Evolving My Undead Legion In A Game-Like World

Chapter 301 Verren

Grand Knight Verren.

Michael wasnʼt sure what to make of the man.

Powerful? Absolutely.

But welcoming? Not in the slightest.

Michael honestly couldnʼt tell who had the colder expression—Verren or a block of ice.

The man was too cold.

The first time Michael saw the old knight was when he volunteered to stay behind with the two hundred knights. The reason was simple.

All this preparation—they had to lead somewhere.

The Land of Origin was meant to be a place where one grew stronger, and Michael, who believed he should be strong enough to personally handle the monster, saw it as a golden opportunity.

An experience pack, in his own words.

He had to be the one to kill that monster. So, with the Princessʼs permission—though he hadnʼt really needed it—he stayed behind.

That was also when he first laid eyes on Verren.

This man.

If he wasnʼt swinging his sword, he was practicing his breathing technique. There was no in-between. Ironically, for someone of his status, he despised crowds and preferred solitude. A lone wolf, really.

Which was why Michael found it odd—downright strange—that this lone wolf had bothered to seek him out today.

”You practice the way of the spear?”

The tone was strange. So were the words.

But Michael understood soon enough as he glanced down at the spear in his hand.

It had been three days since the kingdomʼs forces departed. After watching Verren train daily with unwavering intensity, Michael—who hadnʼt had the chance to spar or grind with his undead humans—felt the itch returning. Restlessness clawed at him.

What he hadnʼt expected was for the old man to seek him out.

Cautiously, Michael answered, ”Yes. I use the spear.”

”Fight me.”

”…Huh?”

The challenge came out of nowhere. But before Michael could respond properly, Verren had already drawn his sword and struck.

The swing wasnʼt fast—just average human speed.

Michael was confused, but his body reacted on instinct, matching the speed and power exactly.

Their weapons clashed with a dull thud.

Michael took a step back, adjusting his grip. The strike hadnʼt been dangerous, but it hadnʼt been careless either.

Another swing came, and again, Michael parried. Then another.

It was strange. Verren wasnʼt using his true speed. He wasnʼt using his aura. No mana. Just pure technique—deliberate, measured, almost slow.

But within ten exchanges, Michael found himself being pushed back.

By twenty, he was struggling to keep up.

And by thirty, Verren had disarmed him.

Michaelʼs spear was on the ground, his fingers numb from the final strike.

He stared in disbelief. That shouldnʼt have happened. Not at that speed. Not when the old man was holding back so much.

Verren didnʼt speak at first. He simply stood there, sword lowered at his side, eyes fixed on Michael with that ever-frosted gaze.

Then he frowned.

”A spear user who doesnʼt know how to control his distance.”

His voice was flat, almost annoyed.

”Sloppy. Wasteful.”

Michael stiffened.

He didnʼt speak. But those words dug in.

Thanks to Spartan and the others who had served as grindstones for him, Michaelʼs {Spearmanship} was less than 30% away from Advanced Mastery.

This made his close-quarters combat with a weapon especially strong.

However, it also made him painfully aware of his shortcomings.

He knew how to wield a spear—but not how to truly use it.

It was like having strength, but not knowing how to apply it effectively.

For those who could, even against a stronger opponent, victory was possible through pure skill and precision.

That was the difference—and Michael knew it.

Still, a part of him didnʼt appreciate Verrenʼs words, especially not after such a blunt and dismissive approach.

With a sharp motion, Michael grabbed his spear from the ground and struck at Verren, channeling the full weight of his skill into the attack.

Verren parried with ease.

Not just ease—grace. His sword met Michaelʼs spear with a lazy flick, redirecting the thrust like a branch brushing off falling leaves.

Michaelʼs momentum collapsed, his balance staggered, and Verren stepped in, the flat of his blade tapping Michaelʼs chest.

Michael gritted his teeth and attacked once more, this time more cautious, more calculated. A feint, a twist, a low sweep—

Parried. Deflected. Countered.

Each clash rang with the sound of metal, but none favored Michael.

The power was equal. They both suppressed their strength to a standard level—but technique? Technique was another matter.

Verrenʼs every movement was efficient, his every motion minimal but purposeful.

In contrast, Michael realized how much excess movement he used, how many unnecessary steps filled his footwork, how often he left himself open in the milliseconds between attacks.

Why?

They were using the same level of force. The same restrictions.

But he couldnʼt overpower him. Couldnʼt even touch him.

Is his swordsmanship… that much better?

He knew Verren was strong, but this was something else.

This wasnʼt just a difference in technique.

This was understanding.

A mastery of the blade so refined that even when holding back, it felt like he was fighting uphill.

The thought suddenly hit him.

Is he at Advanced Mastery?

No…

Michaelʼs eyes widened slightly as the possibility formed.

It would explain the distance control. The flawless transitions. The oppressive rhythm.

More than that—it would explain the feeling.

There were moments during the exchange where Verren didnʼt even need to move.

Where Michael felt his intent from meters away.

A faint pressure that made him hesitate before a strike.

Verren suddenly came to a pause, and Michael followed.

”Youʼre obviously at Great Achievement in your Spearmanship, but why is it so unrefined?”

Great Achievement? Is that what they call intermediate mastery here?

A brief look of confusion flickered across Michaelʼs face—but Verren caught it.

”Donʼt tell me you donʼt even know the level of your skill?”

Michael didnʼt reply.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—Verren seemed to have entered a teaching mood.

”Entry, Small Success, Great Achievement, Perfect, and Transformation,” he listed plainly.

”Among these five stages, youʼre in the third one.”

He spoke as if stating the most obvious fact in the world.

Unfortunately, what was obvious to him wasnʼt so obvious to Michael.

”For spells, advancing in stage usually just means gaining more control. But for weapon users, each stage is a transformation. Eventually, the realm itself becomes irrelevant.”

”Entry is when youʼre just finding your way around the weapon—learning, fumbling, discovering what works,” Verren continued, stepping back with his sword now resting against his shoulder.

”Small Success is when your movements start to take shape. When what youʼve learned becomes usable in real combat. You stop swinging blindly and start fighting with intent.”

Michaelʼs eyes narrowed in thought.

That sounds like what I always considered basic mastery.

Basic, Intermediate, Advanced, Perfect.

So Great Achievement... is intermediate here?

”Great Achievement,” Verren continued, ”is when your weapon no longer controls you. Your strikes are deliberate. You move with awareness, precision. You start to understand your weapon—not just wield it.”

That was where Michael was now. Or, at least, should be.

”Perfect,” Verren said, ”is when instinct and intention merge. Every move is efficient, no hesitation. The spear becomes an extension of thought. Your body follows without conscious effort.”

”And Transformation?” Michael asked, voice quiet.

”That,” Verrenʼs gaze sharpened, ”is when the weapon ceases to be just a weapon. It becomes a truth. A concept. At that stage, even those in higher realms will hesitate to face you. Because skill surpasses power.”

”Of course, itʼs better to have the realm. Ultimate power is still a thing.”

”Youʼre strong. But strength without refinement is just wasted potential. Next time—fight me properly. With your spear, not your ego.”

Michael swallowed.

Yet a part of him still harbored doubt.

Are weapons really that powerful?

It seemed Verren caught onto the thought. His expression darkened further, disappointment flickering in his eyes.

”I suppose this is what you get from a mage,” he said flatly. ”I thought youʼd be more interesting.”

But he wasnʼt done.

He took a step forward, sword still at his side, eyes sharp.

”Watch closely.”

”This—” he raised the blade, and suddenly, the air around him shifted. The world seemed to still, as if holding its breath.

”—is the Perfect Stage. When thought, intent, and weapon become one.”

A faint shimmer of energy gathered around the blade. It wasnʼt mana.

It was something else entirely.

”Sword Qi,” he said, though he held a sword.

The air split with a whisper as the pressure rose, sharp and focused. Invisible, but undeniable.

Michaelʼs eyes widened.

He felt it.

Not just saw—but felt—the presence of the blade, the intent behind it, as if it could cut him without ever touching skin.

Then it happened.

The ground split.

A thin, perfectly straight line carved itself into the earth beneath them—extending outwards from Verrenʼs blade, trailing a few meters before stopping.

It wasnʼt deep. But that wasnʼt the point.

It was clean.

It was sharp.

Michael stared at the cut, a chill creeping up his spine. That had been Sword Qi?

He gulped once more.