Asher's POV
Two weeks.
That was the window I'd given myself.
Not a deadline carved in stone, not something to announce or boast about—just a quiet goal, something solid to move toward. Rank 1 wasn't glamorous. It didn't come with reputation or recognition. No one would look at me differently just because I reached it.
But it mattered.
Without Rank 1, everything else was theory. Numbers. Potential sitting idle inside a body that couldn't fully support it yet. And potential, I'd learned long ago, was worthless without execution.
The mornings in Greenwood had changed.
Mana lingered in the air now, thin but undeniable, like mist that refused to settle. It didn't weigh on the city, but it was there, brushing against skin and senses alike. Even ordinary movements felt heavier, as if the world itself was slowly learning how to resist us—or maybe we were finally learning how to feel it.
I woke before sunrise.
Not because I forced myself to. My body simply decided it was time.
That alone told me something was changing.
I rolled out of bed and stretched slowly, joints popping softly as warmth spread through my muscles. The familiar ache settled in almost immediately. Not pain. Never pain. It was pressure—a dense, persistent sensation, like my body was asking to be pushed further… and silently judging me if I didn't answer.
"Alright," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "Let's not disappoint."
Mortal Rank cultivation was brutally honest.
No shortcuts.
No tricks.
No clever techniques to bypass effort.
At this stage, talent didn't let anyone skip steps. It didn't matter how high your ceiling was if your foundation cracked under pressure. Mortal Ranks were about one thing only—forcing the body to grow stronger, then stabilizing it there until it could endure more.
Every day followed the same rhythm.
Morning was for physical refinement.
The afternoon was for weapon practice.
Evening was for controlled tempering and recovery.
Skipping any part wasn't bravery. It was stupidity.
I stepped onto the terrace as the sky began to lighten, cool air brushing against my skin. Greenwood was still quiet at this hour, the city half-asleep, broken only by distant transport hums and the occasional call of birds.
I began with slow movement drills.
Deep squats, controlled and steady. Jumps with deliberate landings that forced my legs to absorb impact instead of avoiding it. Static holds that made every muscle fiber scream for attention.
The goal wasn't exhaustion.
It was conditioning.
Mana flowed with my breath—not stored, not condensed, not forced. Just circulated, guided gently through my body the way the Breath of Iron manual described.
Inhale.
Circulate.
Exhale.
Over and over again.
The manual gave structure, but I didn't follow it blindly. Ultimate Comprehension didn't replace effort—it refined it. It showed me inefficiencies I wouldn't have noticed otherwise. Subtle posture flaws. Tiny delays between intention and movement. Places where strength leaked instead of transferring cleanly.
I could feel everything.
Which muscles lagged behind.
Which tendons strained just a fraction too much.
Which joints carried stress they shouldn't.
By the time the sun crested the rooftops, sweat soaked through my clothes and dripped from my hair onto the stone beneath my feet.
And I was smiling.
The wooden sword felt heavier these days.
Not because it gained weight—but because I demanded more precision from every movement.
Sword mastery wasn't about flashy techniques or dramatic power. It was about consistency. Intent. Repetition so deep that the body moved correctly even when the mind drifted.
Slash.
Recover.
Adjust stance.
Slash again.
Each motion was clean. Deliberate. Honest.
I wasn't chasing power.
I was carving a habit into my bones.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
"You always train like you're about to fight someone invisible?"
I didn't turn. "Only the dangerous ones."
Darek snorted and dropped his training bag nearby.
He looked better than before.
Broader shoulders. Firmer stance. His movements carried less wasted effort now. His spear rested against the wall, but his hands were wrapped—clear signs he'd been focusing heavily on close combat again.
"You're close," he said after watching silently for a moment.
"Yeah."
"So am I."
That earned my attention.
We trained together more often during those two weeks.
Not constantly—our rhythms were different—but often enough to measure progress honestly. No boasting. No exaggeration. Just observation and quiet pressure.
Darek's style was straightforward but effective.
The spear gave him reach and control.
His fists brought chaos when distance collapsed.
He drilled thrusts until his arms shook, then transitioned straight into grappling without pause. No elegance. No wasted motion. Every action had purpose, even if that purpose was simply to overwhelm.
"You still swing like you're thinking too much," he told me once, breathing hard.
"And you still punch like you're angry at the ground," I shot back.
He grinned. "It knows what it did."
We pushed each other.
Not by direct competition.
But by refusing to fall behind.
Around the tenth day, I felt it.
Not exhaustion.
Resistance.
Every movement felt heavier. Recovery slowed. My muscles responded a fraction slower no matter how carefully I trained. Even basic drills demanded more focus than before.
I recognized it immediately.
This was the body saying it had reached the edge of its current tolerance.
Pushing harder wouldn't break through.
It would break me.
So I slowed down.
Reduced intensity. Increased precision.
Ultimate Comprehension helped—not by offering shortcuts, but by showing me what not to do. Where forcing things would only destabilize what I'd already built.
Two days passed like that.
No breakthroughs.
No sudden insights.
Then, during a basic sword swing on the thirteenth day, something shifted.
There was no flourish. No conscious intent beyond repetition.
My breath synced perfectly with the motion. My weight settled naturally through my feet. No tension. No resistance. No wasted force.
For a single moment, my body felt… right.
Not stronger.
Complete.
I stopped mid-motion, heart steady, muscles warm, mana flowing cleanly through every pathway without friction.
I exhaled slowly.
"This is it," I whispered.
End of Chapter 9 — Reaching Rank 1 (1)