I’m Just a Background Character, But I Used to Be a Delinquent, So Why Are the Girls Falling for Me?! - Chapter 13

The next morning, the clock rang before dawn. My body refused to move. When I tried to sit up, pain spread through me at once. Every muscle felt tight and sore, as if sleep had made it worse instead of better.

“Be here before sunrise tomorrow.” Vara’s voice echoed in my head, cold and firm.

It took me nearly ten minutes just to get dressed. Each movement pulled at bruised muscles, and my body reminded me of every mistake I had made the day before. I was so tired, but fear pushed me forward. I didn’t want to repeat the hundred strikes again.

By the time I reached the training grounds, the sky was just starting to turn gray. The air was cold and damp, and the ground smelled of wet grass.

Vara was already there.

She stood near the straw target, calm and still, checking its position. She looked as if she hadn’t trained at all yesterday, while I felt like my body had been crushed and put back together wrong.

“You are late, Young master” she said without looking at me. “Sunrise is in twenty minutes.”

I said nothing. Talking would only waste strength. I bent forward to stretch my legs, but sharp pain shot up my back, forcing me to stop.

“Today, we start with dagger footwork,” Vara said. “A dagger fighter must always move. If you stay still, you lose. If you are slow, you die.”

She showed me small movements, side steps, quick turns, short steps forward and back. Nothing big. Nothing fancy. Every step had a reason.

My body fought me the whole time. My legs were stiff, and I tripped more than once.

Each time I slowed down, Vara tapped my foot with her boot. The touch was light, but it threw me off balance right away.

“Too slow,” she said after I almost fell again. “You think first, then move. That delay will get you killed. Your body must move before your mind finishes thinking.”

My legs burned, and my breathing grew heavy. Sweat ran down my back despite the cold air. Still, little by little, I began to understand. This wasn’t about attacking.

It was about staying alive.

Then Vara stopped the drill.

She pointed at the heavy wooden sword leaning against the wall.

“You understand speed now,” she said. “But speed means nothing without strength. You must be able to keep moving.”

My chest tightened.

I walked to the sword and lifted it. It felt heavier than yesterday. My arms shook even before I swung, the pain from the previous hundred strikes still deep in my muscles.

“Focus on clean movements,” Vara said. “Use your body, not just your arms. Begin. Another hundred strikes.”

I raised the sword. A low sound escaped my throat as pain spread through my arms.

I took my stance.

The first strike fell.

WHUMP.

Pain hit me at once but this time, I was ready for it.

This feeling was familiar now. The deep ache in my arms, the tight pull in my shoulders, the dull burn that spread through my chest. Yesterday, it shocked me. Today, it only warned me.

I pulled the sword back and struck again.

WHUMP.

My hands shook, but I kept my grip firm. Vara watched in silence. I could feel her eyes on every move, waiting for a mistake.

By the tenth strike, my arms felt heavy. By the twentieth, my breathing grew rough. The cold air burned my lungs each time I pulled in a breath.

I adjusted my stance, remembering her words. Use your body.

I twisted my hips, shifted my weight, and let the motion carry the sword down.

WHUMP.

It hurt less.

Not because I was getting used to the pain but because I was learning.

The count went on. My arms trembled, sweat soaked my shirt, and my vision blurred at the edges. Each strike felt slower than the last, but I refused to stop. 

By the time I reached fifty, my hands were numb. I couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. The sword felt like part of my body, heavy, painful, and impossible to let go.

“Do not rush,” Vara said. “Rushing wastes strength.”

I slowed down. One breath. One step. One strike.

WHUMP.

The world narrowed to that single sound. The impact. The pain. Then the next breath.

At eighty, my arms nearly gave out. The sword dipped too low, and my balance shifted.

Vara’s boot tapped my ankle.

“Stand,” she said.

I straightened at once, forcing my legs to lock in place. My heart pounded hard enough to shake my chest.

“Pain is not your enemy,” she continued. “Fear is. Pain only tells you that you are still alive.”

Ninety.

My teeth clenched. My arms screamed.

Ninety-five.

My vision darkened, but I refused to stop.

One hundred.

The final strike landed crooked, but it landed.

WHUMP.

The moment it ended, my arms gave up. The sword slipped from my hands and hit the ground with a dull thud. I dropped to one knee, gasping, my whole body shaking.

For a moment, I thought Vara would scold me.

Instead, she said nothing.

I stayed there, breathing hard, sweat dripping from my chin to the dirt. The pain was everywhere now, but underneath it, something else stirred.

I wasn’t broken.

I was still standing.

Vara turned away. “Rest for five minutes,” she said. “Then we continue.”

I lifted my head slowly, shocked.

Continue?

She walked off without looking back.

I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. My body hurt more than ever, but for the first time, the pain didn’t feel pointless.

The morning air was still cold when Vara gave her next order. Vara did not let me rest long.

“Stand,” she said.

I pushed myself up, legs shaking, arms still numb. The wooden sword felt heavier now, as if it remembered every strike I had already given.

Vara walked to the straw target and tapped it once with her knuckles.

“Two hundred strikes,” she said.

I froze.

“Two hundred?” I blurted out from the side of the training ground. She just stared at me. Is she serious?

I swallowed and lifted the sword again. My arms screamed in protest before the first strike even fell.

WHUMP.

“Do not count out loud,” Vara said. “Counting weakens focus.”

I looked down at the wooden sword in my hands. My arms are still sore from the previous day. The pain had not eased overnight, and what I just did today had settled deep into my muscles, heavy and unkind.

I stepped into position and drew a slow breath.

The other strike landed with a dull thud.

WHUMP.

The shock ran up to my arms, sharp but expected. I reset my stance and struck again, keeping my feet planted the way Vara had taught.

By thirty strikes, warmth spread through my arms.

By sixty, the burn followed.

By one hundred, my breathing turned rough.

At one hundred fifty, my arms began to shake. Sweat ran down my face and soaked my shirt. My hands tightened around the handle, skin rubbing raw.

I finished the final strike and lowered the sword at once. My chest heaved as I bent forward, hands braced on my knees.

Vara waited until my breathing steadied.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “four hundred.”

Callen looked up, surprised. “Four hundred?”

“Yes.”

She turned and walked away.

The next day, Vara made sure i understood what four hundred meant.

She broke the strikes into sets, allowing only short pauses in between. Just enough time to breathe. Never enough to recover.

“Fatigue shows the truth,” Vara said. “When you are tired, your mistakes appear.”

By the second set, my arms burned constantly. Lifting the sword felt slow and wrong. Every strike I made lost power, and Vara corrected me every time.

“Feet.”

“Balance.”

“Use your body.”

By the final strike, my hands shook so badly that i had to sit down before my legs gave out.

The days that followed blended together.

Four hundred again.

Then five hundred.

Then six.

Vara did raise the count every day. 

When when body adjusted, she made it harder.

She added weighted bands to my wrists.

She made me run before striking.

She shortened my rest time.

My body never fully recovered. Every morning began with pain. My shoulders stayed stiff. My grip took longer to steady.

Still, something changed. My movements became cleaner.

I wasted less strength. I’ve even learned how to breathe through the pain.

One morning, Vara ordered eight hundred strikes.

Halfway through, my arm failed not suddenly, but quietly. The sword dipped, my timing off by a fraction.

Vara stepped in at once and stopped me.

“Enough.”

I stood there, breathing hard, vision swimming.

“This is a strain,” Vara said. “Not progress.”

She made me rest longer that day. The count did not increase the next morning.

When i returned to the training ground, Vara was already there.

“You came back,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied.

She handed me the sword.

“Then we continue.” The numbers rose slowly after that.

Nine hundred.

One thousand.

The strikes no longer shocked my body. They wore me down instead, testing how long I could move without losing control.

Others began to watch my training. Guards paused. Servants slowed as they passed. Not because it was impressive but because it never stopped.

I felt it too.

The pain remained.

But it no longer ruled me.

And Vara knew then that the training was working. Helping me to have great stamina and tolerance.

To be continued…..