It Shall Be Done As You Have Believed (5)

I didn't use Tadol. I approached on foot. The advantage of Tadol was its speed and charging power, but its weakness was that once committed, I couldn't alter its path. I wasn't as durable as a crusader. I was still a man who could die from a single bullet. My stats may have made me superhuman, but I remained human. So I had to be careful. The instant I used Tadol, it could be turned against me. If I ever used it, it would only be at the absolute final moment—when there was nothing left to fall back on.

Boom! The moment my rolling feet carried me forward, the spear moved.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Clang! A thrust aimed directly at my head. Before the spearhead could line up with my body, I struck it with the flat of my blade and knocked it aside. The weapon—part spear, part rifle—ricocheted with a sharp ring. Instinct told me I must never align myself straight with that edge. The ideal move was to make it drop the weapon entirely. That was why I had swung my sword, yet—

Clang. Clang-clang-clang! It refused to let go. Even when I shoved with all my strength, it held on. Balancing on a single leg, it twisted its torso to the limit and whipped the spear forward like a lightning bolt. It was aiming for my eyes. The spearhead was broad; with sufficient power and skill, it would cut like any other blade. I read the intent to carve out my eyes and brought my two-handed sword back around in a return swing. My goal remained disarmament.

Clang—clang-clang-clang-clang! I segmented my breathing. With each step forward, I unleashed a continuous barrage. Wrist flicks, subtle shifts in my waist angle, ankle work, foot placement—every motion carried techniques that weren't originally mine. Ahn Sung-ho's crusader swordsmanship. Middle stance to low stance, low stance back to middle, then upper stance. Strikes flew from every conceivable posture. The sword never stopped moving.

In the midst of those relentless collisions, I clicked my tongue. The Centurion was parrying, shoving back, and blocking every slash I made with its spear. It was hard to believe such skill came from only one arm and one leg. I twisted my body to evade a short-gripped swing. A sharp whoosh of air brushed past as I drew my blade back. Calling strike—cooperative stance. From the rear-drawn position, I lifted the edge close to my body and struck upward.

Scraaaape—clang! It blocked with the shaft. The instant it did, I flattened the blade to target its fingers, but it flowed the attack aside as if it had been waiting. This was technique, not brute force. Our strength wasn't equal, but it was close. I held the advantage with two hands, yet the gap in skill was undeniable. Advanced versus Master. Only one stage apart, but the difference was crystal clear.

I blocked and deflected every attack. The Centurion did the same. At least until now. It was undeniably strong. Its technique was impressive. Its power wasn't equal to mine, but it could keep up. That was all, though. The repeated spear thrusts. Attacks I was beginning to read. The openings that inevitably appeared because it only had one arm. I etched every detail into my mind and stepped forward.

From inside out, outside in—I began swinging my sword sideways, striking the spear shaft with the flat and spine of the blade. Its posture started to break.

Clang! Whoooosh! The swinging spear. The instant I deflected it, I snapped my wrist and forced it back into motion. A horizontal cut aimed at my chin. I leaned away to dodge. Before the Centurion could recover its spear, I released the hilt with my left hand and swung. The target was the weapon itself. The spear. I struck the shaft directly.

Craaaaang! The spear finally left its grip. A difference of nine between 21 Strength and 12 Strength. An attack that exploited a technical opening sent the weapon tumbling across the floor.

The moment I had waited for. My left foot shot forward and slammed into the ground. Tadol. The instant the floor shattered with a boom, I thrust my sword through my distorted vision.

Claaaaang! It connected—yet it didn't. The feedback in my hand wasn't flesh and muscle but cold metal. A blade. The very dagger it had drawn after I hurled it down the stairs at the beginning. It had used that to block and deflect a Tadol-enhanced strike.

It blocked that?

I let out a hollow laugh even as I swung the crusader's sword one-handed. We traded blows. It blocked my swing with the dagger, deflected, and thrust. I knocked the incoming thrust aside with my left hand faster than I could retract the crusader's sword. The moment its stance wavered, I swung again. The Centurion leaned back to dodge and countered with the dagger.

Metal screamed. Dagger against hilt. The katana-like crusader's sword against the dagger. The dagger's tip against the crusader's suspicion wrapped around my left hand. They tangled in a dizzying knot. We read each other's intent, and technique and power collided.

What rose in me then wasn't irritation. It was admiration. How many years had it taken to build this skill? How much relentless effort? I admired it. I revered it. Because I had never truly devoted myself to anything. At the same time, I felt a deep regret.

Kaaaaaaaang! With a grating metallic screech, the dagger was smashed backward. Its abdomen lay completely exposed. The moment I accelerated with Tadol off my pivoting foot and kicked, I felt its organs rupture with vivid clarity.

Bam! The Centurion flew back, rolling across the floor and dropping the dagger. Its innards were utterly crushed. Yet it rose again. Not because it was a zombie. Because of its trait—Indomitable Warrior. Even after half its brain had been blown away, after losing an arm and a leg, after its organs were pulped, after the prophet's blood had invaded its body multiple times, it refused to retreat. It stood here to die.

Its body was ruined. Cut, sliced, bitten, shattered. Nothing was whole. Even with overwhelming technique, it had only barely kept pace with me. We had never been equals. It was being pushed back. Despite three Master-rank skills.

I watched the staggering creature rise. If I crushed and stabbed it now, it would end. That alone would decide everything. But I didn't want to. It felt like doing something unforgivable. Instead, I silently kicked the fallen dagger, sliding it to the Centurion's feet.

Without a word, I assumed middle stance. It quietly retrieved the dagger, rose, and faced me. Staring at me with its half-crushed head, it took its position. With trembling hands gripping the dagger, it charged. Our blades met.

Clang. Kaaaaang. Clang! I stepped in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and cut downward. When the Centurion blocked and staggered, I feinted a kick. It desperately lowered its dagger into the path, but my leg never extended. I stomped the ground. The sword flew out with my pivot. I slashed its waist. It wasn't a clean bisection, but blood sprayed. I leaned back to avoid the counter-thrust, pinned the dagger with the flat of my blade from middle stance, ripped it away, and swung again.

Shiiiiiiing! The blade carved through its waist once more. Both sides of its torso split open, and the Centurion collapsed. I kept my sword raised in middle stance. It rose again.

The pattern repeated. Cutting, stabbing, deflecting, hammering. The dagger would fly from its hand or tumble across the floor with the weapon itself. Yet it rose every time. No matter how many times. No matter how hopeless.

With 27 Intelligence—smart enough to choose protecting humans or sniping Tae Woo-ham to avoid strengthening the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠prophet—it couldn't possibly fail to understand the situation. Yet it still stood and pointed its dagger at me.

I didn't lower my guard. Far from it—I remained vigilant, sword leveled. The outcome was obvious. Even knowing that, the Centurion refused to surrender. Because that was its role. What had made this thing like this? I didn't know. If only it hadn't been an enemy.

Swallowing my regret, I changed stance. Upper stance. I raised the sword high and pierced the sky. I surrendered myself to the idea that had suddenly come to me.

I glared at the Centurion. It pointed its crumbling dagger at me. The nearly shattered weapon and our shared stance signaled the end. This single strike would decide it all.

Maintaining upper stance, I drew in a massive breath and—

BOOOOOOM! I accelerated with Tadol. The world narrowed to a single point. The Centurion hurtling toward me at terrifying speed thrust its dagger forward. Our aims were obvious. I wanted to cut it down. It wanted to land a counter before my attack landed.

I heard my sister's shouting and Ye-eun's voice, but I ignored them. I focused. Everything I had—my insight shaping the environment, my body ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pushed to its absolute limit. What I aimed for was an agonizingly close distance where the dagger couldn't reach. One point. A distance its long arm and extended dagger couldn't touch. But I wasn't trying to stop.

Rather—

At the peak of acceleration, my lead foot lifted low. I planted it into the ground and halted. Yet the momentum of Tadol refused to die. Craaaaaack! I didn't kill the acceleration. What followed was simple.

Crack! With the sound of splitting concrete, my body spun. Like a sudden brake into a drift, I accelerated along a curve following my already tilted frame. The remaining force shoved my body sideways. Avoiding the thrust dagger, I slipped behind the Centurion. Its weapon stopped. The moment it froze in confusion, the match was decided. To it, I must have seemed to vanish. It couldn't respond. So it was over.

Revenge for Tae Woo-ham. With a heart burning hot and a head ice-cold, I gripped the hilt with crushing force. Exhaling the breath I'd taken, I brought the sword down from upper stance.

Shiiiiiiiiiiiiing! The descending blade severed its arm. The right arm holding the dagger rolled across the floor, and the crumbling weapon shattered as it spun away. Blood flowed. A razor-thin success. As I steadied my ragged breathing, the Centurion dropped to one knee.

Only then did Ye-eun and Kang Ahyeon approach. Anyone could see it was finished.

I watched the creature still twitching, trying to rise. I sheathed the crusader's sword at my waist. Instead, I gripped the Holy Lance with both hands. Did it recognize its own weapon? The moment the Centurion saw it in my grasp, it froze solid. I aimed the rifle at the ruined creature—specifically its remaining right eye, the last half of its head.

"You fought well, Centurion."

It stared at me. Still low to the ground. Unable to stand, it gazed blankly at the spear pointed at its eye. A warrior that never abandoned resistance until the final moment. If it had been human, I might have gladly taken it with me.

Swallowing my regret, I thrust the spear-tipped rifle toward its eye.

"Rest now."

Crunch!

The spearhead drove through the eye socket. The Centurion shuddered violently one last time.

I let out a long sigh as the choices filled my vision.

"...Fuck, I'm so tired."

A sense of accomplishment came with deep exhaustion. So many good people had died today. Yet we were still alive. As always.