Chapter 486: A Matter of Several Overlapping Coincidences
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 486: A Matter of Several Overlapping Coincidences
There are those who perform better in real combat than in training.
What is the reason for this? Why do they show a stronger side in actual battle?
Perhaps their senses are outstanding, or maybe it is a difference in talent. Or perhaps it is because they only display true focus in moments of crisis.
In truth, Encrid possessed none of these gifts.
Because his senses were ordinary, his ability to parry unorthodox attacks was clumsy. He had no flashes of brilliant originality, either. Focus that only activated in moments of crisis? If he had possessed such a thing, he wouldn't have died so many times by now.
He had no such thing. However, Encrid possessed the experience of his past lives.
He had spent countless hours in discipline, training, and practice.
What if I twist it like this? What if I thrust it away like that? What if I deflect and strike immediately?
After endless contemplation, he would manifest the thought with his body and repeat it until it was perfect. This was how he had mastered Jeong-Jung-Hwan-Kwae-Yu, the techniques suited to each branch of swordsmanship.
Without rest, without growing weary, he had blindly pushed forward. It was a method that went beyond ignorance; calling it foolish would still be an understatement.
There was also the process of applying what he had gained through that method, piece by piece, in real combat. Because he lacked talent, he had to repeat it over and over again. In doing so, he realized the subtle differences in minor movements.
Where others only needed to swing ten times, he had to swing a hundred. If a hundred times was not enough, he had to swing more than a thousand.
What happens then?
One begins to focus on the essence of a technique rather than its mere utility. It has to be that way. If you do not understand the essence, you cannot move past the movement.
What is the purpose of intending to clash blades during a parry? Why twist the body to evade after the blades clash? Why angle the blade so its center meets the crook of the elbow?
Twisting the body halfway grants the opportunity to press down on the opponent's hand. By bringing the middle of the blade to the inside of the elbow, one could use arm strength to seize the pivot point of the opponent's force, momentarily rendering them powerless.
But must one absolutely twist the body? If closing the distance is necessary, it could be resolved with footwork. No, must one absolutely grab the hand? What is the most efficient method to counterattack from a parry?
It was about the essence. The fundamental reason why a movement was necessary.
He had repeated, contemplated, retraced, and practiced such things countless times. He did it even as he was dying. He did it even when he survived.
That was why Encrid was far stronger in real combat than in training. His attitude of relentless challenge made all the difference when facing a true life-or-death struggle.
His deep blue eyes flashed.
The Apostle was a master of necromancy. In terms of necromancy alone, even Esther would have acknowledged his superior skill.
Astral Projection won't work.
In the state of Astral Projection, the Apostle could not properly use his Spell World. He had to block with a veil and use prepared magic. He possessed an artificial holy relic made from treasures obtained in the Demon Realm, infused with mana from sacrifices acquired in the West.
He intended to use it.
He forced himself to forget his fear. If he allowed himself to be consumed by dread, he would not be able to cast his spells properly. Calculations began in his head, but everything went awry from the very start.
The Apostle could not even track the trajectory of Encrid's sword strikes.
Clang! Crash! Clang!
In the span of a single breath, all he saw was his own veil shattering and crumbling.
Can I hold? I will hold.
Just before the veil shattered, the Apostle chanted another spell.
"Eight Brothers of Gullak!"
He opened his Spell World. Eight ghouls burst forth. Black, bruise-like holes tore open in the ground, in the air at waist height, and in the space above, and monsters surged out from within. To be precise, they were artificial ghouls created through magic.
One with long arms, one with long legs, one with a long tongue, one harboring poison, and so on. They were eight monsters, each with distinct characteristics.
This was simply bad luck for the Apostle.
Encrid had already experienced knight-class ghouls in the Gray Forest Demon Realm, the enemy of the City of Oara. The experience he had gained back then remained vividly with him.
The owner of the blue eyes swung the sword in his hand eight times.
Stepping his left foot to the side, he delivered a diagonal slash; pulling his right foot back, he executed a horizontal slash. Pulling the sword back once more, he slashed straight down at a crown.
Meanwhile, treating the arm of a ghoul thrusting its claws forward as a blade, he pressed the flat of his sword against it, pushed it aside gently, and thrust. Even if he struck softly, a blade did not turn into a ball of cotton; its lethality was more than sufficient.
This was the Soft Sword Style, also known as the Snake Sword.
Next, he wound his blade inward and swung horizontally, severing a ghoul's neck. After that, he wound the blade over to pierce a chest, then pulled the sword upward in an ascending slash, splitting the head of another ghoul vertically.
With a high horizontal slash, he carved a lid out of the head of the seventh ghoul—the one with three eyeballs—and then switched the sword to his left hand for a one-handed thrust.
Naturally, it was a speed completely invisible to the eyes of the spellcaster.
Thud, crack, squelch, split, snap, clang, stab.
The eight manifested ghouls died instantly—their necks severed, holes punched through their skulls, or the tops of their heads sliced off.
The Apostle, clutching his holy relic, widened his eyes. He saw two long lines. A continuous blue line, followed by a thin silver line. As the movement of those lines stretched infinitely, time seemed to slow down.
I must block it.
He still had many prepared spells. The Boil Veil of Gullak should suffice. It possessed the power to absorb physical impact. Besides that, he had many protective artifacts guarding his body. He had even modified his skin.
And after blocking?
He would use the holy relic. If he used the artificial holy relic, the horde of giants standing over there would all gain the power of monsters. In other words, they would transform like the two giants that the Westerners used to call monsters.
Then he would be able to slaughter everyone here.
If even that was not enough, he could detonate the power of the holy relic. Then no one, including himself, would survive. He would summon a blood golem from his Spell World, attach the holy relic to it, and detonate it. The blood of a thousand people was condensed within it. If that amount exploded, no one would survive.
It was a secret art called Blood Explosion.
That would do. There was a way. The calculations were complete. All he had to do was move.
His thoughts flowed, but his tongue did not move to chant the spell.
The thin silver line was faster. The silver line that Aker had become touched the Apostle's neck.
This was a matter of several overlapping coincidences.
Encrid's recent realization. The fact that the weapon in his hand was a magic sword. The fact that he had learned how to pressure mages through Esther. The fact that the Apostle had not expected the battle to begin like this. The fact that the Apostle usually enjoyed declaring his intentions and proselytizing. The fact that, because of this, he had tried to speak first.
And the fact that Encrid had bypassed all of that, offering no words and answering only with his blade.
Rrrrrrr!
Aker, now a thin silver line, was blocked in front of the Apostle's neck—though only for a fleeting instant. It was, of course, a mere split second. A gap in time that the Apostle could not even perceive.
It was because his defensive artifacts had activated.
Among them was one that made his skin as slippery as an oily toad. Another wrapped a steel-like barrier, a finger's joint thick, directly in front of the struck area. He was an Apostle of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult, and he had prepared for battle. Naturally, he carried various artifacts on his person. His body, too, had been grafted with the skin of monsters, making it incomparably tougher than that of a human.
Of course, none of that mattered once his head was severed from his shoulders.
Pivoting on his planted left foot, Encrid swung his sword with perfect posture and absolute control. It was a strike swung with a deep penetration of the technique's essence. It was a sword blow infused with a knight's strike.
Aker tore through both the opponent's defense and his preparations. Having fulfilled their purpose, the artifacts shattered within the Apostle's robes.
Lacking in sharpness? Then he would make up for it with power.
Capturing the precise point of impact with a single-point focus, the Heart of Monstrous Strength lent its physical might.
Slash!
The Apostle's head flew into the air. With a dull thud, the severed head fell to the ground. The Apostle's body collapsed over the corpses of the half-giant and the elf.
"Father!"
It was one of the members of the Fortune-teller Tribe who had burst out from the canyon. He was an adolescent man with tear and dagger patterns tattooed on his skin.
And with his cry:
Roaaaaar!
Suddenly, all the giants let out monstrous, scream-like roars. As they threw their heads back and bellowed, purple veins bulged across their muscles.
Crack, pop!
Their muscles swelled, and their eyes glowed as if someone had shoved burning torches into them. Their hair whipped wildly, and their skin began to turn a deep, dark brown. The transformed giants' appearance seemed to push away the surrounding sunlight and wind.
Though most of the Apostle's will had been incinerated and failed to manifest, the single intent placed within the artificial holy relic was activated as a spell.
It was the awakening of every giant present.
"You bastard!"
The moment Encrid killed the Apostle, he felt a presence rushing him from behind. He spun around and swung Aker. It was a light strike, but it was not a blow just anyone could dodge or block. It carried both power and speed, delivered at an angle that was difficult to evade.
Clang!
Yet, it was blocked.
This was blocked? Anyone else might have been surprised, but Encrid was not.
Withdrawing his sword as if snapping a strike, he brought it down again at the same angle. This was a collarbone-splitting strike of the Heavy Sword Style, carrying full weight. It was a pushing strike rather than a snapping one.
The opponent was half-airborne. As he swung his sword, Encrid's eyes swept over the opponent's attire and posture.
A short-furred vest, trousers, arm guards, facial tattoos, and a black rod tucked diagonally behind his back? It was an obsidian blade. What had blocked Aker was a dagger called a karambit. The dagger was incredibly hard; it was neither shattered nor cut by Aker. Its edge was merely slightly chipped.
Resentment and curses swirled in the opponent's eyes. In the end, he blocked the second strike as well. He twisted his dagger, deflecting the force of the sword.
This was truly surprising. In terms of raw talent, he was perhaps not inferior to Rem. Though he might lag behind right now, if left alone, he would grow rapidly.
Using his dagger to merely alter the direction of the blade, he blocked Encrid's attack and rolled backward the moment he touched the ground. Encrid made to pursue but stopped. It was a warning from his sixth sense.
While the opponent rolled backward, an obsidian spear floated into the air.
A trick? No, it was sorcery. Without anyone touching it, the throwing spear hovered in the air on its own and flew forward with a whoosh.
Because his sensory technique had flared with warning, Encrid remained stationary. Though invisible to the eye, Encrid suspected there was something holding the spear. Perhaps it was what the Westerners called an ancestral spirit.
Ting!
Blocking it was child's play. Gauging the speed of the incoming spearhead, he met it with his blade and deflected it. Then, taking a large step forward, he spun Aker half a turn behind his head and brought the sword down perpendicular to the ground.
All of these movements occurred within a single breath.
Whoosh!
Once again, Aker failed to cut the enemy. It sliced through empty air. The opponent, who had acted as if he would charge recklessly, had leaped far backward.
Retreating, the young man extended his left hand. Jingle. He wore so many ornaments that gold bells hung from each of his left fingers. Raising and shaking his left hand, he spoke.
"I shall take your eyes."
Encrid blinked. Nothing happened. The young man, left hand still extended, froze.
Grit.
Grinding his teeth, he shouted once more.
"Walk three steps and fall!"
The first was the blind man's curse; the second was the cripple's curse. Naturally, they did not work. Encrid felt no sense of ill omen whatsoever. He merely had a stray thought, wondering if the Ferryman was somewhere letting out a loud belch.
"Delicious!"
Or perhaps the Ferryman was shouting something like that.
"It's you. You swallowed the curse."
A youthful voice spoke. Glaring at Encrid with murderous intent, the young man spat those words and immediately took to his heels. Stamping his feet on the ground a few times, his body blurred and vanished into the distance.
Watching him flee, Encrid threw a dagger. The dagger flew with a sharp whistle and embedded itself straight into the shaman's back. His body stumbled briefly, but he kept running and disappeared.
He was too fast to pursue. It wasn't that Encrid couldn't catch him, but there were more pressing matters at hand.
Behind him, the giants and the Black Warrior were still fighting.