Chapter 612: A Light That Does Not Dazzle
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 612: A Light That Does Not Dazzle
Ropode had hoped the enemy would falter after Sachsen assassinated several of their priests, but the enemy commander had been quick to pivot, blaming the deaths on evil spirits instead.
He’s quick-witted, Ropode thought.
Or perhaps the commander had prepared that exact response from the very beginning.
Ropode quietly assessed the enemy, his allies, and the terrain they held. Just then, the enemy army began a slow, deliberate advance. Factoring their movement into his mental map, he reached a grim conclusion.
If we fight inside the monastery, the casualties will be catastrophic. People will die without even a chance to fight back. We can’t count the martial priests inside as part of our actual combat force.
The choice was clear.
Gripping his sword, Ropode walked to the front of the monastery. He began clearing away the wooden barricades blocking the path and hacking through the dense brush.
In truth, he had been preparing for this ever since Esther blocked the divine spell earlier. Pel had been helping him. Seeing their initiative, Encrid had simply told them to step forward. It wasn't a deeply calculated command; Encrid had spoken because the three of them were already ready to move.
They weren't acting on some grand tactical master plan. They couldn't see enough of the chaotic battlefield to form one even if they wanted to.
As Ropode finished clearing the path, Pel spoke from behind him.
"I'm going first."
"...You bastard, I'm the one who opened the path. Why do you get to go first?"
"If you're going to fight, take it outside, little brothers."
Teresa’s shadow loomed over them, her voice offering a wise rebuke to their foolish bickering. She noticed Audin's arrival and turned her gaze toward her master.
In the distance, Audin nodded. There would be plenty of time later to catch up and share what had happened during their time apart. For now, they had a job to do.
"We're not fighting inside," Ropode said, stepping forward. "We’re going to pin the battlefield down outside. That’s the only way to keep the civilians from dying."
It meant the three of them would have to fight with their lives on the line, but that was of little consequence. After all, when they sparred with Ragna or Encrid, they were routinely pushed to the brink of death anyway. If this fight only cost them half a life, wasn't it a bargain?
Ropode truly believed so.
Because of that conviction, he did something that would have been unimaginable back when he was in Nauril: he took the lead, stepping forward rather than waiting for orders. Since Encrid had told them to step up, he considered the matter settled.
Striding forward, Ropode drew a line in the dirt with the tip of his sword.
"Anyone who wants to die, cross this line."
He had wanted to emulate something he’d seen Encrid do once before. But Pel, standing right beside him, immediately hopped over the line.
"I crossed it," Pel said flatly.
"You ignorant shepherd, I was talking to the enemy."
"Yeah, I know. But I'm going to make them taste my blade before they even get close to your line. Besides, if you've picked up a piece of iron without the talent to back it up, you'd better be prepared to lose your life, right?"
The first part was a jab at Ropode; the second was a challenge hurled at the enemy lines. Pel was completely relaxed. In his eyes, based on raw talent alone, there were very few among the approaching horde who could even hope to challenge him.
The momentum of the approaching soldiers grew fierce. The gray holy light they radiated was a testament to how deeply they were stained by worldly desires and personal gain. To men like these, authority was the highest virtue. Seeing two youths openly mock that authority caused a surge of heat to rise through the Crusaders' ranks. That heat was pure rage.
"I'll rip your mouths open before I kill you!"
The first Crusader charged. He was unmounted, a man clearly confident in his own speed and strength.
Clang!
The ground shook as he blurred into a straight line cutting across the battlefield. Pel, standing at the forefront, met him and drew a different line across the man's body.
Screech, slash.
The sound was audible only to Pel. To those watching from a distance, the scene was perceived not by the ears, but by the eyes. The massive Crusader who had charged was sliced halfway through his flank, collapsing instantly as his entrails spilled out in a long, gruesome trail.
"Gurgle..."
With a wet, bizarre groan, the fallen Crusader tried to hold his spilling guts in place, but Ropode immediately brought the flat of his blade down on the man's head.
Whoosh, thud!
The helmet buckled as the man's head slammed into the dirt. Blood pouring from his side soaked the earth, warm liquid filling the cold, dry cracks of the soil.
"That's one," Pel said.
"I finished him off," Ropode snorted, taking his place beside Pel.
The momentum of the charging Crusaders shifted. They hadn't survived this long by being complete fools. If they rushed in blindly, swept up by the mood, the casualties would only mount.
Among the Crusaders, there was a leader for every ten men—the senior Crusaders.
"Form ranks!"
Groups with long-standing traditions naturally honed collective tactics, and these men were no different. Twenty Crusaders of Abundance split into two disciplined columns. Meanwhile, six Crusaders of the Scales, confident in their individual skills, approached Teresa, who had stepped off to the side.
"A giant? This should be worth my time," one of the Crusaders said, licking the edge of his supple, flexible sword. "Tough skin means she'll be satisfying to carve up."
Did Teresa have nothing to show for her time training under Encrid? Of course she did.
"You're going to get metal poisoning on your tongue," she said calmly.
The sharp tongue and blunt provocation—traits inherited directly from Encrid—rubbed the Crusader the wrong way. His smirk twisted into a sneer.
"Bitch."
It was crude language for a man of the cloth, but Teresa’s mind remained steady. Though now was hardly the time to sing of peace, she remained composed. She adjusted her shield, angling it diagonally to her left, noting how the six Crusaders were spreading out to surround her.
The six had no intention of losing. They drew their weapons, maintaining a tight, suffocating formation. Looking at them, Teresa briefly recalled her training sessions. Just the memory made her stomach churn. The madman's conditioning had brought her to the point of dizziness and nausea, even with her half-giant constitution.
What had she grasped at the end of that hellish ordeal?
Teresa stepped out with her left foot, anchored her right, and lowered her stance. It was a posture that allowed her to slam her shield down the moment anyone entered her reach.
"Hmph!"
One of the Crusaders lunged, swinging a flail. It was a specialized technique aimed at striking over the top of a shield to hit the wrist behind it. Teresa subtly shifted her guard, catching the flail on the reinforced edge of her shield.
Clang!
Iron struck iron. A deafening roar echoed across the clearing. It was an attack that completely disregarded defense in favor of pure impact. Teresa immediately countered, swinging the sword in her right hand. Backed by her monstrous strength, it was a vertical slash that plummeted like a falling star.
Two other Crusaders flanking the attacker moved to block. They held thick iron rods, crossing them to catch Teresa's blade.
Clang!
The second clash was even louder, a roar that threatened to deafen anyone nearby.
"We'll make you regret stepping forward," one of her opponents grunted, his brow furrowed under the strain.
Their tactics were simple but effective: one primary attacker supported by two covers. It was a three-in-one formation. Since there were six of them, they could launch simultaneous attacks of equal power from both the left and right.
Teresa blocked one side with her shield and either deflected the other with the flat of her blade or struck back. On the surface, she seemed at a disadvantage. The attackers could rotate positions to stay fresh, while she was pinned.
Yet, Teresa didn't see this as a crisis. Defending against this was far easier than blocking Ropode and Pel when they attacked her in tandem. Nor was the lack of openings in her opponents' defense a problem.
"If the door does not open whether you pull or push, question whether your own strength is lacking."
It was a passage from the Holy Scripture—specifically, the Bible of the God of War. Teresa had always liked that line.
When Encrid had demonstrated a strike that condensed Will, Teresa had realized she was already capable of something similar. She just had to channel that Will into her innate giant strength to force open the doors that refused to budge.
Clang.
She blocked with her shield and deflected a blunt weapon from the right with her pommel. Seizing the split-second opening, her blade traced the same trajectory as before. The vertically falling blade slammed down onto the crossed iron rods.
Boom!
A different kind of roar erupted.
Crack.
Followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering bone.
"...You brute," one of them gasped.
Even with two of them dispersing the force, they couldn't withstand a power that simply overwhelmed the physics of the clash. Moreover, Teresa hadn't relied on brute strength alone. If she had, Audin would have sighed in disappointment. Her method of releasing force had evolved; the technique was now far more sophisticated.
The moment she struck, she had twisted her blade to direct the entirety of the impact toward the man on the left. She had tilted a blow that was already difficult for two men to withstand, focusing it all on one.
It was a variation of Holy Penetration, a specialty of the paladins.
As the force concentrated, the sound of the impact changed. The wrist of the man on the left snapped instantly.
"Heal him!" one of the others shouted. But allowing them to do so would be a failure of basic combat logic.
Teresa’s sword and shield began to move to a new, violent rhythm. She was faster now, more aggressive. She used her shield as a weapon, gripping the handle near the edge and using the rim like a massive, blunt blade.
As the edge of her shield tore through the surface of a Crusader's armor with a sharp rip, the man cried out in shock.
"You crazy bitch!"
Teresa actually beamed at the insult.
"Oh? You know the name of our order?"
Proving she wouldn't lose the war of words either, she made her affiliation clear.
"Crazy—!"
As another Crusader started to shout, she thrust her sword forward. It wasn't a simple stab, but a heavy, weighted blow. It was the kind of attack that a clumsy parry couldn't stop; it would do far more than just break a few ribs.
The sword she drove forward pierced deep into the thigh of an enemy Crusader.
Thud! Crack.
As the bone shattered into splinters, the Crusader let out a horrific, bone-chilling scream. A shard of the broken femur tore through the flesh of his thigh from the inside out. This was the result of her deliberately driving the strike inward, delivering the impact deep into the marrow.
"Block her! The God of Scales watches over us!"
In their desperation, they unleashed their holy light. They were clad in gray beneath the sunlight. Their light was dull—not dazzling in the slightest.
With that thought, Teresa continued to swing. While she cornered and broke the six Crusaders, Ropode and Pel faced their own trial.
"Why are you standing back-to-back with me?" Pel grumbled.
"Piss off and go play with some sheep. Don't stay here," Ropode shot back.
The two continued to trade barbs, but neither actually left the other's back exposed. Not every Crusader was at the level of an Associate Knight—those were rare in the world—but one out of every ten was undeniably skilled.
The ten of them would attack in waves, defending and retreating to swap with their comrades. There was no opportunity to corner a single opponent. Furthermore, the ten had different habits and skill levels, and because they had time to catch their breath between rotations, they poured everything into every strike. Deflecting them all to turn the tide was no easy task.
A battle between a weak majority and a strong minority often came down to stamina, and the fight was heading in that direction. Among the Crusaders, there were two who had reached the level of Associate Knight, and both were dangerously patient. They didn't charge blindly, choosing instead to coordinate with their men.
To make matters worse, the Crusaders began to use their mouths as weapons.
"Idiots."
"Where do you think you are?"
"Just a pair of dumbasses."
"I'll cut out the tongue of whichever one of you talks more first."
"Where did you say we shouldn't cross? Dipshit."
"Go cry to your mommy."
Every single one of them had a knack for trash talk. Under Mull's command, these Crusaders frequently dealt with merchants and bandits; their verbal sparring skills were honed to a razor edge. One goat-bearded bastard in particular pronounced "dipshit" with such juicy emphasis that it was hard not to lose one's temper.
With over ten men throwing insults, Ropode and Pel couldn't win the war of words. They were forced to endure a relentless cycle of verbal abuse and steel.
Nick.
A spearhead grazed Pel's cheek, drawing a bead of blood. Pel retreated, kicking a stone with the toe of his boot. He had been moving calculatedly to create an opening. The stone flew with a sharp whoosh, only to be blocked by a shield.
Thud.
The stone shattered, but the line held. No opening was made. On the other side, Ropode was busy deflecting spearheads and morningstars with the flat of his blade.
Pel knew how this would end if they kept it up. And if he knew, a guy like Ropode knew even better. Ropode’s entire specialty was built on that kind of calculation.
"Hey," Pel called out.
"What?" Ropode replied, adjusting his footing.
Pel, moving in perfect sync, asked, "You see the opening?"
The two of them had a terrible relationship. Truly awful. But because they were so hyper-aware of each other, they possessed the best coordination in the entire order.
Normally, once a warrior reached the level of an Associate Knight, fighting alone was more efficient than fighting in a group. When one's martial power became a weapon of war, others just got in the way—but for these two, it was different.
Pel knew Ropode's specialty. Ropode knew Pel's.
Ropode lacked Pel's explosive power. He used a swordsmanship style that built momentum steadily—the opposite of putting raw power into a single strike. Of course, knowing his weakness, he was currently incorporating the Heavy Sword style into his orthodox foundation, learning from Ragna. Ragna wasn't a good teacher, but he never turned down a spar, and Ropode had made great strides.
Conversely, Pel relied on explosive swordplay and animalistic instinct. Calculating moves or building up a fight wasn't his forte. He was weaker at the battle of wits than Ropode.
Under normal circumstances, Ropode would have preferred not to associate with Pel at all.
"Huh? Did your mom sleep with a ghoul?" the goat-bearded Crusader mocked, his beard twitching.
Looking at that face—a man fully deserving of the title "son of a bitch" rather than "Crusader"—Ropode decided a temporary truce was highly acceptable.
"There's a bastard over there whose tongue is at least captain-class," Ropode noted.
"Yeah," Pel agreed. "I'll let you be the one to cut it out."
The Crusader's insults had done the impossible: they had united the two rivals.