The Extra Who Stole the Hero's System-Chapter 65: Breakthrough

My life in the underground hideout was a constant cycle of pain, exhaustion, and incremental progress. Every morning, the first thing I felt was the ache in my muscles, a deep, persistent throb that spoke of the previous day’s brutal training. Herald, my master, was relentless. He pushed me beyond anything I thought possible, beyond my physical limits, beyond my mental endurance.

The hideout itself was spartan. A few rough cots, a table, and a small area for training. The air was cool and damp, smelling of earth and old stone. There was no natural light, only the flickering glow of mana-infused crystals embedded in the ceiling, casting long, dancing shadows. Mudrel was often there, working on his weapons or tending to Bella, the cat beast-kin. Bella was still shy, often hiding behind Mudrel, but she had grown accustomed to my presence, sometimes even venturing out to rub against my leg.

My day started before dawn. Herald was always awake, meditating in his corner. His presence was a heavy, almost suffocating weight in the small chamber. He was constantly drawing in ambient mana, saturating the environment with his raw power. It was a constant reminder of his overwhelming strength, a pressure that I was slowly, painfully, growing accustomed to.

"Your form is sloppy, Disciple," Herald’s voice would cut through the silence, flat and emotionless. "Your mind still hesitates. The blade must be an extension of instinct, not calculation."

He never raised his voice, never showed impatience. Just an unwavering expectation of perfection. He would demonstrate a perfect form, his movements impossibly fluid, then expect me to replicate it, over and over again. He moved with terrifying precision, his simple steel blade a blur. He didn’t just teach me to swing a sword; he taught me to feel the mana, to channel it, to integrate it into my every movement.

"Mana is not just for mages, Disciple," he stated one afternoon, his voice cutting through my labored breathing. "It is the lifeblood of this world. A true Sword Knight wields mana as instinctively as they wield steel. It is the invisible edge, the unseen shield."

He began to introduce more complex techniques, sword arts that weren’t just about physical prowess, but about mana manipulation. He would make his own blade shimmer with a faint, almost invisible mana aura, forcing me to instinctively harden my own mana, to create rudimentary Vexal Walls, to learn to manipulate mana for defense. It was a brutal crash course in mana arts, a method of forcing my mana core to adapt, to grow, to respond to threats I couldn’t even see.

My progress was astonishing, even to me. My body, thanks to my boosted stats, absorbed the training at an incredible rate. What would take a normal knight months, even years, I was grasping in days. I could feel the mana flowing more readily, responding to my will with increasing ease. I was beginning to understand the subtle nuances of mana manipulation, the way it could enhance my strikes, harden my defense, even subtly increase my speed beyond my base agility. I was no longer just a strong, fast brute; I was becoming a true Sword Knight, a practitioner of sword arts.

But even with my rapid improvement, Herald remained leagues ahead. His movements were effortless, his control absolute. He was a force of nature, and I was merely a budding storm. He was an unforgiving teacher, but an incredibly effective one. He pushed me to my breaking point, then pushed me further.

During breaks, I would try to engage him in conversation, to gather more information, to understand his methods, his philosophy. I asked him about mana, about its flow, about how he could wield both sword arts and mage arts. He would offer terse, almost philosophical replies, often leaving me with more questions than answers.

"Mana is the breath of the world, Disciple," he had said one afternoon, as I sat panting, drenched in sweat. "It flows through everything. The blade is merely a channel. The mind, the will, is the true weapon. A sword art is simply mana shaped by intent. A mage art, mana transmuted by understanding. The distinction is arbitrary to one who truly comprehends the flow."

His explanations were profound, yet frustratingly vague. He spoke in riddles, in metaphors, forcing me to decipher his meaning, to connect the dots myself. It was a different kind of teaching, one that demanded active thought, not passive reception. 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

I also tried to subtly probe his past again, his trauma, his centuries-long vendetta. He would answer, but his tone would grow colder, more distant, the mana density around him subtly increasing, a clear warning not to trespass too far into his personal pain. He spoke of the cult’s insidious nature, their ability to corrupt, to twist. He spoke of ’The One,’ the cult leader, as a formidable, elusive opponent.

One evening, after a particularly grueling session where he had disarmed me twenty times in a row, leaving me sprawled on the dusty floor, I finally managed to ask him about the Azurine Blade.

My training continued. I learned to anticipate, to react, not just with my body, but with my mana. Herald would throw mana-infused attacks at me, subtle pushes of force, invisible currents of energy, forcing me to instinctively harden my own mana, to create rudimentary Vexal Walls, to learn to manipulate mana for defense. It was a crash course in mana arts, a brutal but effective method of forcing my mana core to adapt, to grow.

The days bled into each other, a relentless cycle of pain, exhaustion, and incremental improvement. I was getting stronger. Faster. My swordsmanship, while still far from mastery, was no longer merely rudimentary. I could hold my own against the guards now, even against some of the more skilled ones. But against Herald? I was still a novice.

One morning, after a particularly intense session where I had managed to land a single, glancing blow on his arm – a feat that had startled even him – Herald stopped. He lowered his sword, his gaze fixed on me.

"You are improving, Disciple," he stated, his voice flat, but with a hint of something that might have been approval. "Your progress is... acceptable."

My chest swelled with a faint surge of pride. "Thank you, Master."

"However," he continued, cutting off my brief moment of satisfaction, "there are limits to what you can learn from simply sparring with me. You need to see true mastery in action. You need to see how a blade can truly sing." He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the underground chamber, finally settling on Mudrel, who was meticulously cleaning his own broadsword in a corner.

"Mudrel!" Herald called out, his voice echoing in the confined space. "A quick duel. Show the Disciple how it’s done."