A chill, damp hand closed around the hilt of the sword. Kim Hyu-Gi didn’t open his eyes immediately. He simply felt the familiar, heavy, reassuring weight of the cold steel in his grip. It was a new kind of familiarity, one forged in hundreds of agonizing, futile deaths. He was back. Always back. And each return was a fresh iteration of the same suffocating question: *What now?* Yesterday, or perhaps an eternity ago, he had chosen to stand. To fight. To die with a purpose beyond mere survival, beyond frantic, desperate flight. His first attempt had been laughable, a clumsy lunge that ended with a spear through his chest, followed by a swift beheading. The pain, though fleeting, had been as utterly real as the sun-drenched fields of Earth. And just like every death, it had taught him one brutal, undeniable truth: he knew nothing. He opened his eyes to the swirling chaos of the battlefield. The clanging of steel, the guttural shouts, the mournful cries of the dying. The scent of blood, sweat, and fear was thick in the air, a constant companion. He was an anonymous soldier, a pawn in a war that wasn't his, armed with nothing but a rusty sword and a body that felt alien yet intimately his own. Around him, the Southern army pressed forward, a wave of desperate men against a wall of equally desperate Northerners. He was in the thick of it again, a fresh lamb tossed into the grinder. “Forward, for the King!” a grizzled sergeant roared, his voice hoarse, spittle flying from his lips. He shoved Hyu-Gi roughly, propelling him into the fray. Hyu-Gi stumbled, his feet heavy in the mud. He gripped the sword tighter, his knuckles white. The memory of the spear, the axe, the arrow, the crushing hoof — they were all vivid, tangible sensations burned into his very essence. He had to learn. He *had* to. A Northern soldier, a hulking brute with a scarred face, charged him, a massive cleaver held high. It was the same soldier who had split his skull open twice before. This time, Hyu-Gi didn't just stand there in paralysis. He remembered the blur of motion, the way the sergeant had moved. He shifted his weight, slightly, clumsily, trying to pivot. The cleaver whistled through the air. It wasn't enough. He was too slow. The blade still connected, not to his skull, but to his shoulder, cleaving through flesh and bone. A scream tore from his throat, raw and agonizing. He dropped the sword, his arm going numb. The Northern soldier grinned, raising the cleaver again for the killing blow. Darkness. Again. He gasped, back in his body, sword in hand. The searing pain in his shoulder was gone, replaced by a phantom ache that lingered like a bad memory. He closed his eyes, replaying the last few seconds. The pivot. It had been a fraction better. Not good enough to save him, but a *change*. A miniscule victory in a sea of overwhelming defeat. *This is it, then,* he thought, a grim determination setting in. *This is the lesson. Die, learn, die again. Until there’s nothing left to learn but how to survive.* He thought of Kang Hwok, of the indifferent smirk, the impossible choice. He thought of his sister, Han-Yol, her furious, tear-streaked face. *They didn't abandon me to die for nothing.* He opened his eyes. The battle was still raging. Another charge. Another Northern soldier, this one younger, with fear in his eyes, lunged with a short sword. Hyu-Gi remembered the brute. This was different. He tried the pivot again, this time adding a clumsy parry, deflecting the blade wide. His own sword, heavy and unbalanced, felt alien in his hand as he swung it in a wide, desperate arc. It connected with the soldier’s arm, a dull thud, not enough to wound seriously, but enough to make him stumble. Before Hyu-Gi could capitalize, another Northern soldier, seeing his momentary advantage, drove a short spear into his side. He roared, clutching at the wound, the metal tearing through his makeshift armor and flesh. He collapsed, blood gushing, the world tilting. He saw the first soldier he’d fought recover and bring his sword down. His last thought was of the dull thud, the single successful parry. A small triumph before the final plunge into oblivion. --- Respawn. He gripped the sword, gritting his teeth. The memory of the spear, the parry, the stumble. He was getting better at cataloging his deaths. Each one a lesson, meticulously logged in the cruel ledger of the Hell Simulation System. He was no longer just experiencing pain; he was analyzing it. He was no longer just dying; he was *dying constructively*. He watched the battle rage for a few precious seconds this time, before the sergeant’s inevitable shove. He observed the Northern soldiers' formations, the way they held their shields, the common thrusts and swings. They were not elite warriors, just men, tired and desperate, just like him. They fought with simple, brutal efficiency. He needed to find the pattern, the flaw in their desperate dance of death. When the next wave crashed, Hyu-Gi focused on a single opponent. A tall, lanky man with a long spear. Instead of meeting his charge head-on, Hyu-Gi feigned a step back, drawing the spearman deeper. He remembered the wide arc of his own sword – too slow, too predictable. This time, as the spear thrust, he tried to step *inside* its reach, angling his body, attempting a quick, upward slash to the spearman's unprotected armpit. It was a suicidal maneuver for an untrained fighter. The spearman, surprised by his forward movement, reacted instinctively, pulling the spear back just enough to prevent the full impact. But the tip still grazed Hyu-Gi’s stomach. It wasn’t a fatal blow, not yet, but it tore a shallow gash that blossomed with crimson. He hissed in pain, but the small opening he’d created was there. He thrust his own sword, not wildly, but in a desperate, lunging stab at the man's chest. His aim was off. The blade deflected off a leather breastplate, sliding uselessly. The spearman, regaining his composure, reversed his grip and slammed the butt of the spear into Hyu-Gi’s face. His nose shattered, an explosion of agony and blood. He reeled, momentarily blinded. He heard the roar of the spearman, saw a flash of steel, and then felt a crushing weight as the spear plunged into his gut, twisting and tearing. He choked on his own blood, falling to his knees. His last sight was the indifferent, muddy boot of the spearman, kicking him aside as the battle surged onward. He was just another casualty, but with a belly full of new information. --- Kim Hyu-Gi reappeared, spitting phantom blood. His face still felt bruised, his stomach still clenched from the memory of the spear. But a strange, cold clarity settled over him. *Inside the reach.* That was it. And the counter. He had been close. The system wasn't just throwing him into a meat grinder; it was demanding evolution. Each death, a lesson. Each agonizing, terrifying, gut-wrenching death, a step towards a skill he desperately needed. He was still an F-class Hunter in the real world, a weakling, a nobody. But in this hellish simulation, he was becoming something else. A student of death, a reluctant warrior forged in the crucible of endless, painful restarts. The guilt he carried for the Three Flowers Guild, for Kang Hwok’s impossible choice, still burned. But it was no longer a paralysis. It was fuel. He would not just survive; he would learn to fight. He would turn every drop of blood, every scream of pain, into a weapon. The next Northern soldier charged, a scimitar glinting. This time, Kim Hyu-Gi didn't just react. He *moved*. His footwork was still clumsy, his sword arm still felt heavy, but his mind, sharper than before, began to dictate. His body, however, was not yet ready to obey. He died again, the scimitar cleaving through his neck, his head falling into the mud. But before the darkness took him, a thought, clear and defiant, echoed in his mind: *Again.*

Chapter 13: The First Clumsy Strokes