Ch.3EP.2 – I Am Knight Ihan

Dawn, before the sun had risen.

Late-night taverns were still open, and only farmers were beginning to stir, quietly heading toward their fields.

Huff, huff!

Thud, thoom.

But the rough breathing and dull impacts echoing through the streets seemed out of place for this hour, making some wonder if they were hearing a galloping horse.

That’s how intense the presence of the running figure was.

Yet.

“Sir Knight, running again today?”

“You’re so diligent.”

“Keep it up!”

The farmers, accustomed to early mornings, cheered on the vigorous man who helped dispel their lingering drowsiness.

No matter how diligent one might be, repeating the same day over and over often leads to mental fatigue. The sight of this man eliminated such weariness and boredom, becoming both a great pleasure and inspiration for the farmers.

Especially.

“My goodness, how scandalous.”

“Cover your eyes while you say that!”

“I wish my husband looked like that, hoho.”

“…Is that a man or a beast?”

The women pretended to shield their eyes while stealing glances at the half-naked man, gaining genuine vitality from the sight.

Conversely, some men looked enviously at his physique, drawing their own inspiration. In a way, it seemed beneficial for everyone.

“Huff, huff…!”

The man merely nodded to the greeting farmers, not engaging in friendly conversation.

This wasn’t because he was unkind, but because he was so focused on his exercise that he had no time to respond.

The farmers understood this and didn’t mind. Instead:

“Have this later!”

Whoosh! An apple was thrown.

The man caught it without looking back and waved his hand.

A gesture of thanks.

The farmer who threw the apple wore a satisfied expression.

“What an interesting fellow.”

“It’s rare to see a knight living outside the castle walls.”

“That’s true, hehe.”

For three years, rain or snow, this man had run without missing a day. Who wouldn’t want to cheer for him?

Though his goal remained unknown…

“He’s definitely destined for greatness.”

The farmer firmly believed this.

“This year, I’m definitely submitting my resignation letter!”

Crunch!

The man, or rather Ihan, took a big bite of the apple as he motivated himself for another day.

His goal was retirement.

He was yearning to retire.

* * *

Ihan ran again today.

Not just running, but with purpose.

His goal was to complete 20km within an hour.

This didn’t mean he simply ran as fast as possible.

The standard was to maintain a stable pace for an hour, and he had sandbags attached to his wrists and ankles.

Each weighed exactly 10kg.

This increased the burden on his body, and sometimes he even ran wearing armor.

Thoom, thoom.

Perhaps because of this, the ground rumbled with each step, doubling the burden, but he focused on moving his body rather than worrying about the weight.

Though the running was finished, much remained to be done.

“Huff.”

At a pull-up bar in an open space.

Ihan grabbed the bar and:

“Hnngh!”

Pull-ups.

With proper form, he repeatedly pulled himself up and down without rest.

Biceps, latissimus dorsi, erector spinae.

Countless muscles twitched as they were stimulated, and he heightened his concentration to feel the microscopic movements of his muscles.

It’s my body, and these are the muscles inside it.

He needed to consider how muscles work, when they receive stronger stimulation, and how to utilize them—not just blindly build strength.

‘Even if I can’t move in comma units like that monster, it’s enough to build a body strong enough to withstand his strike!’

With a goal in mind, he couldn’t stop thinking. At some point, he placed a 20kg sandbag between his legs and carried 30kg on his back, feeling the dramatic stimulation and muscle trembling as he pulled himself up again.

Creeeeak.

Though the pull-up bar couldn’t scream, it seemed to wobble after an hour of continuous high-intensity pull-ups.

Or was he applying too much force?

“…I should moderate my strength.”

Even he thought he might have applied force too brutishly. Ihan gently released his grip and descended to the ground.

After 90 minutes of pull-ups, steam-like sweat rose from his body with intense heat.

Sweat pooled beneath him, and his muscles, squeezed to their limit, trembled uncontrollably.

The continuous running and straining had finally caused an overload.

No matter how sturdy a knight’s body might be, such extremes would naturally damage it.

“Nnnnngh!”

Yet Ihan merely did a few stretches to loosen up, showing no intention of resting.

Instead, he hoisted a log from the yard onto his shoulders like a barbell.

The 100kg log was already a significant burden, but Ihan went further by lowering his stance.

Thud!

Squats.

No exercise is better for training leg strength, but few are as torturous.

Repeatedly sitting and standing.

At some point, his thighs felt like they were burning, but he didn’t stop.

As with pull-ups, Ihan treated strength training like cardio, and cardio like strength training.

It was truly brutal—a reckless approach that any expert would say was designed to destroy his body.

Thoom!

After 70 minutes of this torturous squatting, Ihan carefully set down the log.

He wanted to throw it away, but if it broke, he’d have to search for a replacement, so he had to regain his senses rather than indulge in momentary satisfaction.

“Kuhack!”

Suddenly he coughed, tasting metal.

He had injured himself internally.

With training beyond excessive to the point of madness, it would be more surprising if he hadn’t been injured.

No prestigious knight family would train this brutally.

Instead, they would have healing priests standing by, or use family secret medicines to recover wounds and restore stamina in a stable manner.

What Ihan was doing wasn’t training but self-torture.

Self-harm that damaged his body.

Ignorant? No, this was simply insane.

But this wasn’t because Ihan was truly insane or thoughtless.

Rather:

“My recovery ability is truly troll-like.”

He had something he could rely on, which is why he did such crazy things.

Ihan suddenly began consuming food from his backpack.

Instead of seeking a priest, he just pushed in food.

Munch, munch.

He chewed diligently.

Not swallowing food whole, but breaking it down finely to absorb all nutrients.

His meal consisted of:

1kg of chicken (skinned and boiled, of course). Broccoli and nuts. Boiled and steamed potatoes, cabbage, and more.

The healthiest of healthy foods.

Of course, it had no taste.

He used minimal salt and seasoning. He ate it for health, not flavor.

But instead of seasoning, it was as if recovery potion had been sprinkled on the food, making his body:

Creak, crack.

Recover.

The muscle trembling disappeared, and his pale face regained color.

Though not visible externally, his aching knees and internal injuries were instantly healed.

His recovery ability resembled that of a terrifying monster.

A monster sometimes called the forest terror, the man-eater.

A troll.

And this was accurate.

One of the monster genes he had acquired through countless experiments by a spellcaster in the past was indeed that of a troll.

Of course, he couldn’t reattach or regenerate a severed head or arm like a troll.

At most, his abilities were limited to rapid healing through nutrient intake and a sturdy physique.

Well, if gym enthusiasts were present, they would envy his ability to the point of jealousy.

It meant that when he consumed nutrients, they were quickly absorbed into his body.

Nutrients were immediately absorbed, becoming blood and flesh.

Even if he suffered external or internal injuries, he could recover quickly—clearly the best ability for body building.

“Phoooo…!”

Confirming that his strength and pain had all recovered and healed, Ihan stood up.

Three hours remained until work.

During that time:

Shing.

Whoosh! Whiiing!

He swung his sword.

The kingdom’s basic swordsmanship.

A fundamental technique of cutting through eight directions in sequence, simple enough for a child to learn.

Ihan could now perform it with his eyes closed, and could freely execute it just by imagining it. But Ihan didn’t blink once, never losing sight of the direction and tip of his sword.

How he swung his sword, how his body used strength, and how to achieve greater power, destructive force, and agility—

He performed the sword techniques in sequence while considering countless questions, seeking ways to improve.

As the movements continued:

Slash!

His sword, a simple longsword, became fast and sharp enough to cut through the wind at some point.

Eventually it moved so quickly that even the sound of cutting wind disappeared, with only the silver line reflecting from the blade barely indicating its movement.

Fwip, fwiip!

Each swing raised clouds of dust, and sword marks appeared on the ground.

And finally:

KWAAANG!

When he struck the ground forcefully, gathering all his body’s strength into a swing, the dirt exploded into a small crater-like depression.

Patter patter.

Dirt and stone fragments that had been thrown skyward by the shockwave fell back down, covering and dirtying him.

Yet despite this:

“…Can’t I swing any stronger than this?”

Still unsatisfied, he merely frowned.

The path to retirement was long and difficult.