―Roar.
The thunderous sound coming from behind. A noise so distant it was barely audible. Without knowing how or why the sound had occurred, Aslan gripped his sword.
Clang!
An incoming attack. Parrying with Purity, he deflected it, only to be met with another surge. The sight of blades descending felt like a rain of fangs.
Clang, Clang!
The separated sword’s sheath encased the white serrated blade, now blackened as it drew arcs in the air. Exerting every ounce of strength, Aslan barely managed to block all the attacks.
Zing!
Sword edges targeting his neck repeatedly. Though he could parry the shark-toothed blades, further defense was beyond Aslan’s ability.
There was no room for counterattack.
It was purely due to the distance.
After countless clashes of white and black light, Aslan stood drenched in cold sweat.
“Excellent. So much so that I feel like paying tribute.”
The calm voice did not belong to Aslan but to a woman. Her tone was low for a woman, yet distinctly feminine.
The owner of this voice stood over four meters away from Aslan.
The Executioner, wielding a two-meter-long greatsword as if it were a one-handed blade.
She harmonized her innate and cultivated skills with her weapon, maintaining a wide, precise, and powerful killing radius—four meters in all directions. No matter what Aslan tried, he couldn’t close the gap for a counterattack. He clicked his tongue and suddenly leaned to the side.
An arrow flew toward him from behind.
Seeing the arrow, the Executioner casually glanced at it.
Screech, Clang!
With a swift downward strike, she blocked even an arrow of considerable length. The arrow seemed to have been bitten off by the sword tip.
Wooden splinters and metal fragments scattered from where the sword had struck. Dust rose into the air.
Using this moment to obscure her vision, Aslan saw his chance and prepared to charge—
But then,
Crash!
The Executioner’s attack tore through the ground just before him, halting his movement.
Despite having only one hand, her sword was unnaturally agile. Thus, any counterattacks would likely be easily deflected.
Aslan prepared to charge again but glanced behind the Executioner and threw a feather, trying to draw her attention.
“Hrrraa!”
A girl’s shout echoed along with the sound of daggers, and rocks began flying. From the dirt-covered rock just pulled out of the ground, the Executioner briefly turned her head and spun her body.
As the dark light swiftly traced a circle, the rock and feathers shattered and scattered. Between the falling rubble, Lumel pressed forward.
Having dealt with the male warriors and joined the fray, Lumel thrust his spear. The Executioner tilted her head to avoid the thrust.
Quickly sweeping her gaze over the dodging trajectory, Lumel grabbed the spear’s haft and unleashed a flurry of strikes. Each thrust within a single breath formed a perfect continuous assault, but—
None of them connected. Tilting her head to evade, when Lumel’s spear almost caught up to her, she shifted her weight and swung her sword.
Dodging by bending his waist, Lumel attempted to counterattack, but—
Clang!
“Ugh…!”
The sword strike pressing down on the spear forced Lumel to grit his teeth, clench his jaw, and fall to one knee.
The Executioner’s specialty wasn’t swift slashes—it was overpowering pressure.
Holding the saw-like blade against the spear shaft, the three-meter-tall warrior monk seemed intent on crushing Lumel. If things continued like this, his body would be shredded into six pieces. Just as Lumel struggled to push back the blade threatening to split his head open—
He saw Phey slipping beneath the spear shaft and widened his eyes.
“Yup.”
Phey ran like the wind, crossing swords beneath the spear. Pushing away the crossed dual blades, the elven girl swung them, causing both the saw blade and the spear to fly off sharply.
The elven girl leaped back into the shadows and called out.
“Eri!”
“Yeah, I know, Yo!”
Aiming for the opportunity created by the recoiling saw-like blade, Ereta charged this time. Swinging her axes wildly in both hands, she approached. As the Executioner prepared to swing her sword—
Clang!
Aslan intercepted.
By striking the saw blade with purity, Aslan suppressed it, allowing Ereta to lift and slash her wildly swinging axes.
A precise overhead strike aimed directly at the head. The Executioner blocked it with the hilt of her sword.
At the moment sparks flew from the sword hilt, the Executioner twisted her blade, freeing it from under the suppression of purity and swung it fiercely.
The sound of tearing wind. The harmonization of white and black light. Weaving between these sounds, Ereta either pushed down the sword with her axes or deflected attacks aimed at Aslan.
Like a perfectly choreographed dance, the two veterans moved intricately, yet despite appearances, it wasn’t clear who would triumph.
When Ereta pressed down the blade, the Executioner twisted it free and delivered a low sweeping strike.
If countered with purity and an attempt made to retaliate, she would extend a vicious kick, forcing evasion.
While retreating to dodge, she would press downward with her blade, and if interrupted by Lumel’s spear thrust, she would step back without hesitation, turning her sword toward Phey aiming for her neck.
Once Phey’s ambush was neutralized, there was only one thing left.
Blocking arrows and rocks, deflecting them, and breaking them apart, the Executioner remained steadfast.
This was how the situation continued.
Even though nearly all the veterans had gathered on this small patch of land, they couldn’t capture the Executioner.
At first glance, it might seem pitiful, but Aslan didn’t think so.
Because it had to be this way.
There were three reasons for this.
First, the insane killing radius.
With a sword over two meters long wielded by a warrior monk towering over three meters, there was no choice but to concede range.
Her center of gravity compensated for balance, stance, and sword strikes, making it impossible to exploit any gaps.
Even Lumel, armed with the longest weapon, struggled to reach her, leaving only Tiamat capable of ranged attacks—but even that wasn’t easy.
As if aware that Tiamat’s attacks would be most effective, the Executioner kept a sharp eye on Tiamat and reacted most acutely to her.
“Tsk, you’re intimidated. You’re intimidated.”
Tiamat’s muttering proved true; none of her tricks or shots worked against the Executioner.
And the second reason was the Executioner’s skill.
Had it merely been about being highly skilled, she wouldn’t have been so difficult to handle, but she was more than just strong.
She excelled in chaotic battles. To an extraordinary degree.
Since this warrior monk didn’t appear in the game, it was impossible to know exactly who she was, but from her sword techniques, posture, and skills, Aslan could glimpse fragments of her identity.
The Executioner was likely an assassin and mercenary on the battlefield.
Mercenaries who kill high-value targets for bounty.
Even today, if you went to ‘Omul’s Pit,’ the criminal city in the Public Kingdom of Huedail in South Continent, you could find such mercenaries.
This woman appeared to be one of them.
Given her expertise in surviving chaotic battles and assassinating targets, it made sense that she excelled in such combat.
With her remarkable physical prowess and weapon fully utilized, it was natural that there was no opening to exploit.
But in Aslan’s view, the biggest cause of the current situation lay elsewhere.
Screech, Clang!
Blocking the sword strike aimed at his neck, Aslan narrowed his eyes.
The blade that refused to break despite contact with purity. The blade that pressed him back while scattering white sparks in all directions was the problem.
TRAMISOV’s Beast.
This sword, which Aslan had never heard of, was the third reason.
Clang, Screech!
Locking blades, he deflected it sideways. White sparks flew in all directions, and Aslan stepped back, clicking his tongue.
While Lumel aimed his spear, Ereta wiped sweat from her brow, Phey watched silently from atop a tree, and Angie searched for rocks to throw, Aslan kept his eyes on the Executioner’s blade.
The pristine blade without a single scratch.
Under normal circumstances, dealing with other swords would have been simple.
Just cutting through the blade or slicing through defenses would suffice, and with his allies, it shouldn’t have been difficult.
Purity could cut through anything.
However, contrary to the system window’s explanation that it could cut anything, this blade resisted being cut.
It merely scattered white sparks in all directions.
Though Aslan couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason, he could make an educated guess.
Judging by the white glow when the blade was drawn, it was likely forged from white steel.
Considering that white steel originated from the bodies of ancient deities and that purity was the power bestowed by those same deities…
It seemed reasonable that purity couldn’t cut through the remains of ancient deities.
Whether it was the material of the blade or a unique property embedded in it, pondering such details was unnecessary since the phenomenon wouldn’t change.
In front of him, the situation remained the same.
There were only two ways to turn the tide.
One was Aslan’s inevitable sacrifice—his arm, leg, or torso—to create an opportunity for reversal.
The other was bringing in a joker card that could flip the situation.
And in Aslan’s view, the only way to reverse the situation without sacrifice was one.
A fighting technique capable of completely blocking the blade and the skill embedded within it.
Skills comparable to the divine techniques obtained from the War and Knowledge Deity’s ascension trials.
I’taar’s Adaptation.
Recalling this, Aslan extended his hand backward, gripping the purity coiled around it while stepping forward with his living technique.
He had to take a gamble on some possibility.
The possibility that I’taar would join the final battle despite the poison or that Richard would master his teacher’s technique in time.
Aslan opened the system window and counted the spells remaining in his tattoos.
[Stored Spells: Equalization, Flame Wave, Darkness Fog, Acceleration, Silence]
He possessed only one Equalization spell after the battle with Ash, meaning these were all the spells he had.
Would he use himself as bait, or wait?
Aslan clenched and released his sword hand, exhaling his heated breath.
“Huff…!”
Clang!
He blocked the saw-like blade aimed at his head with purity. Amidst the swirling white sparks, his eyes met the Executioner’s single red eye.
A crimson pupil burning with a lustful emotion.
Looking into that eye, Aslan smirked.
No matter which path he chose, Aslan planned for victory.
An absolute victory he wouldn’t let slip.
Thus, the remaining task was to make that victory as perfect as possible.
Leaning forward and charging, Aslan shouted as the Executioner’s azure saw blade swung violently.
Receiving the blow, Aslan cried out.
“Everyone, don’t die! Let’s win this alive!”
Responding to Aslan’s words, the veterans raised their weapons as the Executioner’s dark light chaotically rotated amidst the clash.
