"Don't worry. I won't let you succumb to poison. Got it? And if you’ve got something to say, then say it clearly."
Just before Ragna stepped forward, Ann handed him a few bottles of medicine from behind.
Ragna had been about to tell her that he’d already been poisoned, but decided against it.
Now wasn't the time to talk about it.
What he needed now was clear. As always, when he gripped his sword, the path forward revealed itself.
‘Poison.’
Lynox had said that Hescal had coated his engraved weapon with poison. But his Will hadn’t reacted. All that remained on his shoulder was the mark of an unexpected strike.
The blood flowing from the pierced wound was quickly washed away by the rain. Not even a trace remained.
It was partly because of the pouring rain, but also because he had tensed his muscles the moment he was stabbed, sealing the wound.
‘Body reinforcement technique. Not bad. Fanatics.’
He had picked up the method just by watching Encrid practice it. There were even a few techniques he'd learned directly from the fanatics.
"Yes, brother. That’s the way. Now let’s add more weight, shall we? More, more, more, more."
Hmm. He almost had a waking nightmare just now.
That guy really was a madman. He didn’t even ask to spar, he just smiled and kept repeating how great it was while chasing after him with iron weights.
When Ragna had tried to swing at him to drive him off, it somehow turned into a sparring match. In truth, that was practically a fight.
They’d both added a touch of seriousness and clashed.
A monster of a madman who was hard to take down in a single strike.
That was how Ragna had evaluated Audin that day. And then, he’d swung his sword.
He had learned ferocity from Encrid, but it didn’t always surface.
Still, sparring with those parasites lingering near the captain, risking half his life in the process—that was enough to get both body and mind fired up.
When you took risks, your Will would rise.
Like when a stray cat suddenly silences its steps and approaches.
Or when a barbarian suddenly picks a fight and charges at you.
Same thing.
And if nothing else, Ragna would start a fight himself just to provoke a reaction. That was how he got his stimulation when needed.
Especially when the captain wasn't around, he could throw hands in a more savage atmosphere.
One wrong move, and death would brush against your cheek. Lose focus, and the next moment, your throat would be torn out.
You had to keep stepping forward on the edge of a cliff. You had to dance through the flames. Walk barefoot on the sword’s edge.
Because if you didn’t—
“I’m the youngest.”
It was something he absolutely couldn't accept.
Ragna let his sword fall slightly and looked ahead.
“I will never be the youngest.”
His resolve glowed like a Will turned into light.
Just as Encrid's determination would shine in battle, so too did a blazing fire surge within Ragna’s heart.
Rather than be the youngest, he would face any danger. If ferocity was needed, he would bring it forth and wield it like a weapon. His fighting spirit surged like never before—he was dead serious.
Hescal shrank his sword—named Camouflage, or more plainly, Disguise—back to its original size and returned to the same stance as before.
Facing Ragna, he turned his body sideways and hid his left hand behind him. Then he stood there calmly, staring indifferently.
This show of ease was meant to instill intimidation, while forcing his opponent to focus on the changing length of the sword’s disguised form.
It clouded the mind, and the pain from wounds caused physical fatigue and granted psychological advantage.
All of it was part of his plan.
Of course, if the last strike had been enough to kill his opponent, that would’ve been ideal—but that wasn’t the case.
Hescal had landed a hit and instinctively retreated.
He attacked using the Correct Sword Technique, then transitioned into the Illusory Sword Technique. His approach hadn’t changed, and he had dealt a valid hit.
‘But his eyes…’
There was no gulping or fidgeting that betrayed tension. On the outside, Hescal remained composed.
Despite the hole in his shoulder, Ragna’s stance hadn’t changed. He hadn’t moved an inch from the position he’d taken while dodging. Other than the slight flinch when he was stabbed, he hadn’t budged.
Shhhh…
The pouring rain struck his eyelids. Medusa’s curse had no effect on him.
That’s why Hescal could still hold his head high, but Ragna wasn’t the same. He had lowered his head at an angle, and his eyes pointed down.
His gaze was hidden. When one side’s vision is obscured and the other’s isn’t, the latter naturally holds the advantage.
‘So why was it still so cold?’
Hescal felt his muscles tighten like a venomous snake coiling, tension rising stiffly throughout his body.
Why?
His instincts realized it before his mind did. Ragna hadn’t done anything, yet Hescal—who had survived countless real battles—felt a creeping dread.
It was dangerous. Threatening. A chill ran down his spine.
It meant he had sensed a real threat.
‘When was the last time I felt this?’
He couldn’t even remember.
Hescal puckered his lips and exhaled slowly. Starting from his lungs, his abs loosened, and the tension in his muscles relaxed as he feigned calmness. The long, slow breath kneaded out his taut nerves.
All the while, he scanned Ragna’s body again.
Because he gripped his sword with both hands and let his arms fall low, his left arm now crossed in front of his abdomen.
He had swung that greatsword once—but looking now, Hescal understood. Ragna hadn’t truly moved yet. That greatsword was the real threat.
It’s a two-handed sword.
No other weapons. His fighting style likely centered around putting everything into one decisive blow.
It reminded Hescal of what he had taught Riley.
‘And what I taught Riley came from the head of the house.’
Ragna had learned in his youth, too, so naturally his sword resembled the Tempest Zaun style.
‘It’s a relief I felt this danger now rather than later.’
Why ask? Of course it was.
As his mind caught up, he could start predicting what kind of techniques Ragna might use.
That raised his chances of winning. Now he understood the dread.
‘You’ve trained quite a bit, Ragna.’
Whatever strike Ragna was preparing would not be easy to withstand.
‘But Ragna…’
The rain lashed down, making Hescal squint. Wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes. He had survived as a swordsman for many long years, enduring near-death countless times to get to where he was now.
The instincts that triggered his dread came from all that experience.
The little fruit he had earned by risking his life time and time again, that would save him again today.
‘Not everyone fights fair, you know.’
And if you don’t know that, then this is where you die.
Craaaaaack!
Lightning slashed across the sky above the spell circle, leaving a long streak. The thunderclouds had blocked out the light—but lightning lit the battlefield in their place. A white flash briefly widened everyone’s vision.
Hescal waited for the afterimage left by the lightning to fade before speaking.
Until then, Ragna hadn’t moved an inch or said a single word. He stood in exactly the same stance.
“…That must’ve hurt.”
The words he spoke were, once again, aimed at shaking his opponent’s psyche.
When it comes to winning a fight, anything goes. Children trapped in the well that is ‘Zaun’ don’t understand that. Geniuses are no different.
They think you must fight head-on, win fair and square, and that’s what makes you the best.
Proper and righteous means? There’s no such thing in a real fight.
‘Ragna Zaun, do you understand this truth?’
Of course not.
To truly understand it, you need the experience of throwing yourself, desperately, against someone stronger than you. You need to break past the walls that stand before you. Sometimes, that kind of experience mattered more than talent.
The experience of shattering your own limits.
That’s the sort of thing that becomes your strength when your feet sink into the swamps of despair. It becomes the foundation for a will that will never waver, no matter what.
‘But expecting that from you would be a stretch.’
At most, the only noteworthy things were his ability to talk a little better—even if crudely—and the concentration he was showing now.
Not a single flicker of reaction to his provocation. Ragna stood there calmly.
Hescal was suddenly reminded of Encrid from the Border Guard.
Even in Hescal’s eyes, that man was no ordinary soldier. Regardless of his current strength, the path he had walked was clear from the way he moved.
Not just his scars, but his ingrained habits, the choices he made during sparring, everything reflected that journey.
‘If it were him, things might’ve gone a little differently.’
With that thought, Hescal spoke.
“Be careful.”
He thrust his sword in the exact same stance as before. Ragna reacted even faster this time.
Since moving at the same speed as before would get him stabbed by the deformed blade, it was only natural that he sped up. Hescal twisted his wrist mid-thrust.
As the sword moved forward, the blade silently extended—just as expected. It bent in midair, changing direction and stretching toward Ragna.
Even the same slash became twice as dangerous when the blade extended.
What Hescal aimed for was Ragna’s motion to swing his lowered greatsword upward.
“Use what you’ve prepared!”
The moment his blade struck Camouflage, the sword’s hidden mechanism would release, and a concealed side-blade would shoot out horizontally to slice Ragna’s neck.
He calculated the angle and estimated the force Ragna’s sword would apply. He would use his own sword to force his opponent into a corner.
And so, when he swung his sword with everything accounted for—
Slice—
Ragna’s cheek was grazed.
Instead of swinging his greatsword, Ragna had instantly leapt backward to escape the attack radius.
Then his foot slammed against the ground. His lunge forward was even faster than his retreat. The earth cracked beneath his kick with a thunderous ‘boom’.
Ragna came in, raising his foot to shatter Hescal’s knee.
Hescal may have lacked in other areas, but in terms of defensive technique, no one in Zaun surpassed him. He bent his knees to lower his center of gravity and brought down his left hand to guard his abdomen.
Clatter!
The gauntlet covering his left hand unfolded into a small shield, blocking the kick.
Clang!
At the moment of impact, Hescal leapt back slightly, dispersing the shock.
He distributed the force through his ankle, knee, and waist—and then further lessened it with a backward jump.
Ragna, having struck Hescal’s shield, pulled back his outstretched leg and slammed it down, adding the force from the previous kick.
Boom!
His foot drove into the ground up to the ankle.
From the looks of it, it was an attacking stance, but his greatsword remained still. A feint.
But Hescal wasn’t fooled. He had seen too many deceptive tactics to fall for something like that.
The twitch of muscles, the shift in momentum, even the tension in the fingers gripping the hilt.
If Ragna swung now, it’d be easy to dodge. No matter how much of a fool he was, he wouldn’t waste his trump card like this.
Hescal didn’t underestimate him.
“Clumsy.”
That was all he said. Ragna didn’t respond.
Hescal continued attacking. Ragna dodged some of them, but sometimes shallow cuts appeared on his forearm or near his neck.
If Alexandra’s battle had been decided in a single exchange, this one seemed like a battle of endurance.
Hescal kept calculating several steps ahead in his mind, pressing Ragna hard. From the outside, it looked like Ragna was barely keeping up.
How much time had passed? It was short if short, long if long.
Long for a Knight’s duel, but short from an ordinary person’s point of view. Time, after all, was relative.
And it was no different for these two.
For one of them, time passed in the blink of an eye. For the other, it crawled.
Hescal went to swing his sword again—then stopped.
‘A dead end.’
The ‘Correct Sword Technique’, crafted from experience, intuition, and talent, was his guide—his pathfinder. But now, the path it carved had run into a wall.
If he swung his sword three more times, he could corner Ragna. But if he continued, he’d have to take a hit too.
Knights could push beyond human limits, but that didn’t mean they were omnipotent.
Limits existed.
‘If he wants this fight to drag out, then so be it.’
As Hescal cut through Ragna’s awkward feints with precision and swung his blade again—
‘Another block?’
No matter how precise, swordplay could contain errors. But errors could be corrected.
Hescal wasn’t just looking a step ahead, he was fighting several moves in the future. As far as the Correct Sword Technique was concerned, he believed Ragna couldn’t surpass him.
And yet, strange things kept happening. Dead ends, again and again.
‘ can’t connect them?’
His sword was meant to carve a path, corner his opponent. But from the very start, that strategy had been blocked.
He needed to swing his sword but the path kept cutting off. When he saw what would happen next, it became clear: his sword would either snap or he’d have to shift into an awkward position with no force behind the blow.
What if he distanced himself instead? Was Ragna fast enough?
Yes. He had seen it when Ragna kicked.
All of Ragna’s physical abilities and movements naturally formed the next image in Hescal’s mind.
Only then did Ragna finally open his mouth.
“You're clumsy, Hescal.”
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