Chapter 163: Teaching Time [1]
"As teacher?"
"Yup.Then, as a teacher, I should teach you something. Did you have any trouble with the book I gave you?"
"Is that a joke?"
Trouble? There was plenty.
Self-learning without a proper demonstration was quite challenging.
If it weren’t for the system’s assistance, I would have only learned some basic skills like disguise or pickpocketing.
This was a good opportunity.
It was time to take advantage of my nominal teacher.
"About the movement technique, I don’t quite understand the counterattack part."
Since he said he will teach me....I am not going to waste this opportunity.
Doran’s brow arched, the smirk tugging back to life on his face.
"The counterattack part, eh? Hah. Figures. That’s where most brats trip over their own feet. Everyone wants the glory strike but no one understands the patience it demands."
Doran stopped walking and tapped the tunnel wall with his knuckles, the sound dull against the stone.
"Listen up, boy. Movement techniques aren’t about flailing around until you’re dizzy. They’re about rhythm. You bait, you dodge, you let your enemy think they’ve got you trapped—and the moment they ease up..."
Doran snapped his fingers, then jabbed forward with two knuckles like a knife thrust. "...that’s when you strike back."
I frowned. "That’s easier said than done. The book made it sound like you’re supposed to predict every angle in advance."
"That’s true." He folded his arms, eyeing me carefully. "So? Any other problems with the technique?"
"Other than the counterattack part? Not really. I’ve pretty much got the rest down."
Even as I said it, my thoughts wandered to Ghoststeps .
—Counterattacks deal bonus damage based on agility when parrying.
That was the part I still couldn’t fully get right. Most of the time, it was fine, but against someone just as quick—or quicker—one wrong read meant disaster.
When I glanced back, Doran’s expression had shifted. He looked... surprised.
"What are you staring at me like that for?" I asked.
"Sheesh," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "So this is what talent looks like, huh?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The technique. If you hadn’t already mastered most of it, you wouldn’t have made a name for yourself in the North."
I tilted my head. "Didn’t you give me the book to learn in the first place?"
His lips pulled into a sour line, and he clicked his tongue in irritation.
"How long do you think it took me to master that movement technique?"
I thought about it for a moment. "...A year?"
His answer came without words. He spread out both hands, fingers wide, then closed one fist tight.
"...Fifteen years?"
My mouth went dry. It had taken me a month—barely that—to grasp the core skills, movement technique included.
"To think I wasted fifteen years of blood and sweat, only for my own disciple to make it look easy." His voice was a strange mix of pride and disgust. "I don’t know whether to feel relieved I trained a genius or sick to my stomach listening to you brag."
I couldn’t help a crooked smile. "Well, you did say talent matters."
He groaned and rubbed the back of his head, as if my existence itself gave him a headache. "At least there’s something left I can still teach you. Come on. Too many eyes here."
"Got it."
The central streets of the underworld weren’t exactly crowded, but he wasn’t wrong. Places with heating pipes drew drifters and mercenaries like moths. And a master thief hated nothing more than being watched.
We slipped deeper into the tunnels, away from the faint glow of torchlight and the chatter of the underworld’s strays. The air grew colder, the silence thicker, broken only by the echo of our steps.
Finally, Doran stopped in a hollow chamber—wide, empty, with only a cracked pillar standing crooked in the center. A perfect place for secrets.
He turned, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off dust. His eyes gleamed. "You want the counterattack part, right? Then we’ll skip words. No more book talk. I’ll show you the part the ink can’t."
I stiffened. "...Here?"
"Here." His grin was wolfish, almost cruel. "You won’t learn this from standing still, boy. You’ll learn when you’re half a breath away from getting cut. That’s when instinct takes over."
My hand hovered near Silent Fang, tension crawling up my spine. "So you’re planning to use me as a training dummy?"
Doran barked a laugh. "Dummy? No, no. I’m giving you a privilege. Not many people get to test their skin against me."
The words were arrogant, but there was no lie in them. His movements were already loosening, his posture shifting into something that looked lazy but radiated danger.
I drew Silent Fang, narrowing my eyes. "Fine. Just don’t cry when I make you look old."
That landed. His smirk froze for a heartbeat, then curved into something sharper, crueler. "Careful, brat. Wolves eat pups who bark too loud."
The air between us stretched taut, like a bowstring ready to snap.
—Boom!
The sound split the air, and suddenly Doran was gone.
"What the... a smoke bomb?"
Of course. He wasn’t the type to teach with clean, honest sparring. He favored chaos—explosive traps, dirty tricks, and shadows that bit back. Foolish of me to expect anything else.
The smoke thickened, swallowing the tunnel whole. I slashed Silent Fang, the pressure of the blade cutting a small path through the haze, but it was too late. He’d already vanished from sight.
But not from sense.
’He’s still here.’
The weight of his presence pressed against my skin, like a predator circling unseen.
If that’s the case... I needed to rely on more than just my eyes.
I let my sword arm drop loose and closed my eyes, drawing in a breath. The world narrowed—stone dripping in the dark, the burn of smoke in my lungs, the faint scuff of leather against grit—
-...What are you doing? With an enemy in front of you?
The voice echoed in my head, the same telepathy I’d once heard in the ruins of the Nameless King.
"Sorry," I muttered under my breath, "but I can’t see through your stealth. I’ve got to work with what I can."
-...Strange boy. Hmph. If you have a plan, then I’ll watch.
The telepathy faded, but my instincts screamed. A cold tickle brushed my throat—the warning edge of killing intent.