Opportunity
Opportunity
The assailants couldn't swing their swords. It wasn't because their bodies had seized up from tension, or because their minds had gone blank from terror.
It was simply because they genuinely couldn't grasp what the hell to do. They'd watched their captain get cut down right before their eyes and still couldn't react immediately. Men who'd undergone countless training regimens, who'd done plenty of work for the cult—and yet none of them had ever trained to deal with a deranged creature that could bisect a horse's neck and a man's torso with nothing more than a single longsword.
Even weapons designed to cut horses were typically meant to target the legs, not the neck or torso. What in the hell did you have to do to cut clean through a horse's neck at a diagonal angle with just a somewhat-long longsword, no resistance at all?
If that feat was possible because it was a magic sword, that was a serious problem. If it was simply the product of aura and muscles on the verge of bursting, that was a hopeless problem. And if, by some one-in-a-million chance, it was a combination of a magic sword and sheer skill, then they needed to run. Right now.
But their trained bodies and brains clung to common sense just as devoutly as they clung to their religion. Granted, it was the kind of common sense pursued by people who practiced human sacrifice, so it was dubious as hell on multiple levels. Still.
The idea that some passing adventurer—a heathen who'd dared blaspheme against their god, encountered entirely by chance—could possess a magic sword and skill so horrific it surpassed the edge of Aura Expert... that was simply too unrealistic. So they chose to believe that only the man's sword was a magic sword. His movements had been clean and efficient, no wasted motion, but the aura they sensed from him was so faint they judged him nowhere near the Expert level.
Even someone at the Aura Beginner level could shatter a boulder with their bare fist if they got the timing and distribution right. Sure, you couldn't completely ignore the recoil, and you'd only crack the edge of the boulder at best, but that was more than enough to crush a horse's skull.
Of course, that didn't dramatically change the situation at all.
"Use the spears!"
The man next in command after the captain shouted, and the assailants snatched up the remaining throwing spears. Those who'd already used theirs grabbed the spears of the fallen, and armed only with those spears, they exchanged brief glances, steeled themselves, and dismounted.
It was a decision born from the judgment that every advantage gained from being mounted was now useless. If they charged in recklessly and their horses got killed, it was only a loss for them.
Given that this was the same man who'd killed the cart horse with a single swing of his fist, you could call that call pretty damn bold. And, in its own way, correct.
But that was the limit of their boldness.
Unlike the man, who had nothing but a leather breastplate and iron gauntlet and looked utterly ordinary otherwise, each and every one of the assailants was wearing chainmail and plate armor under their robes. They should have had an overwhelming advantage. The problem was, regrettably, that their captain—who'd been cut down in a single blow—had been wearing the exact same gear.
In the end, their only tactical advantage was the short spears meant for throwing. Stuck in this bizarre situation where their heavy armor was nothing but a liability, the standoff didn't last long.
The man, having quietly observed their reactions, let out a short sigh and began closing the distance with lightning speed.
"Encircle him! Think of it as fighting a monster!"
The assailant who shouted the order was the first to move, his spear driving forward in a clean, practiced motion, accelerating toward the man's forehead with pinpoint accuracy. Its trajectory alone showed just how sharp this guy's skills really were.
But the man simply kept his gaze fixed on him and deflected the spear effortlessly with the barest flick of his sword's tip. The diverted spearhead grazed past his ear by a hair's breadth, but the man didn't even flinch, just stepped forward without hesitation, as if he'd already known exactly how it would play out.
The man deflected the attack with minimal movement, his gaze never wavering, staring straight at where the assailant's eyes would be as he closed in. It was obvious he'd been through countless real battles. The assailant was a skilled warrior himself, and he tried to read the attack's trajectory from his opponent's eyes, but the man's stare was as still as if it had been nailed in place—didn't move a muscle, even as the sword swung. He didn't succeed.
"Shit!"
The judgment came too late, and the man was far too fast. Realizing he didn't even have time to retract his spear, the assailant gritted his teeth, abandoned what might have been his only advantage, and drew his sword. It was already too late for a perfect defense. Blocking with a blade only half-drawn would throw off his stance, but he had comrades. They could pin down his movements somehow.
As he finished that split-second assessment and drew his sword, the image of the captain—bisected in a single stroke—flashed through his mind.
'Block... that?'
What the hell was he doing right now?
In that instant, a chill shot through his body, but he couldn't stop. He had no other move left to make.
-Clang!
"Huh?!"
And so the assailant was genuinely shocked to see the man's blade actually get stopped. So shocked he couldn't even think about his next move. Nothing at all.
Thus, he made the fatal misjudgment of deciding to relay this fact to his comrades rather than making distance from the man.
"The magic's gone...!"
He'd blocked the blow meant to take his head, but he couldn't stop the blade from simply continuing forward and piercing his throat instead. The assailant failed to finish his sentence, his vocal cords shredded by the steel driving through them. But another comrade carried on his dying message, shouting:
"The magic's gone! The blade got blocked! Rush him!"
Was it because they were too on edge? Normally these men would have attacked simultaneously, without a single gap in coordination, but now there were slight, fatal differences in how quickly they processed the situation and moved. Those differences broke their teamwork, and ultimately, no one managed to sync up with the guy who'd shouted what he saw and charged forward first.
But they'd all seen it too. Whether they were in sync or not, the assailants decided to just rush in and start stabbing.
Whatever the hell kind of trick he'd pulled, if that power came back, they were finished. They had to kill the man, and fast. Get the situation under control. Fear of that unknown power and wariness of the man himself scattered their breathing and coordination to pieces.
"No big deal."
A short mutter. In the extreme tension of the moment, the assailants realized those words had come from the man. Simultaneously, they saw him surge toward the nearest comrade at a speed even greater than before, swinging his blade.
And as they watched him cut through the spear, then the arms, then the throat in a single, unstoppable strike, they understood, far too late.
The unknown power—whether magic or something else—hadn't vanished. He'd simply baited out their impatience.
This monster had been playing with their very minds.
"That son of a bitch did that on purpose...!"
No one could tell who'd said it. Maybe the remaining assailants had all shouted it at once.
The man had become even faster than before. Every time his blade flashed, the sword he swung accelerated as if spring-loaded, and that sword cut through absolutely everything.
In less than a minute, seven men became five, and five became one.
If you considered that a real exchange of blows had never even been established, the outcome was perhaps obvious. But to the last remaining assailant, it was an infuriatingly unfair result.
"Fuck!"
"Fuck? Yeah, fuck me too. Does anything in life ever just go smoothly?"
Along with the man's grumble, spoken like he was sick of the whole damn world, the casually swung blade cut the assailant's throat.
"......What the hell do I do now."
Behind him, Kals, who'd been watching the entire spectacle in a daze, couldn't help but mutter quietly. He was one of the lucky ones—at least he could still mutter. Sen's jaw was still hanging open, the heavy-armored adventurer was wound tight as a spring, and Merdela was completely out of it.
The man had killed ten cultists, alone, in under three minutes. He looked oddly tired, sure, but his movements hadn't gotten sluggish. Hell, the elf who'd been with him was still way back in the distance, doing absolutely nothing to help, just aiming her bow at them.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"...This was my call. You stay out of it."
Merdela, who'd barely shaken off the shock, spoke quietly, but Sen retorted loudly.
"Don't talk nonsense. We all agreed. No way can we just cut our losses like that!"
The man's gaze, which had been scanning the corpses, shifted to the party at that shout, but for once, no one blamed Sen for running her mouth. The taciturn heavy-armored adventurer nodded silently, and Kals did the same.
"You got excuses ready?"
The being who'd scattered death in a matter of moments approached, head tilted slightly to the side.
Facing a man who'd fought ten opponents and didn't even seem to be breathing hard, the party felt their will crumbling.