Chapter 613: Ragna's Iron Wall
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 613: Ragna's Iron Wall
Ropode possessed a talent honed through his specialty: calculated, methodical combat.
It was a panoramic field of vision that allowed him to survey the battlefield as if looking down from a bird's-eye view. From the moment the engagement began, he had been observing the enemy with that expansive sight. He had spotted the gaps in the crusaders' ranks long ago; he simply lacked the raw power to tear through them.
But now, he had found the perfect blade to compensate for his shortcomings.
Ropode began to run the calculations.
The trajectory of Pel’s explosive strike, the coverage needed for the gaps, the required force and speed, the timing of every movement—he processed it all.
Once the variables were settled, Ropode leaped sideways from a blood-splattered mound of earth and roared. To an observer, it looked like a sudden, impulsive surge.
"I’ll kill you no matter what!"
It was a charge seemingly aimed directly at the goat-bearded man. The reckless movement naturally left Ropode exposed, and seeing the opening, the enemy’s attacks converged on him instantly.
Clang! Clang! Rip!
Ropode parried a curving blade with the flat of his sword and twisted his waist to evade a following spiked mace. His evasion was a fraction of a second slow; the iron spikes caught his cloak, tearing the fabric.
This was the moment.
Ropode ripped away the tattered hem of his cloak and flung it into the enemy's face. The fluttering fabric momentarily blinded one of the crusaders.
The goat-bearded man had never been his true target. He was aiming for the Associate Knight-level crusader who had been fishing for a fatal thrust every time an opening appeared.
"You!"
Simultaneously, he gathered his Will and bellowed at the goat-bearded man. It was an Intimidation befitting an Associate Knight, but it carried little actual weight—it was mostly intended to bolster his own momentum.
However, it served one clear purpose.
The shout, erupting just as he threw the torn cloak, made his intended target seem unmistakable.
I’m going for the goat-bearded crusader.
He might as well have screamed it aloud.
All of this unfolded within the span of a single breath.
For an Associate Knight, whose five senses were heightened alongside their vision, having their sight temporarily obscured wasn't a death sentence. Yet, there remained a distinct difference between seeing and being blind. The Associate Knight of the Gray Army immediately reacted to Ropode’s momentum, instinctively raising his sword and shifting his weight to intercept the perceived path.
On the surface, it was merely a slight adjustment in the angle of his limbs. However, his insight had already kicked in, reading the "next" move, which meant his counter-action had already begun.
It was a thread-thin opening, lasting only a fraction of a second.
A beat before he unleashed his momentum and shouted at the goat-bearded man, Ropode spoke in his mind.
Now.
As if reading his thoughts, Pel moved. He seized the moment Ropode had manufactured through sheer instinct.
Everything is decided in an instant—both the swinging of the blade and the resolve to swing it. Pel focused entirely on that split second.
"Your stance for finding a gap and thrusting is good, but what will you do if you can't see one? You need to learn how to fight with calculation."
This was the advice he had received from Encrid. It was the most vital lesson Pel could have learned, yet the words that followed were what truly stuck with him.
"But do whatever you want. It's not like anyone's going to stop you, right?"
To be honest, he liked the latter part twice as much as the former. The former was an easy path because the direction was clear, but he had no desire to walk a predictable, easy road.
Pel didn't struggle to find a gap.
No gap? Then I’ll just create a strike that turns any spot into one.
Everyone’s path is different. Pel’s was no exception, and Encrid had respected that. Now was the moment to show the enemy the fruits of that path.
Stamping his left foot, he dropped into a low stance and surged forward. He was so low he was practically crawling along the ground. From that depth, Pel swept his sword upward. He twisted and squeezed every muscle in his body to generate spring-like elasticity, pouring his Will into the motion.
You cannot dodge this.
He locked the target in his mindscape. That focus stimulated his Will, adding explosive speed to the strike. A single, unwavering intent translated directly into power. That was the essence of Will—an intangible force forged from pure willpower.
The strike Pel unleashed drew a silver curtain from the earth to the sky. It looked like a veil of steel, or perhaps a geyser of groundwater bursting upward.
Riiip! Thud!
Pel’s sword sliced one of the crusaders from his crotch to his chin. Through the split jaw, a vertically severed tongue was visible. The lightning-fast slash left a clean, red line across the man’s body for a heartbeat before the blood finally caught up.
Had the victim not had his vision stolen by Ropode, he might have blocked it. Even if he had taken a critical wound, he might have survived.
Of course, that was all in the past now. Regardless of the process, death was the final result.
His strength spent, Pel retreated at a fraction of his charging speed.
Spurt!
Only then did blood erupt from the crusader’s bifurcated body.
Seeing this, several crusaders swung their weapons reflexively. A spear-like mace with a heavy iron head came crashing down toward Pel’s skull.
Clang!
Ropode blocked it.
Flying swords, iron lumps, hammers, spearheads—Ropode intercepted them all. His leather spaulders were torn to shreds, and sections of his chainmail shattered under the impact. Scratches formed, and blood trickled down his forearm, but none of the wounds were fatal.
Exactly four and a half breaths. That was the window Ropode had bought. In that brief time, Pel regulated his breathing and recovered.
"We’re going again," Ropode said without looking back. The exhilaration of the clash heated his entire body.
It was the same for Pel. Instead of answering, Pel tapped Ropode on the back. Even if they usually acted like they wanted to kill each other, they were both disciples under the roof of the madman Encrid. It was only natural for them to synchronize in a moment like this.
The single, brutal strike had silenced the crusaders.
"These crazy bastards."
Only the leader of the squad offered them such high praise. In his eyes, if even the slightest thing had gone wrong in that exchange, the first man to swing would have died instantly. It was an admirable strike, yes, but it was a suicidal stunt that relied on perfect execution.
From the perspective of those trained in group tactics, it was incomprehensible. No sane person risked their life like that. Normally, a warrior left room for defense even while attacking.
But these two? They just went for it. It went beyond boldness; it was sheer madness.
"Wheel formation!" the leader barked.
Pel caught his breath. Ropode began to calculate once more. For a brief moment, the two were of one mind. The battle wasn't decided yet, but the scales were slowly tipping.
*
Meanwhile, the Gray Divine Army and Encrid stood face-to-face. A heavy standoff began.
Whoosh—
A cold wind swept between the two groups. If the wind had a consciousness, it would be watching them now, unable to tear its eyes away.
Just before Ropode, Pel, and Teresa had moved to block the flank, Encrid had said something to his opponent. As a result, Mull’s plump face was currently flushed a deep, angry red.
* * *
"It seems all your 'abundance' has gathered in your belly and chin."
Those were the very first words Encrid spat the moment they met at the bottom of the slope.
"……What?"
Mull was a pillar of power within the Holy Order and one of the Seven Apostles of Abundance. There was no way she had ever heard such words before. It was likely the first insult she had received in nearly a decade. Even when the crusaders and priests under her command grew foul-mouthed, Mull herself was never the target.
Who would dare say such a thing to her face?
"I’m saying you’re fat," Encrid repeated.
It was a shallow, one-dimensional insult that she could have easily ignored, but the speaker’s deadpan attitude was deeply grating. It was especially infuriating coming from the very bastard who had been a thorn in her side for weeks.
To make matters worse, a man draped in thermal leather was snickering next to him, and even the lazy-looking man holding a greatsword was laughing along.
"Ugly flesh dwells within an ugly heart," Frok added.
"It would be nice if your heart became 'abundant' first, Sister," Audin chimed in.
Even the man who looked like a massive bear joined the mockery, making Mull wonder what on earth was wrong with these people. Above all, Mull had never lived a life that required patience. She wanted to smash Encrid's head in with a flail this instant. Furthermore, she knew there was absolutely no reason to tolerate this unpleasantness.
"Indeed, what is the point of talking? The only thing those possessed by evil spirits need is the mace."
Mull defined them as demons in her own mind, but not a single person cared for her judgment.
"I’d prefer if we didn't let a single one of them through. Who wants to do it?"
When Encrid spoke, Ragna stepped to the side without a word. As he trudged about five steps to the left of the group, Rem called out from behind.
"That’s the left. Not straight ahead."
"……?"
Ragna stopped, turned around, and asked, "Can you not even tell straight ahead from left and right, barbarian?"
Rem was pointing out that Ragna had no sense of direction, but since Ragna didn't realize he was lost, it was Rem who ended up frustrated.
"Can't I just beat him up once before we start?" Rem asked in all seriousness.
"Uh, no," Encrid shook his head.
The total lack of tension only fueled Mull’s rage.
"Are you just going to stand there and watch?" Mull hissed, her voice thick with fury.
Several figures stepped forward from the Gray Divine Army. They were recognizable at a glance—the way they walked, the way their eyes measured angles, the casual hang of their hands. One held a halberd pointed toward the sky, yet the momentum made it feel as if it were already piercing one's forehead.
They had no intention of hiding their strength.
"No wonder Lord Overdear laments," Audin said, looking at them. Encrid glanced at him, questioning the meaning.
"He means it’s infuriating to have our forces drained like this when we should be uniting to fight the real threat, Brother."
"Why don't you butt out, you lazy bear?" Rem said, drawing his axe.
There were four who appeared to be Paladins. The intangible pressure they exuded weighed heavily on the air, but the simple act of Rem drawing his axe sliced that pressure away. It was said that sorcery was more advantageous than Will in battles of intangible momentum, and Rem had just proven it. He had erected a barrier of momentum, looking as if he could take on all of them alone.
"Our talk will have to wait, Brother who acts cocky just because of his axe," Audin said.
"Talk, my ass," Rem scoffed.
Audin had promised to "educate" Rem upon his return, and Rem hadn't forgotten.
"You lack any sense of tension, holy believers."
One of the Paladins, who had cloth wrapped tightly around his wrists, spoke. It was Paladin Azratic, known as the 'Joint-Breaking Serpent of the God of Scales.'
"Indeed. Are you currently predicting your own victory?" Azratic asked.
Encrid didn't bother answering. He had already given his answer before arriving—with his words and his heart. There was no hesitation, even with Paladins unleashing murderous intent and the Gray Divine Army looming behind them.
"This one is mine."
Audin stepped toward Azratic, donning silver metal gauntlets that hadn't been seen before.
Regardless of the posturing, someone had already begun his work.
"No one passes beyond this point."
It was Ragna. The resolve in his voice as he stepped aside was so vivid that everyone’s eyes naturally turned to him.
Audin and Azratic began their staring contest, Encrid faced off against a halberdier, and Rem gestured with his axe toward the Apostle of Abundance. Ragna thought fighting a Paladin would be fun, but he was more intrigued by the "Iron Wall" Encrid had previously manifested.
Encrid had crudely gathered his Will to unleash a massive Intimidation.
What about me? Ragna wondered. What can I do?
Create the same thing Encrid did? That relied on an endless, brute-force supply of Will. One had to continuously pour energy in to maintain that wall. It wasn't a method Ragna liked. Aside from the fact that it would be difficult to sustain, it lacked elegance.
By drawing everyone’s attention with a single sentence, he had also drawn the enemy’s focus. Several commanders, their jaws tight, barked the order:
"Fire!"
Thwack-thwack-thwack!
Dozens of crossbow bolts flew toward Ragna from close range.
Whoosh.
Ragna swung his sword. No preparatory movement was visible. In reality, he had opened his chest and shifted his body's angle to grip and swing in one fluid motion. He laid the blade flat to whip up a gale, passing his sword through the space the bolts were about to occupy.
Boom!
The sound of the wind whipped up by his sword was like an explosion. That concussive force acted as a barrier, deflecting the incoming bolts. He had altered their trajectories using nothing but the wind generated by his steel.
It was easy to describe, but pulling it off was a feat of god-tier swordsmanship. Azratic, watching from the side, recognized it as something he could never replicate.
"Get down. If you stand, you die."
Ragna spat the warning after performing the near-magical feat. He gripped his hilt with both hands and twisted his waist and shoulders to the left. His stance was clear: a horizontal slash.
"I warned you."
The warning was over. He gave his opponents no room to breathe. Ragna kicked off the ground and surged forward, swinging his sword. It was a single strike, but it was no ordinary slash. It was the culmination of everything the genius named Ragna had observed and mastered.
The directionally challenged brute ran from left to right as he swung. His speed matched a galloping warhorse, and the sword in his hand was a guillotine. The footwork, drawing a long line with his slash, was a technique he had adapted from Oara. It was something Encrid had learned, and Ragna had perfected by watching him.
Rip! Thud! Crack! Snap! Screeech!
The chaotic noises of rending armor and flesh merged into a single, thunderous roar. Combining Oara’s Connecting Sword strikes with the high-frequency vibrations he had learned from watching Azpen Barnas, Ragna created a blow that no one dared block.
The problem for the Gray Army was that a single strike was not the end. The moment he reached the end of his run, Ragna pivoted and ran back to the left.
He unleashed the exact same devastating slash, over and over again.