Lawford had a talent for observing battles with a broad perspective, as if looking down from above, a skill he had honed through his calculated fighting style.
From the very start of the battle, he had been analyzing the enemy through this wide perspective.
He had already noticed gaps in the formation of the crusaders, but he lacked the strength to exploit them.
Now, however, he had a blade that could fill in his deficiencies.
Lawford began calculating several factors.
Pel’s explosive strikes, the elements needed to exploit those gaps, strength and speed, and the available time for each motion.
Once he had accounted for everything, he suddenly darted to the side, shouting something that seemed impulsive and reckless.
“I’ll kill you for sure!”
It looked like he was charging at the goateed crusader, driven purely by impulse.
This apparent recklessness created an opening in Lawford’s defense, and the enemy launched an attack.
Bang! Clang! Slash!
Lawford blocked the curved incoming blade with the flat of his sword and twisted his body to avoid a spiked club.
Though he narrowly dodged, the spikes on the club tore a small piece of his cloak.
This was the moment he had been waiting for.
Lawford threw the torn piece of cloak into the eyes of a crusader.
The goateed crusader was not his real target.
His target was a Junior-Knight-level crusader who had been looking for openings to deliver fatal thrusts.
“You!”
As he shouted at the goateed crusader, Lawford gathered his Will and let out a yell akin to a battle cry.
It was a show of force, but its purpose was more psychological than practical.
The combination of the thrown cloak fragment and the sudden shout made his intentions appear clear.
It looked as though he was fully intent on attacking the goateed crusader.
All of this happened in the span of a single breath.
Junior-Knights naturally had heightened senses beyond sight, so a momentary visual block wasn’t devastating.
But the difference between seeing and not seeing was still significant.
The Junior-Knight sensed the rising momentum from Lawford and instinctively focused on it, readying his weapon in response.
Externally, it looked like he had only slightly adjusted the angle of his arms and legs, but internally, he had already started preparing his next move.
That momentary distraction created a sliver of opportunity.
Right before Lawford shouted and feigned his attack at the goateed crusader, he internally muttered to himself, ‘Now.’
It was as if Pel could read Lawford’s thoughts, as he moved in that exact moment.
Pel captured the fleeting opportunity Lawford had created with his keen instincts.
In battle, decisions and actions occur in an instant.
Pel focused entirely on this crucial moment.
“You’ve got a good stance for finding openings, but what will you do if none exist? You need to learn how to calculate your fights better.”
This was advice he had once received from Encrid.
It had been the most valuable lesson for Pel, even if the next part of Encrid’s comment had stuck with him more.
“But do whatever you want. No one’s stopping you, are they?”
To be honest, Pel liked the second part far more than the first.
The first part was straightforward and easier to follow, but Pel had no desire to tread the obvious path.
Pel didn’t struggle to find openings.
“No openings? Then I’ll create them myself.”
Everyone has their own path, and Pel’s was no different.
Encrid had respected that.
And now, Pel demonstrated what he had gained along that path.
He crouched low and lunged forward with his left foot, keeping his stance low to the ground.
In this position, Pel slashed upward with his sword.
He twisted and compressed all the muscles in his body, generating explosive power, which he enhanced further with his willpower.
“You won’t dodge this.”
Pel locked his opponent in place within his mind’s eye, directing his willpower to amplify his speed.
A resolute focus translated into strength in his slash.
Willpower was an intangible force, built upon the foundation of one’s determination.
Pel’s slash from below created a silver curtain that seemed to rise like a burst of water from an underground spring.
Slash! Thud!
Pel’s sword slashed through the crusader from groin to jaw.
The severed jaw revealed a tongue split vertically in half.
The swiftness of the strike left a visible wound on the crusader before the blood could even spill.
If the crusader had not been distracted by Lawford’s feint, he might have blocked or at least survived the fatal blow.
But that was all hindsight now.
Once dead, it didn’t matter how it happened.
Pel, his energy spent, retreated at less than a quarter of his charging speed.
Splash!
Only then did blood pour from the crusader’s split body.
Several other crusaders reflexively swung their weapons at Pel.
A mace with a spiked iron ball descended toward Pel’s head.
Clang!
Lawford blocked it.
Incoming swords, maces, hammers, and spears were all deflected or avoided by Lawford.
His leather pauldrons were torn, and parts of his chainmail were damaged.
He had sustained minor wounds and was bleeding slightly from his arms, but none of the injuries were life-threatening.
Lawford had bought four and a half breaths of time.
During this interval, Pel regulated his breathing and recovered.
“I’m going in again.”
Lawford said without looking back, his body still heated from the exhilaration of the fight.
Pel felt the same way. Instead of replying, he tapped Lawford’s back.
Despite their mutual animosity, the two shared the bond of comradeship under Encrid’s tutelage.
In moments like this, it was only natural for them to fight together.
With a single strike, they silenced the jeering crusaders.
“You crazy bastards.”
Only one, who seemed to be their leader, managed to mutter an insult.
From his perspective, if their earlier exchange had gone slightly differently, the first attacker would have died.
Sure, it was an impressive strike, but it was also reckless enough to risk immediate death if it failed.
For someone used to group tactics, such behavior was incomprehensible.
Ordinarily, fighters reserve some strength for defense in case of the unexpected.
Who fights like this? It was insanity beyond audacity.
The leader could only feel disbelief.
“Form a wheel formation!”
He ordered.
Pel focused on regaining his breath. Lawford began calculating again.
The two aligned their strength for a brief moment.
Victory wasn’t instantaneous, but the tide began to turn.
Meanwhile, the Gray Holy Army faced off against Encrid.
A cold wind blew between the two groups, cutting across the battlefield.
If the wind had a consciousness, it would have been transfixed, watching them intently.
Just before Lawford, Pel, and Teresa each held their positions, Encrid had exchanged words with the enemy, leaving one of the adversaries, Muel, visibly flustered.
* * *
“It seems prosperity has settled in your belly and chin.”
Encrid’s first words upon descending the slope were cutting.
“…What?”
Muel, a central figure of the temple’s power and one of the Seven Apostles of Prosperity, had never heard such an insult before.
Not in the past decade.
Even as the priests and crusaders under his command grew coarser in speech, Muel himself had refrained from such behavior.
Who dared to speak to him this way?
“You’re a bit fat.”
Encrid reiterated.
The straightforward insult could have been ignored, but the tone of the speaker made it particularly irksome.
Perhaps it was natural for Muel to feel this way since it came from someone who had been irritating him since earlier.
To make matters worse, nearby individuals in fur coats and armed with oversized swords chuckled along.
“An ugly heart breeds ugly fat.”
Frog added, further provoking Muel.
“Perhaps it would be better if your heart grew prosperous first, brother.”
Another giant bear-like figure chimed in, adding to Muel’s growing irritation.
Muel had never been known for his patience.
At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to bash their heads in with his flail.
And he saw no reason to endure such insolence.
“Well then, there’s no point in talking. Those possessed by evil spirits need only be crushed with a mace.”
Muel declared, labeling them as demonic and corrupted.
But none of them seemed to care.
“Who wants to keep them out entirely?”
Encrid asked.
Without speaking, Ragna stepped forward, walking five paces to the left of the group.
“That’s the left side, not the front.”
Rem pointed out.
“…What?”
Ragna stopped and turned, questioning Rem with a puzzled expression.
“Can’t you tell the difference between left and front, you barbarian?”
Rem, frustrated by Ragna’s obliviousness, fumed.
“Can I beat him up before we start?”
Rem asked seriously.
“No, you can’t.”
Encrid shook his head.
The lack of tension in their exchange only further irritated Muel.
“Are you just going to stand there and watch?”
Muel’s voice, dripping with anger, called out to his men.
Several individuals stepped forward from the Gray Holy Army.
Their confident strides, calculating gazes, and subtly threatening postures made them stand out immediately.
Audin commented as he observed them.
“It’s no wonder Sir Overdeer laments.”
His words prompted Encrid to silently ask what he meant.
“In the midst of a war that demands unity, the decision to splinter the forces this way must be infuriating for him.”
“Careful, you overgrown bear!”
Rem snarled, drawing his axe.
There were four Knights presumed to be crusaders, and their sheer presence pressed down on everyone.
But as Rem drew his axe, that oppressive aura shattered.
In contests of intangible force, sorcery often triumphed over willpower, and this moment seemed to validate that notion.
Rem appeared ready to face them all single-handedly, exuding an overwhelming sense of defiance.
“Save the lectures for later, brother. Don’t get cocky with just an axe.”
Audin remarked.
“Lecture, my ass.”
Rem retorted with a scoff.
Audin had promised to educate him upon his return, and Rem’s comment was a sarcastic jab at that promise.
“You all seem quite relaxed, crusaders.”
One of the Knights, nicknamed the ‘Bone-Breaking Serpent’ of the Libra God, remarked as he wrapped his wrists in cloth.
“Are you betting on your victory already?”
The same Knight, Azratic, asked again, his tone heavy with mockery.
Encrid had already heard this question before they came here.
He didn’t need to answer it again, not for them.
Encrid had already resolved his stance, both in words and in his heart.
Before them, the menacing aura of the crusaders and the looming presence of the Gray Holy Army did not shake him.
“This one is mine.”
Audin stepped forward, facing Azratic with hands clad in newly donned silver-metal gauntlets.
Others were already preparing to act, regardless of what was said.
“No one gets past this point.”
Ragna declared.
His words carried such weight and clarity that everyone, including Encrid, turned to look at him.
As Audin and Azratic locked eyes in a silent standoff, and Encrid faced a Knight wielding a polearm, Ragna calmly stepped aside, guarding the left flank.
Ragna was intrigued by what Encrid had called the ‘Iron Wall’.
Encrid had created it by focusing his willpower to project overwhelming Intimidation.
Could Ragna replicate it?
What could he do?
Should he attempt the same technique as Encrid?
That required a continuous outpouring of raw, brute willpower to maintain an unyielding presence.
It wasn’t Ragna’s preferred approach.
Not only was it beyond his capability with his current willpower, but it also lacked sophistication.
Ragna’s single statement had drawn everyone’s attention, including the enemy.
Several commanders clenched their jaws, their visible muscles tightening, as one of them gave an order.
“Fire!”
Thud, thud, thud!
Dozens of bolts flew toward Ragna at close range.
Whoosh.
Ragna swung his sword.
There were no visible preparatory movements.
To ordinary eyes, it seemed like his sword simply appeared in motion.
In reality, he had adjusted his grip, opened his stance, and angled his body before swinging.
His blade swept through the air, creating a wall of wind before the bolts could reach him.
Boom!
The sound of the wind created by his sword was thunderous, almost explosive.
That blast of wind deflected the trajectory of the incoming bolts.
It was as if his sword’s wind had become a shield.
It was an extraordinary feat, far from simple to execute.
Azratic, watching, admitted to himself that such a skill was beyond him.
“Stay down. If you rise, you’ll die.”
After deflecting the bolts with what seemed like magic, Ragna uttered these words.
He gripped his sword with both hands and twisted his shoulders and hips to the left.
The stance he displayed was unmistakably for a horizontal slash.
“I’ve warned you.”
With that, he charged forward, swinging his sword.
It wasn’t an ordinary slash.
Ragna, a genius swordsman, employed everything he had observed and learned.
This crude yet brilliant fighter used the techniques he had witnessed and adapted them into his style.
He charged from the left to the right, his speed rivaling that of a galloping horse.
His sword was like a guillotine, capable of cutting through anything.
The sweeping motion of his slash traced a long arc, a technique he had learned from Oara.
It was something Encrid had mastered, which Ragna had then observed and seamlessly integrated.
Slash! Thud! Crack! Splinter! Rumble!
The cacophony of sounds merged into a deafening roar.
The successive strikes of Oara’s technique, combined with the vibrations learned from Varna of Aspen, made the attack unstoppable.
The problem was that this was only the first strike.
As Ragna reached the right flank, he turned and charged left again, repeating the same devastating slash.
No comments yet. Be the first to leave a review!