A new day began, and once again Danir found himself seated quietly in the Freshmen's Hall.
The atmosphere felt heavier than before.
He sensed it before he saw it—Leopoldo and his group shifting in their seats, eyes locked onto him. They were about to move when the doors opened. Their wizard-scriptor suddenly entered the hall.
Leopoldo clicked his tongue in irritation. His chance was gone—for now. Instead, he caught Danir's gaze and slowly dragged a finger across his own throat in a deliberate, a slitting-throat gesture, a mean silent threat before dropping back into his seat as though nothing had happened.
Danir just looked away, forcing his expression to remain neutral.
The wizard-scriptor stepped to the front of the hall as his presence commanding instant silence.
"Today." he began, "we'll be discussing Hardwork. Tell me—does anyone here know what it truly means? Anyone who has practiced it?"
Danir lowered his eyes.
"I knew about it." he thought. "I've done it. But… I should probably better to stay quiet. I know standing out will only paint a larger target on my back."
A chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Leopoldo stood. Confidence radiated from him as he activated his grimoire, "GRIMOIRE REVEAL !" confidently showed his status to everyone, boastfully. Numbers gleamed in the air, impossibly high for someone their age.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
Danir's eyes widened despite himself.
"Damn… he's pretty strong." Danir admitted silently. "Still level ten, but those stats…"
A reluctant respect surfaced. "I can see it now. At least half of that came from pure Hardwork. He really did push himself past his limits."
Then bitterness followed. "Still… he's a jerk. I should be carefu, always."
Leopoldo Faradic—Level 10 Human Brawler BP: 6000, MP: 650, STR: 3000, SPD: 3500, END: 3000, INT: 500 Magic Skill: Eye of the Monk.
"I chose Eye of the Monk as my first skill." Leopoldo said proudly. "It allows me to see three seconds into my enemy's future attacks."
He smiled. A slow, cruel smile. "So don't you dare mess with me." His eyes slid toward Danir.
Danir felt something sink in his chest.
"And here I am… with just BP: 854, MP: 350, STR: 354, SPD: 353, END: 352, INT: 350, Even after killing an elite magic beast… even after pushing myself to the brink." Danir thought, as the gap felt enormous.
"Excellent." the wizard-scriptor said approvingly. "I'm pleased to have someone prodigious in my class. You may take your seat, Mister Faradic."
"My pleasure, Mr. Cerulean." Leopoldo replied smoothly, bowing with practiced elegance as admiration filled the room.
Danir clenched his fists beneath the desk.
The lesson continued—definitions, mechanics, discipline—but Danir barely heard the words.
Numbers burned behind his eyes.
Strength. Speed. Endurance.
"Hardwork." he thought. "So this is what it looks like when someone walks that path…"
The fear didn't vanish. But something else took root beside it. Resolve. But the atmosphere just shifted away.
Scriptor Cerulean adjusted his spectacles and gestured toward the books resting on top of each desk.
"Open your texts." he instructed calmly. "Read while you listen."
The rustling of pages filled the hall as the magical letters written by Mr. Cerulean float in mid air.
"Hardwork..." he began, "..is a method of increasing one's attributes without leveling up. It is the purest form of self-improvement—earned not through kills, but through repetition and discipline."
They saw these following in the books they are reading:
List of Hardworks:
100 push-ups = +1 Strength
100 sit-ups = +1 Strength
3 km run = +1 Speed, +1 Endurance (this applies to battlefield running as well)
100 squats = +1 Speed, +1 Strength
100 squat thrusts = +1 to all attributes except Intelligence
A murmur passed through the hall as the numbers settled in their minds.
"Now." Cerulean continued, "understand the benefits of each attribute."
He began pacing slowly. "Strength or Str for short. It increases your BP, your weapon damage, and determines how much weight you can bear. Without it, you cannot carry your own armor, let alone your comrades...
Endurance or End for short. The measure of how much punishment your body can withstand. A fragile adventurer is a dead adventurer...
Speed or Spd for short. Movement. Reflexes. Reaction time. Particularly vital for ungifted humans, who lack the natural advantages of other races."
Danir's pen moved swiftly across the parchment, capturing every word.
"Intelligence or Int for short." Cerulean said, tapping the board. "It increases MP and magical damage. However…"
Cerulean paused deliberately.
"There are no Hardworks for increasing Intelligence within adventurer jobclasses."
The hall quieted further.
"Except for one." Cerulean continued...
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"In the commoner jobclass known as Scriptor, Intelligence may be increased through the acquisition of knowledge—reading, research, comprehension."
A few students glanced at him in surprise.
"It is one of the advantages of my path." he continued.
"A Wizard with Scriptor as my secondary jobclass, I may train both magical power and Intelligence through study. A synergy."
His gaze swept across the room.
"This is why choosing your jobclass wisely is critical. A poor choice may burden you with disadvantages. A wise one multiplies your growth."
He folded his hands behind his back.
"Understand this well: Hardwork's only disadvantage is the effort it demands. It requires relentless repetition. It demands that you push beyond your limits."
His voice lowered.
"And many lack the will to do so."
Danir swallowed.
His pen scratched steadily as he wrote down every important detail, committing the mechanics to both paper and memory. While others merely listened, he calculated.
"No Hardwork for Intelligence… unless you're a Scriptor." Danir thought.
As the semester wore on, time seemed to lose its shape.
Three months of spring bled seamlessly into three months of summer, and within that half year, the academy became less a school and more a crucible. Day after day, the students were driven through exhausting Hardworks that stripped away comfort, excuses, and weakness alike.
They were given freedom—an unusual privilege—to choose their own routines. To decide how far they were willing to go.
Some treated it lightly, doing only the bare minimum before collapsing into laughter and complaint. Others trained hard for a while, then eased off when the pain became inconvenient.
And then there were a few who truly took it seriously. Leopoldo was one of them. But so was Danir. While others counted their repetitions with relief, Danir set a different standard for himself. Every single day—without exception—he forced his body through one thousand squat thrusts. Not because anyone ordered him to. Not because it was expected. But because he refused to remain weak.
Each session left his muscles screaming, his lungs burning, his vision blurring at the edges. Sweat soaked his clothes until they clung to his skin like a second weight. There were days when his legs trembled so badly he could barely stand, when collapsing to the ground felt inevitable.
Yet he always stood back up.
One thousand squat thrusts meant +10 to every attribute except Intelligence—earned daily, without shortcuts. Pain became routine. Exhaustion became familiar. The body adapted. What once felt impossible slowly became survivable.
And then—normal. Danir didn't like showing off his progress. He didn't seek or chase recognition. While others chased numbers for pride, he chased them for self progress.
Danir also trained in secret.
It was something he never spoke of—not to his brothers, not to his instructors, not even to himself aloud. It was his first magic, the very first magic he acquired from killing a winter vulture, and he treated it like a fragile secret weapon meant to stay hidden until the moment it was needed most.
After finishing his Hardworks in the academy's training hall, he would rest just long enough for his breathing to steady. Then, as dusk crept in and the academy grounds emptied, he slipped beyond the city walls—far enough that no eyes lingered, far enough that no questions followed.
There, alone beneath the open sky, he practiced.
His magic, called as: Ice Shards Daggers.
The incantation never left his lips. He formed it only in his mind, shaping the mana carefully, deliberately. Before him, replicas of his quillon daggers took shape—seven crystalline blades of ice, hovering silently in midair. Their edges gleamed cold and sharp, suspended by his will alone.
With a flick of intent, he launched them.
The daggers screamed through the air and struck the stone wall beyond the fields. Ice shattered violently, fragments scattering like broken glass—yet the wall itself remained unscathed.
Danir exhaled slowly, his brow creasing.
"Still not enough magic damage." he thought.
He checked himself. Only two hundred MP remained. Enough to do his one last attempt.
He turned toward an oak tree standing five meters away, its thick trunk gnarled and old. Carefully, he summoned the spell again and released it.
The ice daggers flew.
This time, they did not shatter on impact.
They sank halfway into the tree.
A thin crack of frost spread outward from the points of impact, creeping along the bark like veins of crystal. The wood stiffened, pale and brittle, the frozen area spreading just enough to weaken the structure beneath.
Danir stared at it, realization dawning.
"If it penetrates… it freezes from within."
The thought sent a chill through him—not from the cold, but from understanding. That a frozen wound like that would shatter easily under a powerful strike.
"Gosh…I'm scared to use this on people." he thought quietly, a faint, uneasy smile tugging at his lips. But beneath that fear was something else.
Relief.
His magic could fight.
From that day on, his routine became ironclad.
He woke at dawn. Ate breakfast with his brothers. Endured Hardworks for a total of 30 days with the other freshmen in the training hall. And when the day faded, he slipped beyond the walls to hone his magic alone. Again. And again!
Sometimes the schedule shifted—lectures, book sessions, mandatory study halls—but no matter what changed, Danir always found his way back to training.
Danir's progress—
Grimoire's 1st Page: Danir Granger, Level 7 BladeMagus—
BP: 854+600=1,453
MP: 350
STR: 354+300=654
SPD: 353+300=653
END: 352+300=652
INT: 350
Grimoire's 2nd Page: Magic spell—Ice Shards Daggers.