Magical Beasts Advance South (3)
Silent training grounds. Embers flickering in the night breeze. A full moon staining the sky crimson.
"...Of course, with the southern advance so near, it would be best not to overexert yourself."
I gripped the hilt of the broadsword. Its feel was quite different from a magic staff.
Julie said,
"This is a pure duel without mana from the start. It won't strain the body. Provided the Professor possesses skill equal to his confidence."
Her voice held no emotion. I looked at her.
I hadn't planned to clash directly from the outset, but I didn't think I'd lose, either.
"Very well."
The most efficient way to apply Understanding in combat is through 'analysis'.
Dissecting a swordsman's traits and strengths and weaknesses with ruthless precision, then countering with the optimal tactics.
"One final question, however."
I took my stance on the empty dirt ground.
Julie borrowed a real sword from one of the knights. With a practiced whoosh—she swung it expertly and gripped it tight.
"Even now—"
"A long tongue is useless."
"......"
"Speak plainly. Knight Dayia, your forms are particularly garbage."
"What... no!"
Julie finally burst out. Her distorted face brimmed with anger and injustice.
A knight's swordsmanship, simply put, is a chain of 'forms,' and a form is the 'method' of linking sword trajectories most efficiently.
It's like an exquisitely intricate theory.
Yet that swordsmanship ultimately descends from the founder. Developed to fit the creator's body and strength, it's not rational for the individual knights who inherit it over time.
Thus, they alter the forms to their own taste, to match their skill.
But those alterations are almost never efficient.
They don't even consider efficiency to begin with.
From physical factors like torso-to-leg ratio, arm and leg length, hand and foot size, muscle quality and skeletal structure, even cranial surface area... to athletic abilities like kicking power, grip strength, elasticity; physical qualities like flexibility and agility; instantaneous judgment speed and combat interpretation intelligence...
One must tailor swordsmanship accounting for every individual's strengths, but without meticulous analysis, such self-objectification is impossible.
And the knights' characteristic brutish disdain for such 'verbose' analysis contributes its part.
"Come."
Today, I would teach Julie that 'efficiency.'
* * *
Clang—
Julie clenched her sword.
No carelessness, but no fear of defeat either.
A pure contest of swordsmanship was a chance to remind Deculein of his place, for ignoring her skill.
Besides, fellow knights, seniors, and juniors were watching. Having been humiliated before them all, she couldn't back down easily.
Of course, she wouldn't let this excitement erode her body. Instead, she'd cool her mind and body further, preemptively blocking variables from her emotions.
Julie approached this sword dance with utmost seriousness.
"......"
In contrast, Deculein showed no enthusiasm. His stance held nothing special; he looked annoyed rather than resolute. His sword dangled loosely, nearly touching the ground.
Naturally. He'd never properly learned swordsmanship.
"Are you prepared?"
No answer even to Julie's question. Only the dry northern wind brushed her cheek and scattered.
"An answer—"
"...Talkative."
He crooked four fingers. Come first—a blatant taunt.
Even then, he took no proper guard. The posture of an obvious novice.
Julie's lips twisted.
Whatever gave him the nerve to lecture a knight on swordplay, if he yielded first strike, she'd gladly shatter him with a full-force clash...
Julie lowered her stance and charged.
* * *
I yielded first strike.
Julie thrust with her broadsword, just under a meter long. Mine was the same type.
I raised my blade flat to block the thrust. Then scraped upward to flick her sword away.
But Julie nimbly retreated. A needle-thin backstep.
My blade traced a late upward-right arc, and Julie, already out of its path, plunged into the gap.
I wrenched my joints forcibly and slammed down.
Julie read even that response.
Shiiiing—
The sharp ring of blades grazing. Julie raised her sword strongly, deflecting my blade at an angle, and leaped close like embracing.
A fatal proximity. With Julie one step into my chest space, I shoved her with my shoulder.
Thud—!
"Kuh!"
Struck by my Strong Bones shoulder bash, Julie flew far back. I shook my head at her.
Without mana, weight—class difference—becomes a significant factor.
Julie, brow furrowed, charged again. This time, meticulously controlling distance, weaving her blade in.
A seamless chain of fluid strikes, like a stream of water.
Having clashed blades directly, indeed—it deserved the title of a knight's textbook-perfect sword.
I blocked Julie's barrage in my own way.
Clang—! Clang-clang-clang—!
Blades meeting, rotating, scraping in fierce close combat.
But my sword differed from any manual or orthodoxy. Crude at first glance, yet Julie's couldn't pierce me.
Because hers was textbook-pure. She might think she'd mixed feints her way, but all fell within predictable bounds.
This was Julie's first flaw.
Clang—!
Blades dancing, fierce sparks scattering; as the ringing intensified, the training grounds' heat amplified.
The knights, meanwhile, gradually cooled.
Gwen, who had sneered at first, now stared with frozen eyes.
Scraaaape—!
Blades clashing, heat waves rising.
Clang—!
Time flowing slow, friction haze and stagnant air, beyond our touching blades—Julie's eyes glared at me.
Clang—! Clang-clang-clang—!
Parrying Julie's sword, I shifted my breathing.
This was the awakening of Iron Man and Strong Bones. A breathing technique to reinforce the body.
——
A strange vibration hummed in my ears.
Vision sharpened bright; the world's natural elements pressed against my skin with distinct weights.
The rustling dirt of the grounds. Ember-lost campfire fragments. The night wind's dry chill.
Enhanced senses absorbed every environmental detail acutely, grasped the enemy before me, executed the victory formula flawlessly.
"No time to get distracted—"
I swung at Julie's mutter. Instant amplified muscle toppled her balance.
Flustered, Julie backflipped far, shifting to probing.
"......"
"......"
The long-awaited silence; the blades' wail paused.
All on the grounds held their breath, watching us.
"...Your mouth isn't the only thing alive."
I sneered back at Julie's praise.
"Dayia, you are not Zeit. Yet you ape his swordsmanship exactly."
"......"
This was Julie's second flaw.
Julie wasn't the 2m10cm, 150kg monster Zeit. Rather than rigidly using the forms he'd taught, she should adapt them aggressively.
"Zeit's swordsmanship is not yours."
"...Shut. Your mouth."
Julie growled seriously. I breathed long, letting my sword droop. Her brow twisted.
My body emptied, sword nearly ground-touching.
This stance brimmed with obvious gaps.
Yet Julie didn't rush in easily. Suspecting provocation, trap, or ploy.
"Naturally. You lack faith in yourself. Can such a knight forge her own sword?"
That instant, Julie gripped her sword.
────1 second.
My drooping blade touches ground, arcs.
Julie's gaze follows the tip.
She bites her lip. Faint anger in her eyes accuses me of sloppiness.
Then, strength enters her small sole. Ground-digging kick power heralds the knight's charge.
───2 seconds.
Kwaaa—!
Air rupturing, her body and blade bullet forth.
The charge targets only me. Blinding speed; raising sword to block would be too late.
──To control a rampaging ox-like foe.
I moved not sword, but body.
Twisted sole sideways, subtly, minutely shifting. Drooping sword naturally repositions.
A loose, comb-like motion.
It grazed Julie's swing by a hair, my broom-sagging tip 'slotting' into her sword path.
Ting—
Blades rebound, Julie's form disrupts.
But the knight doesn't panic. Twists her body, yanking blade up.
Thud—!
I turned her force against her. Raised sword blocked the slash; recoil escaped her range.
In this naturally widening distance, my arms outreach hers.
I alone can strike her.
Of course, long reach has simple counters.
Raise sword and block, naturally.
─3 seconds.
My blade heads for Julie; she predicts trajectory, defends.
But Julie doesn't know.
Strikes precede the blade.
"Eup!"
I smashed her shin with my forefoot heel.
Julie bulged eyes in pain. Textbook stance crumbled; follow-up kick whipped her side.
Grind—
Bone-crunching sound.
Battle ended here.
Or should have.
"...Kuh!"
Julie nearly knelt, yet in that instant thrust blade for reversal.
Whoooosh—!
Bottom-to-top, wind-pressure rising slash.
A desperate heaven-splitting strike.
Compelling tenacity in that blade.
Thus, I met it with full power.
Kwaaa—!
Top-to-bottom, overwhelming height plunge.
Iron Man body's monstrous strength.
...Thus, our blades met.
Boom—!
Downward and upward lines tangle in gale; lightning flashes illuminate the dark grounds.
The clash's end: particles shattering sharply.
Broad sword in glass-like shards.
The broken one: the knight's.
Shaaaa...
Steel debris momentarily airborne, slowly snowing down.
"......"
Julie blankly stared at scattering fragments. Sharp flecks scratched her skin.
Drip, drip, drip.
Blood drops sinking into dirt.
Blood flowed from her grip. Price of not releasing to the end.
No matter how superior strength, weapons rarely shatter. Breaking steel with steel demands dozens-fold power.
Yet Julie's broke because, though outwardly same, their innards differed utterly.
Midas' Hand: Level 3
Not mere power gap; the trait acting on my sword shattered hers.
I silently surveyed surroundings.
Soldiers' and nobles' eyes on this stage. Victor and vanquished fully divided.
Could a warrior face greater humiliation?
"A mana-less sword is blunt."
Murmuring low, I plunged my sword into the ground.
The slumped loser said nothing.
Campfire died; world drowned in utter dark. Stagnant air grew heavy, sinking.
The knight's hand still clutched her shattered blade.
* * *
Wheeeeeen—!
Yukline territory, Rohalak barrier. Massive siren wailed madly; soldiers fully armed climbed the walls.
"Status report!"
Yeriel shouted, arriving on horseback. Rohalak's commander bellowed back.
"Magical beast horde incoming. Numbers at least hundreds of thousands. Also, Altiegue terror attacks from inside."
"Altiegue?"
"Yes. Seems come to rescue Rohalak kin."
Yeriel gnashed teeth.
"Those crazy bastards. Spoiling them rotten... Fine. Battle stations, now!"
"Yes!"
Kwaaaang—!
Shells fired simultaneously from walls. Dozens black iron balls arced skyward, plummeting.
Kwagwagwagwa—!
"Miss Yeriel! Big trouble!"
As Yeriel tried channeling magic, Yukline's butler came panting.
"What now. What's wrong?"
To Yeriel's snap, butler gasped no breath.
"Recorak isolated!"
"...What?"
"Altiegue guerrillas cut the road to Recorak and city. So now—"
Thud—! Thud—!
Exploding shells, scattering beast flesh. Amid smoke veiling moon and stars, Yeriel ground teeth.
"Those shit Altiegue fuckers......"
"We have reserves; send reinforcements!"
"...Yeah."
As Yeriel nodded silently.
She spotted a woman holding a sketchbook mid-battlefield. The woman stared silently.
"...Who the hell are you."
The woman moved hands wordlessly. Sign language, but incomprehensible.
"What? I didn't learn that crap."
Then the woman wrote one line on her sketchbook.
I've come to kidnap you.
"...No. This crazy bitch—"
That instant, Yeriel's world went black.