Chapter 97: The Conservation of Trash (5)

Brooks, the lieutenant commander of the Sacred Order of Sefira, felt a deep sense of awe for himself.

He had trained as a knight since the age of seven, fueled by an ambitious goal of one day becoming the commander of a knight order. He dedicated himself to training tirelessly, day and night. For years, he averaged only two hours of sleep per day, enduring grueling, bone-crushing training. Brooks prided himself, confidently claiming that no training could be more intense than his.

But all that pride amounted to nothing in front of Keter. The rigorous training he underwent with Keter—no, that was too mild to describe the nightmarish ordeal—tested Brooks' mental fortitude dozens of times every second. Yet Brooks endured it all, showcasing the dignity of a lieutenant commander.

However...

Huff, huff... I really can’t go on anymore.

Though he had learned the mysterious technique of Heavenly Strength from Keter, even that had its limits.

“Number Four, get up.”

At Keter’s command, Brooks groaned in protest.

“

Ughhh...

”

He rolled on the ground, moaning, but couldn’t manage to get up.

Keter nudged him with a foot and said, “Are you trying to act clever in front of me?”

“No, sir. I truly don’t have the strength to get up anymore.”

“Number Three is running right now. And he hasn’t rested either.”

“Lord Taragon is younger than I am. Besides, as lieutenant commander, I’ve been more focused on training others than on personal development. Please take that into consideration.”

“Your tone is getting on my nerves. What are you trying to say?”

“I think I’ve done well just to keep up until now... I’m not giving up, but I need to rest. I promise to give it my all starting tomorrow. Also, I believe this training method and the Heavenly Strength technique would benefit others greatly if taught and shared. The patriarch would surely be pleased.”

Brooks acted as if he were some kind of trailblazer, believing himself to be the pioneer introducing the Heavenly Strength to Sefira. The grueling training had made him delusional, making him think he had extracted the technique from Keter.

“You’re really full of yourself. If you used the time you just wasted talking to run more laps, you would have finished two by now.”

“I assure you, I have enough strength to talk but none to stand.”

“Number Four, have you heard of the conservation of trash?”

“Uh, no, sir. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s a theory that says, when five people gather, at least one of them is trash. You, for example.”

“...”

“Number Five, who quit before starting, may have been a fool, but at least they weren’t trash. You, on the other hand, are trash. Your attitude immediately changes after learning Heavenly Strength? Spewing obvious lies to deceive and mock me?”

“N-no, that’s not true...”

“If I say it’s true, it’s true.”

Thunk!

Keter crouched and poked Brooks in the temple.

“You’re not fit to wield Heavenly Strength. I’m taking it back.”

“

Aaaaaagh!

”

Brooks convulsed in agony, as though part of his brain were being ripped out. Contrary to his earlier claim of being too weak to move, he flailed about with surprising vigor. Keter disabled Brooks’ ability to use Heavenly Strength by inflicting controlled, precise damage to a specific area of his brain. He could have caused permanent harm but decided against it.

With a small pop, Keter withdrew his finger and wiped the blood off Brooks’ collar. Then he called out to the servants.

“What are you waiting for? The esteemed Lieutenant Commander of the Sacred Order of Sefira has collapsed. Take him to the infirmary immediately.”

“P-please, Instructor... I made a mistake. Give me one more chance...”

“I already gave you a chance, and you threw it away. What more is there to say, Lieutenant Commander Brooks?”

“Ugh... please...”

“Get some rest, sleep well, and focus on preparing for the Sword of the South Tournament. If you dare to hold us back, be prepared for the consequences.”

“...”

Brooks, unable to accept reality, finally fainted.

“Hurry up and get him out of here,” Keter ordered.

The servants quickly carried Brooks away. Two trainees had already dropped out on the first day. It was, in hindsight, inevitable. Darkin and Brooks had no prior connection to Keter. They lacked trust and understanding of him.

Only three trainees remained. Among them, the one who passed Keter’s trial the fastest was Luke. By the time he arrived at Keter’s residence, Luke was like a lifeless doll, slumped in a chair. His only desire was to sleep, his eyes already shut.

“Luke, wake up.”

“Father? Am I... dead?”

“You must be tired, but Lord Keter insisted that you eat something.”

“Ah... food? I don't have much of an appetite...”

“He said if you don't eat, you'll be running five laps around the training ground.”

“Thank you for the meal.”

Luke, barely able to keep his eyes open, reached for the food in front of him and took a bite, then was stunned.

“It's... delicious...!”

For someone who had pushed their body to the absolute limit, even water would taste as sweet as honey. Luke, who had gone beyond exhaustion by using every ounce of strength, found the food so delicious that tears welled up in his eyes.

Jacques, watching Luke be amazed at the food, became curious. He picked up a piece of bread and took a bite, only to tilt his head in confusion.

“It's pretty ordinary.”

But Luke was too busy devouring his meal to care. Soon, Anis joined them in the dining room.

"You've done well, my lord. I know you're tired, but you should eat first..."

Screech.

There was no need for Jacques to say more. Anis had already sat down, grabbed a chunk of meat with his bare hands and stuffed it into his mouth.

Having seized victory over his younger brother, Taragon, at the very last moment, Anis was barely clinging to his sanity. He was more like a wild beast than a person, ready to bite anyone who dared disturb him.

“This won't do. We're going to run out of food. Chef!”

Jacques had already been briefed by Keter about the intensity of the training. He had been specifically instructed to provide an unlimited supply of food to the trainees. Together, Luke and Anis consumed the equivalent of thirteen servings before the chaotic meal finally came to an end.

With full stomachs and warm backs, they couldn't resist the drowsiness coming over them. But Keter's instructions weren’t over yet.

“It's time for a bath.”

The two, now half-conscious, were moved to the bathhouse. Inside were five tubs, but the water in them was peculiar. It was pink. Warm steam wafted from the tubs, carrying a sweet and slightly sharp scent. With some effort, the servants placed the two into the tubs.

“We will help you get ready thirty minutes late, my lords.”

Jacques stood by the entrance with a pocket watch in hand, ever mindful of Keter's second instruction: let them soak for no longer than thirty minutes.

Inside the bathhouse, a miracle was taking place. Luke and Anis' injuries were healing in real time. Their scraped knees, torn soles, and even burns faded away, replaced by fresh, unblemished skin.

But it wasn’t just external wounds that healed. Torn muscles from overexertion and bruises from Keter's strikes were also restored.

The bathwater contained middle-grade elixir that was priced at one thousand six hundred gold per bottle. A miraculous elixir that could instantly heal severe injuries was now being used frivolously to relieve fatigue and heal minor injuries.

The pink water in the tubs gradually turned black as it drew out dead blood from within them. Keter's insistence on the thirty-minute limit was because that was precisely how long it took for this process to complete. Beyond that, the dead blood could be reabsorbed into the body, making it imperative to leave the bath.

“Time's up.”

Jacques was meticulous. He entered the bathhouse to wake them up and was shocked.

“My goodness! I've never smelled something so foul. The water's turned into sewage.”

The stench was unbearable, far worse than any filth he could imagine. But upon inspecting the two, Jacques was relieved.

The servants carefully washed, dressed, and carried Luke and Anis to their beds. Soon after, Taragon, who had just finished running ten laps around the training ground, underwent the same routine.

Thus ended a hellish day for the trainees. For Keter, however, it was just beginning.

The Sword of the South Tournament was nearing. Keter's goal was clear: first place, and nothing less. With his skills in Amaranth and his Demon Arrows, winning was a trivial task. But this time, he resolved not to use them.

It’s obvious they would just spread rumors that I only won because of the Demon Arrows. Predictable.

When competing, Keter always sought undeniable victories. His aim was to take first place without relying on the Demon Arrows so that no one could say anything about it. Of course, even without them, he was confident of victory, provided the tournament proceeded fairly.

But it won't, will it? They’re probably planning to disgrace Sefira.

In the worst-case scenario, every knight in the tournament could turn against Sefira. Keter didn’t mind. If that happened, he would simply become strong enough to overcome them all.

Standing at attention, he began circulating aura through his body. He gradually increased its flow through his veins. Beyond a certain speed, the body would begin to break down. It was only natural—after all, aura was a destructive force, a double-edged sword. What Keter was doing now was tantamount to self-harm, or perhaps, outright self-destruction. What else could you call an act of systematically destroying your own body from the inside if not suicide?

But for Keter, it wasn’t suicide. He meticulously maintained the speed of his aura circulation at the precise limit his body could withstand. If he pushed the output even slightly higher, the aura would tear through his body. It would mean death, as his entire body would rupture and bleed out.

The reason he did this to himself was because it was a form of training. Aura didn’t work like muscle growth, which relied on cycles of destruction and regeneration. Aura worked through adaptation.

The benefits of this process were immense. It strengthened resistance to external auras and enhanced the efficiency of physical reinforcement through aura.

However, no one else practiced this method of training. For one, it was exceedingly dangerous. A single misstep could lead to fatal injuries, and more importantly, the time-to-effort ratio was terribly inefficient. In the time spent on such self-destructive training, one could practice swordsmanship or at least engage in regular exercise, both of which would yield more tangible results.

Keter agreed to a certain extent.

Practice and exercise have their limits.

When starting to build muscle, the growth was quick and noticeable. But once a certain level was reached, that growth slowed to a halt, not because it stopped entirely but because it hit a ceiling. Knights called this the muscle singularity.

Beyond this singularity, the efficiency of exercise plummeted. It wasn’t that further training was entirely ineffective, but the returns diminished so significantly that many knights continued more out of routine than expected.

Swordsmanship followed a similar trajectory. At first, progress was rapid, but eventually, a plateau was reached. At that point, swinging a sword tens of thousands of times was no different than swinging it a few hundred times. Even the smallest differences could sometimes determine victory in some cases, but those instances were rare.

This was why self-destructive training wasn’t meaningless. Unlike muscle growth or swordsmanship, aura had no growth ceiling.

However, were the master families of swordsmanship unaware of this principle? No, they knew...

Thirty years from now, perhaps.

For now, the prevailing training method combined exercise with swordsmanship. At this point in time, the superiority of the self-destructive training method remained unrecognized. Even those who were aware of its advantages had no reason to spread or promote it.

Keter, however, had experienced the future and could make this choice with confidence.

Training during the day, self-destruction at night. This should yield results comparable to real combat experience.

If Jacques had overheard, he would have raised a skeptical eyebrow and asked,

“Then, when will you sleep?”

To which Keter would have casually replied,

“I don’t need to.”

Thus began Keter’s sleepless training, something no one else could understand.