
Even though he wasn't part of the guard force, he had seen a few players granted access to this place during off-peak hours.
This was mainly because they had built a reputation in the Starting Town through their relationship points with the guards.
Ren's 50 points were more than enough.
Moreover, after the battle with the wolves, he knew he had to improve his combat skills as soon as possible.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the barracks gate. No one stopped him. The nearby guards recognized him, but none of them showed any particular enthusiasm or surprise.
They only gave him a glance. A few who recognized him nodded slightly, a quiet acknowledgment, a sign that he was no longer just an anonymous stranger.
Inside, the intensity of training filled the air. The sharp clang of metal striking metal rang out, mixed with the sound of hurried footsteps on solid ground.
The armored soldiers were focused on their drills, moving swiftly, coordinating seamlessly, following short but firm commands.
Compared to the outer training grounds, this place carried a stricter, more serious atmosphere, one not meant for the weak or hesitant.
Ren didn't linger to observe. He had no reason to hesitate or doubt himself right now.
Heading straight to an empty corner, he drew his wooden sword.
The familiar weight in his hand brought a sense of steadiness, but that alone wasn't enough.
If he wanted to go further, if he wanted to survive in this world through his own strength, he had to grow stronger.
Without letting his thoughts wander, he began his training.
Adjusting his stance, he felt the weight of the sword cutting through the air, searching for the best way to control his force so that his swings wouldn't lose momentum or stray off course.
His sword swings had improved significantly, shedding unnecessary clumsiness and becoming more fluid and precise.
Ren lowered his body slightly, planting his feet firmly into the ground as if anchoring himself. He twisted his torso and unleashed a swift horizontal slash.
His technique had improved, but his arm strength was still lacking. He tightened his grip on the sword handle, trying to channel more power into his wrist while maintaining a steady rhythm.
A straight thrust...
In his mind, he visualized an enemy's vital weak point.
Lowering his stance, he adjusted his footwork to ensure his thrust reached maximum force without compromising his balance.
With each strike, he gave his full attention. Every slash, every movement, every minor adjustment was carried out with absolute seriousness.
He repeated. Observed. Corrected. And repeated again.
Sweat quickly beaded on his forehead. His breathing grew heavier, but his body showed no signs of stopping.
The movements became more natural. His sword swings connected smoothly, and his speed began increasing instinctively.
A strange sensation crept into his mind, the feeling that he was truly improving.
It wasn't just an illusion or hope, but a real, tangible change, a clear step forward.
Ren kept focusing on every motion, repeating his strikes without paying attention to the passage of time.
The sword in his hand felt increasingly familiar. Every swing, slash, and thrust became smoother, each strike sharper and more precise.
His arms adjusted to the sword's weight, his fingers loosened their stiffness, and his movements became more coordinated. But he still wasn't satisfied.
He wanted to be faster. Stronger. More precise.
There was no one to guide or observe him. No Klein or anyone else to compare, exchange techniques, or offer support.
No one to point out mistakes, no words of encouragement, no advice.
Just him, his sword, and the silent space of the training grounds.
The shouts of training soldiers, the pounding footsteps, and the clashing of metal rang in the distance, but they all faded from his world.
He focused solely on the path of his sword. His entire body was drenched in sweat, his breaths were labored, yet he kept going.
He could clearly see the difference between real combat and solo training. In battle, there was no time to think, only instinctive reactions, every decision made within a single heartbeat.
But here, every flaw was laid bare before him, undeniable. Every unstable step, every movement not fast enough, every strike lacking force.
If this had been a real fight, any of these small mistakes could have been the reason for his downfall.
I'm still too slow.
A frustrating sensation rose in his chest. He couldn't stay like this forever. If he didn't get stronger, if he didn't push further, he would always be the one left behind.
Ren tightened his grip on the sword hilt, feeling the rough texture of his calloused hands, the small scratches still lingering from past battles.
This wasn't his limit. He couldn't stop here.
He needed to be stronger. Faster. Better.
Taking a deep breath, he lowered his stance, adjusted his breathing, and focused all his strength into the next strike.
Swing. A sharp slash cut through the air, stronger than before.
Horizontal strike. His arm began to feel the strain, but he held his stance firm.
Thrust. A powerful, decisive stab, without hesitation.
He didn't stop. No one was pushing him, but he didn't stop.
Over and over. Again and again.
Each movement became a part of his body, every drop of sweat falling to the ground like proof of his relentless effort.
Time passed, but he didn't care.
This was no longer just training.
This was survival.
His body began to protest, every muscle tightening as if one more push would cause them to snap.
His arms ached, feeling like they carried a massive weight, his shoulders throbbed as if hammered repeatedly.
Each swing sent a burning pain through his muscles, as if they were set ablaze from within. His breathing grew heavier, more labored, as though the air had thickened, struggling to reach his lungs.
Sweat poured down his face, his shirt clinging to his back, cold and uncomfortable. But Ren did not stop.
With each swing, he edged closer to his limits. With every arc of his blade, he felt a deeper connection to his weapon. But he wasn't done yet.
He couldn't stop. Not when he was still too slow. Not when his strength hadn't reached what he desired. Not when he was still at the bottom, far from true warriors.
Faster. His sword carved a sharp arc through the air, the steel whistling as it cut through the wind, but it still wasn't fast enough. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, and forced his body to respond even quicker.
Stronger. His arms had begun to go numb, but he still poured his strength into every slash, every thrust, feeling the trembling of his exhausted muscles, the strain on his wrist begging for rest. But he didn't care. He wouldn't allow himself to be weak.
More precise. There was no real enemy before him, but he imagined one.
Someone faster than him, stronger than him, someone who could kill him in a single strike if he made a mistake.
That imagined opponent grew clearer with every swing, every stance adjustment.
A slight deviation could cost him his life. A second too slow, and he would be defeated.
Ren clenched his jaw, his eyes locked onto the invisible target, his gaze sharp and unwavering.
His body trembled from exhaustion, his strikes no longer as perfectly steady as before, but his determination did not waver.
His heartbeat pounded in his chest, like the drums of war. His breath came ragged, his lungs burning as if set aflame.
The sharp pain from his muscles spread, a slow-burning fire searing through every fiber of his being.
He didn't care.
He still wasn't strong enough.
One last strike. He poured every ounce of his strength into the final swing, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp, slicing sound. His muscles overstrained, throwing him off balance—he staggered forward, barely keeping himself from collapsing.
His hands trembled. His arms ached, sore to the point where they barely felt like his own.
He stood still, his breath unsteady, staring at the blade in his grip.
Not enough.
Still not enough.
Ren swallowed dryly, his throat parched, his mind hazy with exhaustion. But he still didn't want to stop. He could train more. He could get even stronger.
But not now.
Finally, he loosened his grip, letting the weight of the sword settle in his hand. The cold steel was still there, but now, it felt as if it had seeped into his very bones.
Slowly, he sheathed his sword, straightened his posture, feeling every stiff muscle, his legs heavy like lead, his breathing not yet fully steady.
The sky had turned toward dusk, fading into muted shades of orange and gray.
The training grounds still echoed with the sound of weapons clashing, the guards continuing their drills as if nothing had changed. But to Ren, his world was now silent.
He turned away, each step weighed down by exhaustion as he left the training ground.
But he knew, tomorrow, he would return.
And next time, he would be stronger.