Why is Background Character the Strongest Now?

Chapter 4

"Nine hundred ninety-five."

A steel clang rang through the forest clearing as Ezra's blade struck the thick iron slab again.

"Nine hundred ninety-six."

The metal was no ordinary slab—it was forged to endure strikes from a Rank 5 Awakener, and yet Ezra's every swing left a faint groove.

His shoulders screamed. His palms were torn open. Sweat dripped down his chin like rain.

But he didn't stop.

Ten days had passed since his training under Ren Kurogane began.

And every day was hell.

His routine wasn't limited to sword strikes. It started with a 100-kilometer run—no mana allowed. Then came:

• 1,000 push-ups

• 1,000 squats

• 1,000 kicks against metal

• 1,000 punches on the same unyielding slab

• And finally, 1,000 sword strikes, each with a massive 200kg training blade

After that came six hours of deep mana meditation, followed by only four hours of sleep.

The physical load alone would kill a normal human, but Ezra's Rank 3 stamina held—barely.

Still, the pain was real.

"One thousand!"

With the final swing, the metal let out a sharp echo—and Ezra collapsed to the ground, gasping.

Lying flat on the dirt, he felt like his lungs had turned to fire. His arms had gone numb.

Nearby, sitting on a rock by the fire, Ren Kurogane—Sword Emperor, humanity's Rank 9 legend—grilled a fish casually, like he wasn't watching a boy nearly die.

"Good work again."

He smiled with a mouth full of food.

Ezra groaned. Ren walked over, uncapped a water bottle, and poured it over Ezra's face like a bucket of ice.

"Get up."

Ezra opened his mouth, catching some drops, then forced himself up with trembling elbows.

"Starting today," Ren said, tossing the bottle aside, "we're entering the second phase. No more warmups. Time to fight."

Ezra's breath caught.

"Sword sparring?" he asked.

"Exactly. No mana. Just sword against sword," Ren said, then smirked.

"I'll use a wooden blade. You use your real sword."

"…And what's the goal?"

"Incapacitate me. You've got one month."

Ezra's brows twitched. Internally, he scoffed.

'He's underestimating me that much?'

He said nothing, but thoughts raced.

'Extreme sword talent, extreme insight… I can do this. Forget a month—I'll break through today.'

Ren could read the look in his eyes. He grinned.

'Cocky little brat. Let's see how long that lasts.'

Ezra retrieved his sword from his space ring—a sleek black blade with a purple gem in the hilt.

Ren drew his wooden sword and casually coated it in mana—not to enhance it, but to preserve the wood from breaking.

He pointed it at Ezra.

"Come."

Ezra dashed forward, his foot stomping the ground with explosive force. Even without mana, he was fast—blindingly fast.

He faked a slash from the left, then instantly twisted his wrist and aimed for the right.

Clack. Blocked.

Ren parried without flinching.

Ezra spun midair, using his enhanced agility to strike from behind—but Ren's blade was already there.

"This is what passes for clever these days?"

Ezra's eyes narrowed. Not enough.

He threw a kick—blocked.

A punch—blocked again.

Suddenly, Ren's knee slammed into his stomach. Ezra grunted as he was launched back. He flipped midair and dug his sword into the ground to slow himself.

But he didn't stop.

'His reactions… absurd. I can't give him time to counter.'

He launched forward again with a diagonal slash, the air bending slightly from his speed.

Blocked.

He reversed grip, tried to strike from the neck—still blocked.

Then came the counter.

Ren pushed forward and swept horizontally.

Ezra ducked under, narrowly avoiding it. He retaliated with a quick stab toward Ren's gut.

But then—

Ren's sword spun like a wheel, faster than Ezra could follow.

The next moment, Ezra's blade flew from his hands, disarmed cleanly.

He didn't even see the motion—only the outcome.

He tumbled, turned to grab his sword—

—and froze.

Ren's wooden sword was at his neck, his voice cold.

"You lose."

Ezra clenched his fists.

"…Next time, I won't."

Ren kicked Ezra's sword toward him with a chuckle.

"Then pick it up. We've got all day."

Ezra exhaled and nodded.

He reached down, gripped his sword, and without a word—

attacked again.

———————

A blur of movement—then—

Crack!

The wooden hilt of Ren's sword slammed straight into Ezra's ribs.

Ezra gritted his teeth and instinctively raised his arm to block the next blow. The moment he caught Ren's wrist, he twisted, hoping to break the grip.

Nothing.

It didn't even budge.

'He's not even resisting. He's just… standing there.'

Without wasting time, Ezra dropped low and swept his leg across the dirt, aiming to unbalance Ren.

It worked—almost.

Ren shifted slightly, just enough to avoid being toppled, but it gave Ezra an opening.

Ezra spun up with a roundhouse kick, aiming straight for Ren's jaw.

Clack.

Ren raised his left hand and caught the kick like it was a falling leaf.

Ezra's eyes widened.

He didn't stop.

The moment his foot touched the ground, he lunged forward with a stab aimed directly at Ren's face—an aggressive, direct strike fueled by instinct and desperation.

Ren moved his sword—not the blade, but the hilt—and blocked the thrust with surgical precision.

Then, with a casual push, he sent Ezra stumbling back—

—and in a flash, appeared beside him.

Ezra barely had time to turn before—

Thwack.

The hilt of Ren's wooden sword smashed into his gut.

"Ghk—!"

Ezra's breath left him. He coughed blood midair before crashing into the ground, skidding back and digging a shallow trench through the dirt.

His limbs twitched.

He couldn't move.

'Five hours…'

That's how long he'd been fighting.

And in those five grueling hours—not a single punch, not a single kick, not a single strike had landed on Ren.

His stamina was gone.

His mana reserves untouched.

His tricks exhausted.

Everything he tried—predictable. Everything he did—read like a book.

Ezra lay on his back, staring at the fading light between the treetops, lungs heaving like bellows.

Even though Ren was restricting himself to Rank 3 movement speed, it felt like Ezra was a toddler trying to fight a war veteran.

'His timing… his perception… It's like he has insight too. No… something beyond that.'

Ren stood nearby, not a scratch on him.

His wooden sword was resting casually on his shoulder. His expression was calm—but not mocking. Just… firm.

"That's enough for today."

Ezra couldn't speak.

Ren reached into his belt pouch and tossed a healing potion toward him.

"Drink that, then start your mana training. I want you sharper tomorrow."

The bottle landed beside Ezra with a quiet thunk.

Ezra didn't move right away.

He just stared up at the sky, the burn in his muscles and the metallic taste in his mouth reminding him—

He was still too weak.

But not for long.

Ezra uncorked the potion bottle, the faint shimmer of golden liquid catching the last rays of sunlight. He drank in a single motion, letting the warmth spread through his chest.

His torn muscles stitched together. His breath stabilized. His strength returned.

But his mind was still weighed down—not with exhaustion, but with realization.

'Even at full stamina… I couldn't touch him.'

He sat up slowly, sword across his lap, and looked at his master—Ren Kurogane—resting near the fire, arms crossed, gaze steady.

Ezra's fingers tightened around his blade.

'I have extreme sword talent. Insight. A mythical core. But even with all that…'

'I'm not his match.'

In the web novel, Ren Kurogane was the undisputed king of the sword.

Even Daelen Voncrest, the protagonist with his overpowered system and an S-rank core, had never surpassed him in swordsmanship.

And it wasn't just in-story.

Readers used to joke about it.

"If Zoro, Hinata Sakaguchi, and King Bradley fused into one man—it'd still be 60% of Ren."

No system, no flashy techniques, no plot armor—just a man who mastered the sword to its very edge.

And Ezra?

He was expected to defeat that man in a month.

'Direct attacks won't work. Neither will feints. He's too experienced. Too sharp.'

Ezra lowered his gaze.

'But a sword isn't just for attacking. It's for control. Timing. Pressure.'

He thought back to the fight.

Ren didn't just block—he redirected, disarmed, countered. He fought with minimal movement, always maintaining his balance, his grip firm like stone.

'If I can make him lose that balance for even a moment… just enough for his hand to slip…'

'That'll be enough. A single opening—that's all I need.'

He stood up slowly.

The stars were beginning to peek through the forest canopy, a cold breeze brushing his damp hair.

'I'll develop my own technique. No mana. Just pure swordsmanship.'

'Something built not on power—but on rhythm, redirection, misdirection, and force manipulation.'

He looked at his hand. His grip. His posture. His stance.

'A technique that twists momentum, that turns defense into offense… that cracks the grip of even the strongest swordsman.'

He exhaled.

'It'll take time. But I'll do it.'

He turned toward the forest—not to meditate, but to train.

"Mana training can wait. Right now… I should forge a technique worthy of the man the Sword Emperor."