"Keep your footing steady—especially after you cast magic! Your spell isn't like other people's, so even when you're hovering at your mana limit, you still have to move as if weakness can't touch you!"
On the open ground beside the cabin, Alfia swung a one-handed sword and attacked Duncan without pause, lecturing him as she pressed him back. She was a mage—yet her swordsmanship was in no way inferior to Zald's. Every strike landed precisely where Duncan was weakest. In Alfia's hands, even an ordinary one-handed sword from some random smithy hit with the presence of a high-grade weapon.
This was the "talent monster" called Alfia.
So long as it was martial skill, she only needed to see it once to learn it. Even Zald's long-polished techniques—she couldn't recreate his raw power, but in terms of craft, she could imitate them so perfectly it was almost indistinguishable.
It was like some famous "red archer" from a certain game.
That kind of genius wasn't just enviable—Zald himself had been jealous. Adventurers who could fight both physically and with magic were rare but not unheard of. But someone like Alfia—top-tier in both paths—was almost unheard of. Zeus had once said there was a similar figure in Freya's Familia… but even that one was far behind Alfia.
If the world was fair—or cruel—it was hard to say.
Because despite giving Alfia that kind of talent, the one thing capable of restraining her in the end… was her own body.
A month had passed since Bell's level-up. Training finally returned to its usual rhythm. After spending several days getting Bell's new Level 2 body properly adapted, Zald immediately began forging Bell again—almost as if he still held a personal grudge against the very concept of "Escape."
To outsiders, the training looked horrifying.
To the four of them, it was normal.
Even Duncan and Bell had started to get used to it. Duncan still believed this method was absolutely not normal—but when you're living under someone else's roof, it's smarter to spend your thoughts dodging the next sword swing than arguing philosophy.
According to the two elites, Zeus and Hera's training came in three stages: conditioning, baptism, and crushing.
Right now, they were only at the conditioning stage.
If they weren't worried that Duncan and Bell were too young—and if the people receiving their "baptism" weren't usually first-class adventurers—they'd have already stepped up the difficulty. They were afraid they'd cripple the boys by accident, and in this remote area, treatment was scarce. The words sounded absurdly self-assured, but Duncan knew Alfia wasn't exaggerating.
Duncan's white spear worked desperately, barely holding off the endless pressure.
A one-handed sword was defined by its lightness and its relentless attack angles. In Alfia's hands, it didn't just amplify those strengths—it gained a near-impossible combination of power and precision. Even with Alfia "going easy," Duncan couldn't find a clean way to strike back.
"What's wrong?" Alfia taunted calmly. "Defense alone won't bring an enemy down."
Duncan didn't have the breathing room to answer. Every time he tried to create distance, Alfia clung to him like a shadow. The spear's advantage turned into a liability the moment she got inside its reach. If his spear hadn't been custom-made—its shaft shortened to suit his smaller frame—the scene would have been even uglier.
Then, finally—after a long chain of attacks—Alfia showed the faintest gap.
Not a weakness. Not an opening.
Just a tiny pause before the next wave.
Duncan caught her last strike on the shaft, then snapped his lowered spearpoint upward.
A flash of white.
Alfia was already two steps back.
His strike hit only air—but Duncan hadn't expected to hurt her. He just wanted a heartbeat of space, a chance to reset.
"Gospel."
Before Duncan could even breathe, a terrifying shockwave surged forward with that single word. Duncan's face drained. He raised his spear into a defensive stance—
—and, as always, was sent flying more than ten meters.
A straight line of destruction gouged the earth between them. Marks like that were everywhere around the cabin now. It wasn't even flat ground anymore—it was a cratered battlefield.
Gospel was Alfia's ultra-short-chant magic: an invisible sonic attack.
On paper, it sounded like a spell built for surprise.
In reality, paired with Alfia's absurd mana reserves, even a short-chant spell could hit like the long-chant artillery of other mages.
Alfia claimed it was nothing more than "throwing an annoying noise" at someone.
After taking a hit from a soundwave he couldn't truly block, Duncan's world spun violently. His body refused to obey him. His brain and limbs felt disconnected, as if the commands he gave his muscles were being ignored entirely. He wanted to vomit—couldn't. He couldn't even get that relief.
It was Gospel's aftereffect.
Not just raw impact—its lingering waves disrupted the brain and inner ear, wrecking balance and coordination. Duncan had been so obsessed with creating distance that he'd forgotten the simplest truth:
Alfia had ranged attacks too.
"Rest," Alfia said coolly.
Seeing Duncan unable to get up, she reached into a pouch at her waist, took out a recovery potion, and strode over to pour it down his throat—her posture uncannily similar to a certain black-clad man forcing medicine on a certain detective.
Cold liquid slid down Duncan's throat, and the dizziness eased at once. The retching sensation remained, but he could at least crawl upright, wobbling like a newborn fawn.
"Stop trying so hard to make distance—especially when you don't know the opponent's full kit," Alfia said, her eyes still closed. "Even if close combat feels hopeless, don't expose your intention. Your desire to back off was obvious. The moment you succeeded, your guard loosened. If the enemy has any ranged option, that's when they land the hit."
Duncan gave a bitter smile. "Your magic is impossible to defend against, Alfia."
"Who told you to tank it?" she snapped. "If you had Zald's physique and endurance, maybe. Or if you had enough mana to sheath your whole body in it, maybe. Otherwise, when you see magic, don't even think about taking it head-on."
Her voice sharpened.
"Magic hits several times harder than melee. Your first thought should be to break the chant, or counter with magic, or—at the very least—dodge. Using your body to eat it is always the stupidest option."
"Especially with your flimsy frame!"
A sharp chop landed on Duncan's head—pure frustration, like a teacher scolding a hopeless student.
But Duncan still wasn't fully recovered. His thoughts were still muddled, his balance still unstable—
—and that single displeased chop from a Level 7 sent his vision to black.
He stiffened, then toppled straight forward—collapsing onto Alfia.
....
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