The backyard of Khan's smithy had been transformed. What was once a cluttered space for coal storage and scrap iron was now a sanctum of absolute discipline. The air here was different from the rest of Winston; it was sharp, ionized by the constant friction of steel against the atmosphere.
Piaro stood in the center of the yard. He had traded his tattered cloak for a simple, breathable tunic, but he kept the straw hat. In his hand, he held a simple wooden training sword—a piece of oak that, in his grip, felt more dangerous than a legendary blade.
"A sword is not a tool of the hand," Piaro's voice rang out, devoid of its former madness, replaced by the cold clarity of a Grandmaster. "It is a manifestation of your internal order. If your mind is chaotic, your edge will be blunt. If your soul is divided, your strike will falter."
Before him stood Arthur, Nana, and Cecil. They were drenched in sweat, their breathing rhythmic but heavy. They had been in this yard for fourteen hours.
For Arthur and Nana, the training was a revelation. Under Piaro's tutelage, the "System" constraints seemed to peel away. Their Intermediate Sword Mastery didn't just climb; it surged. Every parry Piaro forced them to make, every near-miss that singed their hair, was a lesson in spatial awareness and intent.
Suddenly, a tectonic shift occurred in Arthur's perception. The world slowed down. He could see the individual dust motes dancing in the sunlight, and more importantly, he could see the "flow" of energy within his own body.
[System: Your 'Intermediate Sword Mastery' has reached the limit!]
[Breaking through the threshold...]
[Congratulations! You have unlocked 'Advanced Sword Mastery'!]
At that exact moment, Nana let out a sharp cry of exertion. Her blade, a training rapier, suddenly emitted a faint, flickering silver light.
[System: A new resource has been awakened: Aura.]
Arthur looked down at his own hands. A brilliant, searing white light—the color of a dying star—was bleeding from his palms and coating his blade. Unlike mana, which felt like a fluid being pumped through a pipe, Aura felt like his very willpower being rendered into a physical edge.
"Aura," Piaro noted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "The mark of those who have stopped swinging a piece of metal and started wielding their own conviction. Arthur, your aura is heavy. Nana, yours is the speed of the wind. Do not let the light fade. Feed it."
As Arthur stabilized the white flame around his sword, a window of ancient gold manifested before his eyes. It was larger than any notification he had ever seen, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his own heartbeat.
[Path of the Absolute: Sword Saint]
[Status: Candidate (Level 1)]
[Description: You have achieved the Advance Level of Swordsmanship passive, you have touched the lowest threshold of the 'Sword Saint' class.]
[Trait: 'Sword Mastery' has been converted to 'Sword Saint Mastery'.]
[Passive: All swords in your hand will now function as if they are one rank higher.]
Arthur's heart hammered against his ribs. The Sword Saint was the peak of physical combat in Satisfy, a class held by only one person per era. To even be a "Candidate" at Level 172 was a statistical miracle. He wasn't just a blacksmith anymore; he was the precursor to the strongest combatant in the world.
While the martial trio was being forged in the center of the yard, a different kind of training was happening in the shadows of the stone walls.
Alfia and Meteria were not swinging heavy blades. They were practicing the Dagger Arts. Under Arthur's suggestion, they had taken up the short blade—not to become front-line assassins, but to ensure they were never a liability.
"If a thief slips past Cecil, I will not be the reason Arthur has to turn his back on a boss," Alfia whispered, her eyes locked on a training dummy.
She moved with a mage's grace, her movements economical. She didn't use the dagger to clash; she used it to deflect and find the throat. Meteria worked alongside her, practicing how to imbue a dagger with spirit energy to create a "shock" effect upon contact.
Their motivation was singular and fierce: Utility. They loved their roles as the party's artillery, but they hated the idea of being "protected" like fragile porcelain. They wanted to be the thorns on the rose.
As the sun began to set, the intensity of the training reached its peak. But then, Piaro did something unexpected. He tucked his wooden sword into his belt, walked over to a corner of the yard filled with weeds and rocks, and picked up a rusted hoe.
"Master?" Nana asked, wiping soot from her brow. "What are you doing?"
"Standing still is for statues," Piaro said, his voice calm. He began to strike the earth, turning the soil with a rhythmic, powerful motion. "A man's heart needs to see something grow. Destruction is easy. Creation... even the creation of a cabbage... that is where true strength is tested."
To the shock of the party, the Legendary Great Swordsman began to garden. He moved through the dirt with the same precision he used in combat. Every strike of the hoe was precise, every removal of a stubborn rock was to the point.
As Piaro worked, the "Madness" that usually flickered in the corners of his eyes vanished completely. He was at peace. He was a farmer.
"He's not just passing time," Arthur realized, watching the way Piaro's aura interacted with the soil. "He's harmonizing his power with the world. He's becoming a Legend of a different kind."
That night, the smithy was quiet, save for the rhythmic breathing of the exhausted party. Arthur sat at his workbench, the Rune of Sins and Virtue sitting beside a sharpening stone.
He looked at his hands. They were the hands of a Level 172 Warrior, a Level 1 Sword Saint Candidate, and a Legendary-tier Blacksmith.
"Winston is too small for us now," Arthur murmured.
The training with Piaro had done more than increase their levels; it had shifted their identity. They were no longer a group of adventurers. They were a Sovereign Unit.
With Arthur's aura, Nana's speed, Cecil's strength, and the mages' new self-sufficiency, they were a force that could challenge the Saharan Empire itself.
And in the backyard, under the moonlight, the first green sprouts of Piaro's garden began to break through the soil—a silent promise of the growth that was yet to come.