Chapter 388: Heaven Is Not Fair
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 388: Heaven Is Not Fair
Whoosh!
A net descended over his head. Ragna lightly swung his sword in a vertical arc. The strike wasn't particularly fast or slow, but the blade seemed to condense into a single, razor-thin line, cleanly slicing the net in two.
"What?!" cried the man who had thrown it.
Yon realized something had gone terribly wrong, but there was no time to speak. He gripped the shaft of his glaive close to the blade, executing a desperate series of parries, thrusts, and swings.
Clang, cl-clang!
He had no choice; the sword that had just shredded the net was already descending upon him. Even though he tilted his glaive to deflect the blow, the opponent's sword followed tenaciously, threatening to shear straight through the shaft. Yon pulled back to block once more, putting his entire weight into a shove to force the blade upward.
After just those three brief exchanges, both of his hands were numb.
My hands are numb?
Yon was an outstanding warrior in his own right. He knew how to channel Will. Will was willpower made manifest. Though he couldn't project it naturally like a master, he knew how to wield it through his techniques. What an Associate Knight could do, he could do as well. Or rather, he had been able to.
But after a single clash, he felt the vast gulf between them. He could never win. It was hopeless. He felt as if he were trapped in a sealed coffin, with someone pinning his limbs and squeezing the life out of him.
What kind of monster is this?
During their first encounter, the boy had fought as if he were playing around. But from the moment he sheathed his sword and drew it again, he had become a different person entirely.
As quickly as he had approached, the boy leaped backward and swung his sword horizontally. It was fast, yet incredibly heavy. It was too late to dodge. The mercenary who had thrown the bow raised his round shield in a panic. He deserved praise for that much—at least he had managed to attempt a block.
Crack! Thud!
Ragna’s sword sheared through the shield and the man behind it in a single stroke.
Having leaped back and swung, the boy was already circling to the side. Yon’s eyes scrambled to follow him. He saw the head of the companion who had thrown the net flying through the air, trailing an arc of crimson spray.
His opponent did not stop. Dodging a spear aimed at his back, Ragna swung his sword again effortlessly, as if muscle fatigue were a foreign concept to him.
"Gurgle!"
One of the spearmen, a man of decent skill, tried to dodge, but a long red line opened beneath his Adam's apple. A fountain of blood erupted from the gaping wound.
Only then did Yon force his numb arms to swing his weapon. But before he could complete the motion, the sword was already falling toward his own head.
He saw his opponent's face. There was no anxiety, no sign of exertion. It was a blank, indifferent expression, as if the boy were merely performing a tedious chore.
"Aaaah!"
Will erupted from Yon’s body. He channeled every ounce of his willpower through the blade of his glaive. It was a technique called 'Deflection'—a Will-infused art designed to violently repel an opponent's weapon and wrench it from their grip.
In response, Ragna unleashed his Will of Severing.
The intent to 'sever' sliced straight through the intent to 'deflect.'
Ragna’s body brushed past Yon. Yon froze.
A diagonal line appeared across Yon’s head, and blood began to seep from the seam.
Split.
His head parted along the line—skull and all—from above his right eyebrow down to below his left cheekbone. Fortunately, his mouth remained intact. The dying man’s jaw worked pointlessly.
"Ch-ch-ch-ch."
It was merely the sound of his teeth clattering together. It carried no meaning. Even if it had, the man before him wouldn't have listened.
Having cleaved and killed six men in an instant, Ragna turned around. He didn't look rushed, but his pace was swift. As he made his way back through the city gates, he saw Andrew and five trainees panting heavily, having just finished off their own opponents.
One enemy soldier lay on the ground with two swords impaled in his stomach, his ankles twisted backward. Beside him lay another, a blade driven straight through his heart.
Ragna passed them by without a word. Further away, Dunchabel was still fighting, but that beastman wouldn't die easily. Looking out for her own skin was her greatest talent.
Ragna wasn't moving based on calculated thoughts. He had simply found his motivation. He was heading toward where he belonged.
He walked back through the gates and climbed onto the city wall. Starting from where Ragna had fought, the battle began to grind to a halt, like ink bleeding across paper. The nearby enemy soldiers had frozen in shock. Since his allies were in a defensive position and wouldn't attack unless provoked, a natural lull fell over the battlefield.
Amidst this bizarre standoff, Ragna stepped onto the top of the city gates.
"Is the royal palace really in danger?"
Squire Ropode had just managed to calm his excitement, only for his jaw to drop again upon witnessing Ragna’s combat. He struggled to find his voice.
"Ah, well..."
In that brief moment, Ropode’s thoughts had shifted. He was a man easily swayed by the opinions of others—a flaw in his character that outweighed his talent. He gave a hesitant reply.
"It might not be... I could be wrong..."
To Ragna, those words sounded like: It might be true. It’s highly possible.
"I'm going ahead."
That was enough for him.
"Where are you going?"
Even in their brief acquaintance, Ropode had realized that the man before him had a catastrophic sense of direction. It wasn't just bad; if left alone in a city, he was so utterly directionally challenged that it was impossible to guess where he might end up.
"The royal palace."
"But the way... by yourself..."
"I know a shortcut."
Ragna understood what Ropode meant. Was Encrid in danger? Maybe not. Perhaps there was no threat at all. Or perhaps the opposite was true. Either way, he had to see for himself.
The enemies outside the gate had already been reduced to nothing more than limbless ghouls. He could afford to leave. Dunchabel and Andrew would be enough to hold the line.
"...What?"
Ropode didn't know what the right choice was, but he knew he couldn't stop the man before him. It was a clear, unshakeable expression of will.
"I'm off."
Ragna turned away. If Andrew had been there, he would have smacked his forehead in dismay. But Andrew was currently catching his breath beneath the gates, still mentally replaying the slaughter he had just witnessed. There was no one to stop him.
Ragna fixed his gaze on the royal palace.
The city was vast and densely packed. The palace was barely visible in the distance. Even at a full gallop, it would take a significant amount of time to reach. The roads were not straight; the outer road wound along the city walls in a confusing sprawl. To Ragna, such a path was a labyrinth.
Yet, the palace was visible. And because of that, Ragna truly did know a shortcut. Even Ragna couldn't fail to run in a straight line toward a target he could actually see.
He leaped onto the rooftops. He ran across the city, eyes locked on the palace. As he ran, he spotted Sachsen moving in a similar direction. He saw that barbarian bastard returning, drenched in blood from head to toe. Finally, he caught a glimpse of a leopard-kin running across the rooftops.
He ignored them all. He simply ran.
Because he lost his way so often, he was well-accustomed to running long distances. He channeled all of that physical conditioning into pure speed.
Crash! Splinter! Bam!
The roofs he used as footholds shattered under his feet—a consequence of his reckless, unbridled sprint.
"Argh!"
"Did lightning just strike?!"
"What was that?!"
Citizens below cried out in shock as shards of eaves and roof tiles rained down. Ragna didn't slow. He cut straight through the city, ignoring the slumped soldiers guarding the palace gates.
"Huh?!"
Someone shouted, but he was already gone. He dashed into the palace grounds. Ragna was no hunter; he had no tracking skills. He couldn't follow blood or footprints. However, his instincts as a swordsman were sharper than anyone’s. He could feel the aura, the killing intent, and the presence of overwhelming power.
Ragna moved on instinct. The place where the clash was fiercest was blindingly obvious.
He sprinted toward the noise. The setting sun was at his back, bathing him in a crimson glow as he leaped. Through a shattered window, he saw Encrid. He also saw the back of the man blocking Encrid’s path.
Ragna launched himself through the air. The window had already been cleared of glass. He threw himself through the frame.
Thud.
His sword caught on the frame because of its sheer length and width. He didn't care. He simply pulled.
Crash!
The wooden frame splintered into debris. Ragna drew his sword and surged forward, bringing his blade down in a monstrous vertical strike.
It was an unpredictable, crushing blow. Yet, his opponent forced a counter-thrust through the narrowest of openings, a strike designed to sever the flow of the attack.
Ragna pulled his descending sword inward. He stayed true to the principles of a heavy yet fast sword. He accelerated.
If the man completed his thrust, Ragna’s stomach would be pierced—but in return, the opponent would be split in two.
Whoosh.
The descending sword sliced through empty air. The opponent had aborted his thrust and retreated.
"...Who are you?" the man asked, holding his sword in a two-handed diagonal grip.
Ragna did not answer. There was no need. His captain had almost died; his only priority was to kill this bastard, or at least beat him to within an inch of his life.
Every human has their own personal hell. Ragna’s hell was a life spent wandering, utterly lost. The profound boredom that accumulated in his soul was something no one else could touch. Yet, there was a man who had become a guidepost in that aimless wandering.
And here was the bastard who had tried to kill him.
Words were useless. Ragna took a step forward and swung.
Normally, a heavy sword relied on crushing weight and preparatory movements. A fast sword prioritized the thrust, moving faster than a reaction. Ragna combined both.
How? You simply minimize the movement and let the rest handle itself.
"You just let it happen," Ragna had told Encrid once. It was pure talent.
His sword scraped against the wall. Screeech! Stone was sheared away. Before the fragments could hit the floor, the blade was already at the opponent's nose.
The opponent judged he couldn't block it. Try to step in and sever the flow? Out of the question.
Though he had remained an Associate Knight his entire life, this man was one of the most talented prospects in the order. Show him one thing, and he could do three; show him three, and he could do ten. Yet, he was only the second best.
The Associate Knight unleashed a flurry of strikes, increasing his frequency to disrupt Ragna’s momentum. As the flow was interrupted, Ragna’s fierce drive seemed to wither. Finally, the man deflected the incoming sword and pushed it back.
Clang!
A heavy sword, the man thought. It relies on momentum. Since he can't maintain it, he's being pushed back. The advantage is mine.
He had been startled by the ambush, but his confidence returned. My talent is superior.
That confidence shattered ten exchanges later.
"...What are you doing?" the man gasped.
Ragna didn't answer. He was busy analyzing his opponent’s swordsmanship. This is a decent technique.
Before the eyes of a genius, the opponent’s style was being systematically dismantled.
"This is impossible," the Associate Knight hissed. This was something even a full Knight shouldn't be capable of.
Do not dismiss what you cannot understand. If you do, there will be no next time.
Why did the words of his old mentor echo in his mind now? He swung his sword, shattering the twilight glow. He unleashed his trump card: Will.
His strength, speed, and reactions momentarily shattered their limits. Every technique became faster. He accelerated, swinging from outside Ragna’s field of vision.
Yet, Ragna deflected the thrusts, redirected the slashes, and struck back to repel the accelerated blows. He severed the flow of every single attack.
Ragna’s sword did not stop. He thrust, withdrew, and swept his massive blade as if it were a thin twig. To build speed, the Associate Knight tried to step forward, but Ragna’s blade swept through the very spot his foot needed to land. He tried to swing upward to force Ragna back, but Ragna’s blade thrust forward first.
His flow was being systematically destroyed. Having forced his opponent to retreat, Ragna finally spoke.
"So, this is how you do it."
"You..."
The Associate Knight’s eyes turned bloodshot. Why had he come all this way? For power? No.
There had always been someone above him in the order. If it had been a Knight, he could have accepted it. But they were both Associate Knights. In the beginning, he had won a hundred times out of a hundred. Nothing should have changed.
But it did. That bastard had climbed up, step by step, trampling over him. Eventually, he began to lose once every ten fights. Then, he could barely win five out of ten.
"Why?!" he screamed.
He raged at the monster placed before him. Heaven is not fair. The Goddess of Fortune is biased. He had hit the limits of his talent, so why did that bastard—!
Ragna’s sword and the Associate Knight’s sword crossed. One blade severed a neck; the other thrust uselessly into empty air.
That was all.