CHAPTER 50: DISCIPLE CULTIVATION SYSTEM CH50 TWELVE HOURS OF PAIN PT2.

Art’s POV

The girl known as Valaria fascinated me.

She was the protagonist of this unfortunate world I had been transmigrated into. She was also the sole center of this world—one I couldn’t exclude from my plans. And yet, what intrigued me most was one simple fact:

She never showed up as my student.

All people who recognized me as a form of master had their names recorded in the system—my system. But Val was different.

I recognized her as my student, and she saw me as a temporary teacher, yet she wasn’t recorded by the system.

Was it because she had the status of the protagonist? Was I barred from influencing her directly? Or was there something more at play?

Right now, the only thing I knew was that this world had grown different. It was no longer the world I had read and played. To survive, I needed to adapt—which, honestly, wasn’t a problem. Adaptation was my specialty.

As I commended myself, I casually raised my wooden sword to parry one of her blows before forcing her back after a fierce tug-of-war with our weapons.

Watching her stagger back, covered in sweat, I smirked.

"Impressive stamina."

She wiped the sweat from her brow before lunging at me again.

This time, I sidestepped her downward slash and struck her jaw with the hilt of my sword.

**THUD.**

Her already weakened body flew back from the impact and crashed into the ground.

I watched her with bored eyes—an obvious act, but one I maintained to appear unimpressed.

With the exception of the moment I let my guard down due to Cheshire’s untimely appearance, Valaria hadn’t landed a single clean hit on me. And yet, her willpower still burned as fiercely as ever.

If this were a test of willpower, I would have graded her an "A+" and dismissed her long ago. But unfortunately for her, it wasn’t.

Valaria already knew how to fight, so this wasn’t training in combat either.

In fact, the real training I had planned for her hadn’t even begun yet.

This was merely the prologue—a brutal warm-up designed to exhaust her before the main course.

---

"This is depressing to look at."

As Valaria forced her bruised and sweaty body up, one of the seniors commented, earning murmurs of agreement from the other students.

They weren’t wrong.

What I was doing was depressing. It even made my heart ache because, if I had been in her shoes, I would have given up long ago and left this place.

Compared to how I treated myself, I treated my students worse. To even the playing field, I planned to undergo a dreadful training regimen myself after the rank games were done.

"Huff..."

Having concluded my future plans, I watched Val rise—albeit with unstable steps.

Her legs trembled. One eye was swollen shut from a hit to her face, and her lips were bleeding.

Struggling to stand, she spread her arms and gripped her batons with shaking hands.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t complain. She simply accepted this reality and charged at me again.

Her speed was slow—far slower than before.

If I lacked insight, I might have assumed she was too exhausted to continue. But as someone who wielded [Snowdance], a sword art focused on body movements and lethal strikes, I had already analyzed her condition thoroughly.

She was faking it.

If she were fighting an opponent who underestimated her, this act might have worked. But I wasn’t one of those opponents.

The moment she entered my range, I swung my blade in a swift, precise arc.

It phased through her body and launched her back with a powerful shockwave.

And yet, I wasn’t pleased—because just as I completed the strike, a baton cracked against my skull, sending me tumbling to the ground in confusion.

It seemed I wasn’t the only one observing my opponent.

---

Valaria was one of the few individuals who had been taught spear arts by the Spear Saint himself.

That man—who could level mountains with a single thrust, carve valleys with sweeping strikes, and incinerate armies with his techniques—was her master.

And that master had a rival.

The Sword Saint.

The two were like oil and water, yet they had fought side by side for decades. Because of that, they had deciphered each other’s techniques.

The famous [Snowdance] swordplay, known for its swift and fluid movements, held a secret few knew about.

Its full potential could only be realized through a technique called "Cold Reading" —an ability to anticipate an opponent’s movements by analyzing their body language.

But it wasn’t used to dodge. Instead, it was used to find gaps in their defenses and strike with lethal precision.

To counter this swordplay, one had to alter their own body language to mislead their opponent.

During their first exchange, when Val realized what kind of swordplay Art used, she had adjusted her movements slightly.

He might have noticed, but she made it convincing by pretending her unfamiliarity with batons was the cause.

In truth, she was proficient in dozens of weapons. While batons weren’t among them, they resembled short spears—albeit lacking piercing power.

Using that knowledge, she altered her fighting style—and thus, her body language—just enough to deceive Art.

Every attack she threw was slightly slower than her usual speed. Every lunge or dash followed the same pattern.

And just as he has grew accustom to it, she set her trap.

She made her final charge seem desperate—as if she were making one last, reckless attempt.

But her real plan was far simpler.

It was the kind of trick that would get her killed in real combat, but this wasn’t a life-or-death battle.

[Snowdance] searched for lags in movement to attack. So instead of searching for an opening, she created one—using herself as bait.

Just as she predicted, Art attacked the moment she entered his range.

His strike was fast, but she still saw it coming.

The moment the pain rocketed through her body and she was sent flying back, she hurled one of her batons at him with all her remaining strength.

He was withdrawing his sword, basking in his suppose victory—only for the unexpected projectile to slam into his skull and knock him flat on his back.

Another wave of cheers erupted as the now-dazed teacher stared up at her in disbelief.

"Two hits."

He muttered, sounding almost proud of her achievement.

As she got back up, several seniors cheered her on, urging her to press the advantage.

"Go get him, girl!"

"Don’t let him bully you!"

"Yes! Scar that handsome face of his!"

With her last baton in hand, she sprinted at him again.

Art rolled to the side just in time to avoid her strike.

"Don’t let him get up!"

Following their encouragement, she spun the baton in her hand and thrust it toward him.

He tilted his head to dodge—

"Brat!"

—and swung his sword to knock the baton from her grip.

But she tossed it upward, then drove her elbow deep into his stomach, forcing the air from out of his lungs.

"Shit!"

Now on top of him, she caught the baton midair, wrapped her legs around his to pin him down before smashing the side of his head with the weapon.

Art groaned in pain, a bruised cut forming on his cheek.

"Oh my god!"

Some seniors gasped at her viciousness, while others smirked at his predicament.

Val, however, showed no mercy.

She unleashed all her pent-up frustration—Trish’s haunting presence, her kidnapping the previous day, Art’s infuriating personality, and all the pain he had put her through.

She punched. She smacked his face with the baton. She repeated the process until his nose broke with a sickening crunch.

The poor teacher, completely immobilized, couldn’t even struggle or scream—because if he did, his reputation would be ruined.

He had his pride to uphold.

So he took it like a man.

He cried. He bled. But he didn’t scream.

The only thing keeping him going was the knowledge that his revenge would come soon.

He would make sure these students—especially Val, who had left him with a broken nose and a disfigured face—regretted everything.