Chapter 140

When assuming a stance, be like rock and tree. When flowing with motion, be like water and wind. Penetrate like the flames consuming firewood, and freeze like the cold that chills lakes and rivers.

Back when I first heard this stuff about stances and whatnot from that kid, I thought it was all just nonsense.

But upon further reflection, there were parts worth considering, though not much.

Still, one thing was clear.

What that kid learned and what I learned share the same essence but differ wildly in process—like the sky, sea, earth, and mountains with their deep and twisting paths.

Earth and sky might seem one if you don’t distinguish them, but they are never truly the same.

Everything rising on the continent may share the commonality of being part of the continent, but…

It’s impossible to define every living thing on it as a single entity.

So, if we place what that kid and I learned on the same level…

…it only boils down to one point: that it originated from Grandeous.

That’s the only common factor.

When clashing swords, you control every ounce of strength so none goes to waste, even governing inertia and recoil.

If even a fraction of power shifts, or your body tilts, or your center wavers, the result is obvious as daylight.

“Tch!”

Fighting normally won’t establish any kind of fair fight.

Even if he shows his true abilities, it’s no different.

Then what am I supposed to do?

Well, use abnormal strength too.

Crushing him with brute force or wearing him down through attrition doesn’t make sense anymore.

Besides, he isn’t the clumsy kid he used to be.

Without needing Elbat, just wielding his sword, he demonstrates skills far surpassing what he showed before.

If the old version of him was incomplete, now he’s at least close to perfect.

Clang!

As our swords meet, he slips out while I counter-slip and deflect. The process flows swiftly yet heavily, but…

Aside from the initial clash, the shockwaves traveling through the blade and handle, striking my wrist and jolting my whole body, haven’t been felt yet.

Still, it’s tough to prepare for such impacts by merely swinging hard or striking fiercely since we have techniques where, despite appearing to clash swords, we actually deliver physical blows akin to hammering armor directly into flesh.

But doing that unnecessarily is inefficient because there are plenty of ways to incapacitate without resorting to that.

Like disarming him, knocking him down, or striking vital points.

Or simply guiding him to fall on his own.

Mana technology has rendered ordinary armor and defenses obsolete, but advancements in mana formations and structures have continuously improved heavy combat techniques and tactics.

At first, barbarians saw armor as proof of weakness, but over time, knights became the embodiment of everything.

In heavy armor, normal offenses barely faze you, blocking stray arrows and spears effectively.

In knight-to-knight battles, offensive emphasis decreases while defense is bolstered entirely, focusing instead on sustaining combat endurance.

Nowadays, the density and capacity of mana infused into swords signifies real combat power.

When applied to regular troops, such skill becomes tactical weaponry.

Thus, suppressing or countering that defines modern warfare.

Otherwise, magic does the job.

Or war machines.

In an age where neither technical knowledge nor talent exists among civilians, defeating those warriors is practically impossible.

The reason rebellions and riots have decreased exponentially is due to this.

Then, are nobles noble because of their inherent superiority?

No.

They hold power.

And they pass that power down through generations, guarding privileges, rights, and profits while greedily ensuring their authority endures.

And those who pledge loyalty to them, like hunting dogs or guard dogs, cling desperately for scraps.

Everywhere, they swarm like flies, flattering shamelessly, bowing, praising, and extolling virtues just to secure some meager rewards.

Even competing fiercely for those crumbs.

Yet, they live precariously, always risking death, injury, or ruin at their master’s whims—a pitiful existence.

Even those few who rise from humble beginnings still follow these procedures in an unfair world.

“Do you have time to fool around?”

As our swords intertwine, Carriel’s shoulder slams into his chest.

“Gah!”

Being able to talk in such situations implies limitless composure.

In myths and fairy tales, fighters exchange dialogue mid-battle, right?

Getting hit during that would be lucky.

Talking is action too.

Opening your mouth and moving your tongue counts as movement, doesn’t it?

Convert that into bodily movement, shifting weight, positioning yourself for attack, defense, or advantageous placement…

Isn’t that far more efficient?

Idiots who lack awareness of such vulnerabilities would call this nonsense…

‘So what?!’

We aren’t those idiots!

So resist internally, question, refute, and guide your body accordingly.

Pull back your sword smoothly, shift directions with your legs to avoid entanglement.

Swinging solely with shoulder and waist muscles creates immense strain affecting subsequent actions.

Instead, adjust your shoulder tension, using relatively free lower body movements to transition and reposition.

Simultaneously achieving this amidst offense and defense prevents surprises.

This must be executed based on well-practiced instincts.

Using legs as levers can certainly amplify power, but it delays response times.

The more power you load, the more it skews balance.

Unless that guarantees finishing the opponent…

What then?

You’re exposing fatal openings unless you’re willingly sacrificing flesh for bone or intentionally creating gaps for strategic purposes.

Otherwise, it’s just stupid.

Try that in ranged combat, not close quarters.

Shooting arrows leaves no room for adjustments after release, so if you want to fight like that, grab a bow or mace and focus on ranged magic or projectiles.

But in melee combat, everything must be controlled.

Not because opponents can’t handle it, but because when you face someone capable, you’ll die or lose.

Losing is fine; dying is better, but becoming disabled?

Captured, tortured, enslaved, sold off? Executed?

Defeat is worse than death.

To avoid mistakes, control every bit of strength and ability thoroughly without exception.

Beginners falter because they can’t manage their own power.

Regardless of strength, don’t let the weapon’s weight control you.

Otherwise, what’s the difference between you and a weapon controlling you?

‘Unless it kills the enemy, who cares?’

That’s pure luck.

A fleeting moment.

But expecting that against this guy is impossible.

He’s not someone you can topple with dumb luck.

“Don’t plan on winning with swordsmanship.”

Without seeking answers, he asks unilaterally.

Carriel strings together motions suitable for human-scale combat, relentlessly pressuring Venus.

Para, Grate, Fortes, Bettyta.

Though there’s no direct attacking or thrusting, the continuous crossing and transitioning of swordplay forms a terrifying chain.

Somehow, Venus manages to disengage, likely from extensive experience.

But it’s not over.

There’s no end.

Why would there be an end when the opponent hasn’t fallen or surrendered?

Approaching step by step, Carriel sticks close, leaving no room for evasion.

Dodging an elbow grazing his solar plexus narrowly, Venus quickly switches hands on the sword only to have Carriel grab his wrist with the freed hand.

Barely shaking loose and trying to retreat, Venus trips up, disrupting his motion.

‘Damn.’

Connecting half-steps seamlessly, Carriel presses forward as Venus stumbles, planting his left knee behind Venus’ front leg.

Simultaneously transitioning his left-hand sword to a waist-level position ready to stab.

With that alone, Venus’ right hand, sword, and guard are completely tangled.

While using legs to trip the lower body, Carriel paradoxically supports Venus’ upper body with his sword.

This fully transfers control to Carriel.

At that instant, Carriel flicks Venus’ trapped sword, causing him to stumble again before regaining balance.

Rapidly manipulating Venus’ weight distribution with hands and feet, throwing him off balance.

Venus is now effectively defenseless on one side.

“Gah!”

Still…

Squeezing muscles and joints on the left side…

Forces himself to regain temporary control of his entire body posture.

Forcing his destabilizing body low, lifting the right foot caught underfoot high like a horse kicking backward…

Pulling his flung-out right hand with the sword forcefully inward…

And strikes downward.

Creeeeak!

As the sword edges collide, they emit a deep metallic howl like a beast crying.

Teeth bared, locked together, each trying to slice and pierce the other’s blade with sheer effort, the swords scream again.

“This isn’t decisive.”

Indeed.

Had Carriel unleashed a full assault here, it would’ve ended.

Knowing that, Venus wouldn’t rationalize or argue as usual.

His pathetic pride wouldn’t allow it.

There’s no deceiving oneself about this.

Both Venus and Carriel know it.

Neither Carriel nor Venus are the types to adhere to pointless beliefs or pride tied to being knights or warriors.

Still, some connection remains.

Is it the fate of swordsmen?

Or simply ignorance beyond struggle and conflict?

Madmen fighting against a goddamn frustrating world, desperate to land a blow.

Yeah, maybe that’s why.

If they weren’t mad, they wouldn’t fight like this in the first place.

Look around.

How many lunatics exist who fight like this, sweat blood, embrace what others hate and despise, and walk such paths?

‘Nature?’

Was there ever such a nature?

Still, perhaps it can’t be denied.

‘I…’

Was born to fight.

If not…

How am I supposed to quell this anger?

I want to burn everything in this world to ashes.

If burning isn’t possible, destroy it. If destruction isn’t possible, break it somehow.

I just wanted to turn this world into something slightly more normal.

But is that really right?

Maybe the world’s corruption is natural?

I couldn’t accept that.

I… I…

“…”

And…

Carriel saw.

His eyes turning crimson, whites tinged red, pupils deepening to bloody hues.

Trying to push him back with a sword swing fails—his physical capabilities have transcended limits.

Factually, even ten strong men grappling wouldn’t match his current strength.

‘Limits…’

It’s said the human brain restricts physical abilities to prevent self-destruction.

Reconstructing his body, Carriel reached this understanding of limits, even without Aiseus’ guidance.

Her method forces unused bodily functions, damaging in normal use.

Controlled during regular usage, excessive use leaves the body wrecked afterward.

Still, Venus, having learned this method from Aiseus, was likely born with abnormal physical abilities.

His very bones exceed ordinary standards.

Instincts come naturally, differing greatly from the norm.

Training digests abnormally.

Mentality is ruthless, spirit unwavering.

Such individuals inevitably become powerful.

And simultaneously cannot live normally.

‘Depending on perspective, it’s a blessing…’

Otherwise, endlessly unfortunate.

Still…

It’s not Carriel’s problem to care about that.

Though empathetic and understanding others comes naturally to him…

That doesn’t mean he indulges in leniency or sentimentality.

Rather, Carriel considers himself extremely detached.

Though that conclusion is highly subjective.

“Is that all?”

Understanding someone means easily granting what they desire most.

And what he seeks now is…

Endless struggle.

Not for victory, but questioning and answering the life he’s walked and will continue walking.

Testing whether he breaks or bends.

Whether broken or bent…

There will be no satisfaction, no fruition.

Rather, this is a dive, a burning of oneself.

Guaranteeing death to seek answers.

Beliefs and desires.

Has his long-held hope been correct?

Wrong, misguided, corrupted, askew, twisted, fallen, plummeted?

Though smart, his lifelong methods leave him incapable of imagining alternatives.

Metal can become anything before refining—weapons, armor, tools—but once forged as a sword…

Unless melted down to its origin…

It will remain a crude sword until death.

“Just loosening up? Why? Did you find it tough?”

Taking two steps back, Venus adjusts his stance, scoffing at Carriel’s comment.

“…Then it’s settled.”

Carriel calmly readjusts his stance.

As his sword turns pitch black, Venus smirks, covering his blade in fiery crimson flames.

“Angels, devils, gods, demon gods—none matter. Just don’t grab my ankle!”

I’d gladly offer them my liver, gallbladder, heart, brain, soul—everything!

If obtaining the desired power requires it.

“…Right. That makes sense. Since you’re going all out, it’d be abnormal if I didn’t feel desperate too. That was the abnormality.”

“…Too many words.”

“Yeah. This feels right.”

The kid approaches.

With crimson eyes and blazing blood-red flames.

“If you go easy or dodge, expect to lose.”

“…Won’t happen.”

Carriel slowly shakes his head.

“I’m not that cunning.”

Unlike you.

Pitch blackness and fiery red.

Their trajectories intersect in contrasting lines.

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