I'm the Crazy One in the Family-Chapter 95: The Conservation of Trash (3)

During the harvest season in autumn, all disputes were temporarily halted. This was to allow farmers to harvest wheat and barley in peace.

From ancient times to the present, humanity had subsisted on wheat and barley. It was the food of both slaves and emperors. It was both a primal instinct and a form of devotion.

Because of this, it had been an unspoken agreement for generations to pause all conflicts during the harvest season. Of course, this ceasefire lasted barely a week. For one week out of twelve months, no one picks fights or engages in battles—not even nobles from prestigious families.

“I can smell barley...” Taragon murmured, sprawled on the training field.

Next to him lay Brooks and Darkin, lying side by side. The only difference was that Taragon stared at the sky, while the other two were kissing the dirt.

“I know what level you guys are at now. It’s so pathetic I almost want to kill you out of frustration.”

Poof!

Keter kicked the ground, scattering sand onto Brooks and Darkin and jolting them back to their senses. The two scrambled to their feet, their faces a mess, bearing the marks of Keter’s relentless blows. Taragon also stood, his face weary but free of injuries.

“Among you three, only Number Three was remotely useful. As soon as the fight started, he widened the distance between us. The rest of you, however, stood foolishly in place, firing arrows. Why? Were your feet stuck to the ground? Did someone threaten to kill you if you moved? Or do you need someone to force you to move?”

When Keter had attacked, the three were subdued in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t like they hadn’t fought back; they did everything they could. Brooks, the experienced veteran, fired five arrows into the sky using Libra Archery, the seventh form of Zodiac Archery.

It was impossible to see where the arrows were going to land, as they descended from the sky while reflecting sunlight. But there was no need to predict anything; before the arrows could even fall, Keter had already closed the distance to Brooks.

Taragon and Darkin tried to shoot Keter with Yaksha Archery, but they failed to land even a single hit. His zigzagging movements were entirely beyond their ability to anticipate. Once Keter was close to Brooks, they couldn’t risk firing more arrows as they might hit Brooks instead.

But they didn’t simply stand idle. They aimed for Keter back and side, though he turned and dodged every move. Brooks managed to block an attack aimed at his abdomen but failed to stop a blow targeting his groin. He collapsed, clutching his abdomen. Then, Keter ruthlessly drove a fist into Brooks’s face, making him unconscious.

Enraged, Darkin charged at Keter, abandoning his bow to attempt hand-to-hand combat.

“Hah!”

Darkin’s spirited war cry was silenced when Keter’s fist slammed into his face.

Once, twice, three times.

Crack!

The final blow was a knee strike to his ribs. Though Darkin had covered himself in Aura Armor, Keter’s attacks pierced it like a needle through cloth. The excruciating pain overwhelmed Darkin’s nerves, forcing him into unconsciousness.

Twenty seconds: that was all it took for the lieutenant commander and the division commander to fall.

Whoosh!

Arrows flew toward Keter, this time fired by Taragon. Keter easily evaded them with subtle shifts of his body, rapidly closing the distance to his opponent. Taragon retreated quickly, firing arrow after arrow, but his accuracy was dismal. Of ten arrows, only three grazed Keter.

Eventually, when Taragon was cornered, he made a bold move: he threw his bow at Keter—something no archer would ever do.

But Keter was no ordinary opponent. He had already accounted for every possible move Taragon could make, including this one.

Without dodging or blocking the thrown bow, Keter leaped forward, catching Taragon’s punch with one hand while sweeping his leg to force him to his knees.

“...Urgh!”

Taragon grabbed an arrow from his quiver to stab Keter, but Keter was faster. Using the same bow Taragon had thrown, Keter struck him on the shoulder.

Crack!

And with that, the battle was over.

Throughout the fight, Keter never once relied on the power of Amaranth. Even if he had used a regular bow, neither the result nor the process would have changed.

Thus, the four of them had nothing to say. None dared to claim they had let their guard down or demanded a rematch.

“Now, tell me. Do I deserve to be called Instructor or not? Number Two, who am I?” asked Keter, who called Amaranth back into his arm.

Anis, though bitter, admitted Keter’s strength and overwhelming skill in defeating him and the other three simultaneously.

But as a noble, Anis didn’t just accept what he saw. Nobles often prioritized obsolete principles over personal gain, and sometimes risked their lives for it.

“You are strong. But for me to learn anything from you would disrupt the hierarchy of Sefira. At the very least, we would have to stand on equal footing...”

"Cut the crap. If you want to leave, then leave."

Anis had expected Keter to tell him to stay, or at least to negotiate. Why? Because Anis was the third son of Sefira, a prestigious noble house, and by bloodline, he was technically Keter’s elder. Being treated as a mere trainee was humiliating, especially since Keter wasn’t even his full brother, but a half-sibling.

Yet, objectively speaking, Keter had nothing to lose. Even if all the Sword of the South Tournament participants rejected him as their instructor, it would make no difference to Keter. In fact, he was offering a rare kindness: teaching the weak without demanding compensation.

Without any compensation? Keter?

After a brief moment of reflection, Anis realized the truth and quickly said, “What’s the price? It’s not free, is it?”

“Did you really think it would be free? Of course, there’s a fee. Training costs, equipment expenses, and wages. Did you really think I would cover all that out of my own pocket for you?”

“What’s the estimated cost?”

“It depends on how well you do. Roughly two to three hundred thousand gold.”

Darkin, the most financially astute of the group, was horrified.

“What?! Two hundred to three hundred thousand gold? Not bronze or silver, but gold?! No one here has that kind of money!”

Even the strongest members of Sefira, such as a knight from the Order of the Galaxy, only earned a salary of two thousand four hundred gold annually, with division commanders earning slightly more at three thousand gold.

If they saved every coin for ten years without spending a thing, they would only manage to scrape together thirty thousand gold. This amount, of course, was far more than enough to just get by; it ensured a life of comfort and abundance. And this was just their base salary. They could earn significantly more through missions or other personal endeavors.

Yet, no matter how hard they tried, one hundred thousand gold was unattainable. Most wouldn't even entertain the thought of saving that much.

And yet here was Keter, casually tossing out a figure twice—no, three times—that astronomical amount as if it were nothing.

“I know you’re broke, but listen to me. All you have to do is place in the top three at the Sword of the South Tournament. The prize for third place is three hundred thousand gold. Second place gets five hundred thousand, and if you win the title of the Sword of the South, you will walk away with a million gold.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Then you can leave, Number Five.”

“Yes, I’ll step away. I acknowledge that Lord Keter is incredibly strong, but strength and teaching are entirely different skills. I’ll prepare for the tournament my own way.”

Darkin walked past Keter without another glance. Keter didn’t spare him a second look either.

“How much longer are you going to keep quiet? If you’re testing my patience, then I’ll have no choice but to test your durability.”

“Instructor, I look forward to working with you.”

Taragon, who was already training under Keter’s methods, was the first to surrender. He shoved the staggering tuition fee onto the shoulders of his future self.

“If we train under you and still don’t make the top three, and fail to win the prize money, then what happens?”

Anis posed the question, holding onto his rationality to the very end.

“Are you really asking me that? You’ll still have to pay, of course. But I’m not going to demand it right away. I won’t even expect it immediately.”

“Fine. Under those terms... Instructor.”

Anis finally submitted himself. It showed in how he was now calling Keter and keeping his head bowed, though he was trembling in frustration.

That left only Brooks, the lieutenant commander of the holy knights.

“I’ll follow as well, Instructor.”

Brooks wasn’t driven by faith in Keter’s abilities but by curiosity. He was intrigued by the prospect of Keter—a man of nearly incomprehensible strength—actually teaching others. How would he go about it? What methods would he use?

If it didn’t seem worth it, Brooks figured he could always back out halfway through.

“Good. And you’re included too, Number One.”

Luke, who had been standing by as a spectator, sighed as though he had been expecting this all along.

“Fine, Instructor. I’m not participating in the tournament anyway, so I assume I can repay the debt later?”

“Of course. Just sign a promissory note.”

And so, with the exception of Darkin, the remaining four—Luke, Anis, Taragon, and Brooks— became Keter’s trainees.

* * *

“Now, who was late?”

The trainees froze in hesitation, unsure of what he meant.

Taragon, now called Number Three, was the first to recall.

“I arrived first, and then Sir Luke came second.”

“Number Three, your voice is too quiet. And remember, here we use numbers, not names. Try again.”

“I was the first to arrive! And... ah... Number One came second!”

“Numbers Two and Four, head to Hacose Village within an hour and bring back sandwiches. Move.”

The faces of Numbers Two and Four, Anis and Brooks, turned pale.

“K-Keter, no, Instructor! Even on horseback, it takes more than an hour to go back and forth from Hacose Village. That’s cutting it too close!”

“If you’re late, you’re disqualified.”

“What happens if we’re disqualified, Instructor?”

“Then you’re not worth teaching, so you should get out of my sight immediately. One minute has passed already.”

Thud, thud, thud!

Anis took off running first. Brooks stared at Keter. While he had never played up his aged appearance before, he now made it painfully obvious, hoping for mercy.

But Keter’s sharp gaze made him give up in, and he quickly followed after Anis.

Watching the two sprint away, Taragon and Luke silently resolved that the next time Keter called for a race, they would just run without asking questions.

“Now, we start too. For now, just run.”

This marked the beginning of Keter’s training methods, which would later be recorded in the Forbidden Techniques of Sefira.

The drill began with laps around the field, and it lasted until Keter decided to stop.

Luke questioned the purpose of this so-called training. Running laps on a drill field? He had done this to death as a cadet. Twenty laps, thirty laps—no problem. That’s the kind of stamina knights are trained for.

Seventeen laps later, Anis returned from Hacose Village, and Brooks followed two minutes later, barely making it back in time.

Having sprinted full speed for an hour, the two were already exhausted, but they had no choice but to join the running. By forty laps, even the knights, known for their endurance, were breathing heavily.

“Instructor, how much longer do we have to run?”

“Your voice is too quiet. I can’t hear you.”

“How much longer! Do we have to run!”

“Until I say so.”

Keter gradually increased his speed, running two laps for every one lap the trainees completed.

Surprisingly, the most consistent runner among them was Taragon. Though, this wasn’t entirely unexpected as he had already been subjected to Keter’s relentless running drills before anyone else.

Even so, Taragon couldn’t hold out forever, especially since this training field was at least twice the size of others.

The first to falter was Luke. Though he had basic stamina, his overreliance on special abilities had made him neglect physical training. The four had started running at roughly the same pace, but Luke soon began lagging behind. As he did, an overwhelming sense of impending doom crept up behind him.

Before he could react...

Smack!

Luke’s back arched like a bow as Keter slapped him hard across the shoulders while passing by.

“Arghhh!”

Though the blow landed on his back, Luke felt the pain shoot through his entire body like needles.

“I said run. I didn’t say walk. Run.”

“Ugh...”

Luke pushed himself to speed up again, convincing himself it wasn’t because Keter’s slap hurt so much.

The lap count steadily climbed. By sixty laps, the sound of slaps echoed through the field every three laps, followed by groans of pain. By seventy laps, cries of pain came every two laps. By eighty laps, the cries never stopped. At this point, it was unclear whether they were running or simply stumbling forward, but they were still moving around the field.

Their stamina had long been depleted. They were running on sheer willpower, far beyond their limits. Their legs frequently gave out on their own, and every time they did, Keter’s palm would find their backs without fail. Strangely, each slap seemed to infuse them with a small burst of energy, as though the pain was somehow revitalizing. They all thought they had finally gone mad.

But it wasn’t madness. Keter’s blows were not mere punishment; they were a form of medical technique. By inflicting targeted pain, Keter accelerated their blood flow, triggered heightened alertness, and even induced slight recovery. This advanced method of impact-based therapy also drained Keter’s mana. In other words, Keter wasn’t just pushing the trainees to their limits; he was also driving himself to the brink. He ran twice as much as the others, expended mana with every blow, and still never let his speed drop.

Time passed, and eventually, the sun began to set. Only then did Keter start to slow down. The trainees, who had poured even the strength needed to lift their eyelids into their running, silently cheered at the sight.

It’s... finally over? How many laps did I even run?

By the end, they had completed one hundred twenty laps, and Keter had run one hundred eighty laps. Finally, he came to a complete stop, and the trainees stopped running as well.

Thud!

Every single trainee collapsed to the ground. All they could say were indescribable sounds.

“Huuhhh...”

“Ughhh...”

“Grrrrr...”

Though the sounds were of agony, their faces were smiling.

Simply sitting down had never felt so comfortable, and they just realized the profound joy in lying on the ground. They discovered an entirely new world they had never known before.

Keter left the training field and disappeared somewhere, and the trainees vaguely assumed the session was over. Thirty minutes passed, though to the trainees, it felt like only three.

Keter returned to the field—not alone, but accompanied by twenty attendants.

“You’ve rested long enough. Trainees, get up immediately. Begin.”

“Instructor, wasn’t the training over? If we continue like this, our hearts won’t hold out.”

“I don’t have the strength to move anymore.”

Brooks genuinely felt that if he went any further, his entire body would disintegrate. There wasn’t a shred of exaggeration in his words.

But Keter’s resolve was equally sincere.

“No, you can still run more. Once you learn Heavenly Strength, that is.”