They Called Me Trash? Now I'll Hack Their World Chapter 26: Two Weeks

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the manor.

Father was out before the footman could fully open the door, his boots hitting the gravel with sharp, angry steps.

Victor followed, then Cedric, both moving quickly to keep up.

I climbed out last, my movents slower, already bracing for whatever was coming.

We entered through the main doors. Servants scattered imdiately, sensing the tension radiating from Father like heat from a forge.

I’d barely made it three steps into the entrance hall when—

Crack!

Father’s hand connected with my cheek, the impact snapping my head to the side.

Pain exploded across my face, sharp and imdiate. My vision blurred for a second, ears ringing.

"You useless idiot!" Father’s voice echoed through the hall. "Do you have any idea what you did today?"

I straightened slowly, my hand moving to my burning cheek.

"You made a spectacle of yourself," Father continued, his face red with fury. "Drawing attention. Making look like a fool in front of Lord Markhus and the others!"

"I was just—"

"You were embarrassing this family!" His hand clenched into a fist, and for a mont I thought he’d hit again. "Those lords were already questioning whether you’re fit for the academy. And what do you do? You prove them right by acting like a womanizing fool!"

"That’s not what—"

"Enough!" Father’s voice cracked like a whip. "I don’t want to hear it. You will go to your room. You will stay there. And you will not make another scene like this again. Understood?"

I stood there, silent, my cheek throbbing.

Victor stepped forward. "Father, what he did today... it’s going to cause problems at the examination."

"I’m aware," Father said coldly.

Cedric pushed past roughly, his shoulder slamming into mine hard enough to make stumble.

"Waste of space," he muttered as he headed up the stairs.

Father turned and walked away without another word, Victor following after.

I stood alone in the entrance hall, my hand still pressed to my burning cheek.

"It stings," I said quietly to no one.

The servants who’d been frozen against the walls slowly resud their tasks, carefully avoiding my gaze.

I climbed the stairs to my room, changed out of the formal clothes, folding them and setting them aside with more care than they deserved.

Then, back into simple tunic and trousers.

I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

The sun set. Darkness filled the room. I didn’t bother lighting a lamp.

Just lay there, thinking.

Hours passed. The manor settled into silence around .

And then I stood up.

I pulled my practice sword from where it leaned against the wall and moved to the center of my room.

I needed combat skills. Real techniques, not just the basic strikes I’d been drilling.

And I had eighteen months of absorbed knowledge from another world to draw from.

Every ani I’d watched during late-night coding sessions. Every ga I’d played to decompress after brutal workdays. Every movie fight scene I’d analyzed while my brain was too fried for actual thinking.

mories of fluid movents, impossible techniques, combat philosophies that had no right to work in reality.

But maybe—just maybe—I could adapt so of them.

I took my stance and started moving.

First, the basics I’d been practicing, overhead strike, diagonal slash, horizontal sweep. Let my muscles warm up, get the fundantals flowing.

Then I started experinting.

There was a technique from that one ani, the protagonist’s fighting style that emphasized speed and unpredictable angles. I tried to mimic the footwork, the way he’d pivot and strike from unexpected directions.

My first attempt was clumsy, my feet tangling. I stumbled and caught myself against the bedpost.

Again.

I reset and tried once more, adjusting the angle, shortening the pivot.

Still rough.

I moved through different mories, practice sword cut through empty air.

Again. Faster.

My breathing grew heavier. Sweat started to bead on my forehead.

I dropped into a crouch and surged upward, sword following the motion.

Lost my balance. Fell backward onto my ass.

"Shit."

I pushed myself up and tried again.

And again.

And again.

Hours bled together. The moon rose outside my window, casting pale light across the room.

My muscles scread. My lungs burned. Sweat soaked through my tunic.

I kept going.

The moon tracked across the sky. Midnight passed.

My practice sword felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Every movent was agony.

But I kept going.

One more technique. One more attempt. One more...

But—

My legs gave out.

I collapsed against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, practice sword clattering beside .

My breath ca in ragged gasps, vision swam, body shook with exhaustion.

The first grey light of pre-dawn filtered through my window.

I’d trained all night.

And I was still pathetic.

"Not enough," I whispered to the empty room. "I’m still pathetic."

...

"Well, in physical stats, anyway."

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

My brain could carry so far. Could use my system abilities for minor reality editing.

But when it ca to actually fighting? Actually competing in physical trials?

I was fucked.

-----

Two weeks of brutal, relentless training that left exhausted every night and aching every morning.

But I kept going.

The training yard was empty at this hour, the sun still below the horizon, the sky painted in deep purples and blues. Just , the practice dummies, and the rhythmic sound of wood against straw.

Sweat dripped down my face despite the cool morning air. My tunic clung to my back, soaked through from an hour of continuous practice.

Overhead strike. Diagonal slash. Horizontal sweep. Reset. Again.

My movents had improved. Not dramatically, I wasn’t suddenly a master swordsman. But the fundantals were cleaner now, more efficient. Less wasted motion.

I was breathing hard, muscles burning, when—

[Ding!]

A notification appeared.

[Combat Analysis Complete]

[Host has demonstrated sufficient repetition and understanding of basic sword techniques]

[Generating optimized combat frawork...]

I froze mid-strike, my sword held at an awkward angle.

"What?"

[Combining observed techniques with Host’s physical capabilities...]

[Processing...]

[New Skill Unlocked: Adaptive Blade Style (Basic)]

Knowledge flooded into my mind, not like reading instructions, but like muscle mory being directly uploaded. I could feel how the technique was supposed to work, where to position my blade, how to shift my weight, the timing required.

A new window expanded before , detailed information scrolling past.

[Adaptive Blade Style (Basic)]

[Type: Sword Combat Technique]

[Origin: System-generated from Host’s training and knowledge]

[Description:]

A foundational sword style that focuses on adaptability over raw power. Designed specifically for users with high INT/WIS but lower physical stats. Focuses on efficient movent, timing, and exploiting openings rather than overwhelming force.

[Current Proficiency: Beginner (1%)]

[Note: This style will evolve as Host’s understanding deepens. Additional techniques unlock with practice and combat experience.]