Chapter 717: Danger, Intensity, Clumsiness
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 717: Danger, Intensity, Clumsiness
"I won't let you fall to something as pathetic as poison. Got it? And if you have something to say, just spit it out."
Just before Ragna stepped forward, Anne handed him several medicinal vials from behind.
Ragna considered telling her that he had already contracted the disease, but he decided against it. Now was not the time.
He knew exactly what he needed. As always, the moment he gripped his sword, the path ahead became clear.
Poison.
Rynox had mentioned that Hescal coated his imprinted weapon in venom. Yet, Ragna’s Will did not react. All that remained on his shoulder was the mark of a successful surprise attack.
The blood flowing from the puncture wound was quickly washed away by the rain. Not a trace remained. While the heavy downpour played a part, it was mostly because Ragna had clamped his muscles shut to seal the wound the instant he was stabbed.
That physical training method wasn't half bad, fanatic.
The training he had picked up by watching Encrid over his shoulder was proving its worth. He had also learned a few tricks directly from the fanatic himself.
"Haha, Brother, that's it! That's the spirit! Why don't we add some more weight? More, more, more, more!"
Hmph. I almost had a nightmare just standing there.
The man wasn't called a madman for nothing. He wasn't even trying to fight; he just kept shouting about how great it was while chasing Ragna with a massive lump of iron. When Ragna swung his sword to drive him away, it inevitably turned into a sparring match. Honestly, back then, it was practically a life-and-death struggle.
Both of them had fought with a fair share of lethal intent mixed in.
A monstrous fanatic who is impossible to subdue in one go.
That was how Ragna had evaluated Audin that day. And then, he swung his sword.
He had learned the concept of intensity through Encrid, but it didn't always manifest. Still, sparring with the parasites clinging to the Captain—with half his life on the line—was more than enough to set his body and mind ablaze.
Whenever he took risks, his motivation would rear its head. It was the same feeling as when a stray kitten suddenly silenced its steps to approach, or when a barbarian picked a fight out of nowhere and lunged.
If those moments didn't happen naturally, Ragna would go looking for them. When he needed a stimulus, he picked the fights himself. Especially when a brawl broke out in the Captain's absence, he could trade blows against a much more brutal backdrop.
One wrong move, and death would creep up to lick his cheek. If he lost focus for even a second, his throat would truly be ripped out. He had faced countless moments where he had to take that final step off the edge of a cliff. He had to step into the flames and dance. He had to walk barefoot on the edge of a blade.
If he didn't...
I will never be the youngest.
That was absolutely unacceptable.
Ragna lowered his sword and stared straight ahead.
I am absolutely not going to be the youngest.
His resolve blazed, transforming into Will.
Just as Encrid’s Will had shone during battle on that fateful day, a similar light surged within Ragna. Rather than be the youngest, he would brave any danger. If intensity was required, he would drag it out and weaponize it. This was why his motivation was welling up like never before. Ragna was dead serious.
*
Hescal returned to his initial stance, shrinking his sword, Camouflage, back to its original size. He faced Ragna with his body half-turned, hiding his left hand behind his back. He stood casually, staring with an air of indifference.
Displaying such composure was meant to intimidate his opponent, forcing them to constantly calculate the shifting length of Camouflage. It cluttered the opponent's mind, aimed to drain their stamina through nagging wounds, and secured a psychological advantage.
It was all calculated.
Of course, if he had seen an opportunity to kill his opponent with that single strike, he would have finished it then and there, but he couldn't. Hescal had delivered the blow and retreated out of pure instinct.
Cornering with the Orthodox Sword Style, piercing with the Illusion Sword Style. There was no change in his tactics, and he had landed a clean hit, yet...
His eyes.
Hescal would never show tension outwardly—no swallowing hard or nervous shifting. On the surface, he remained perfectly calm. Despite the hole in his shoulder, Ragna's posture was unchanged. He hadn't moved an inch from where he had dodged. It was safe to say he hadn't budged at all, save for a slight flinch when the sword pierced him.
Shhhhh.
The pouring rain pelted his eyelids. Medusa's Curse did not affect him. Thus, Hescal kept his head held high, but Ragna did not. Ragna's head was slightly tilted, his gaze lowered.
His eyes were hidden. In a fight between someone with restricted vision and someone with a clear view, the one who could see naturally held the advantage.
Yet, why was it so chilling?
Hescal felt his muscles tighten, tensing up like an irritated viper.
Why?
Instinct recognized the danger before reason could. Ragna had done nothing, but the countless real battles Hescal had survived gifted him with a preternatural sense of dread. It was threatening. A chill ran down his spine.
In other words, he had sensed a crisis.
When was the last time I felt this?
He couldn't even remember.
Hescal pursed his lips and let out a long, slow breath. Starting from his internal organs, his abdominal muscles relaxed, and the tension tightening his body was forced into a mask of tranquility. The breath massaged away the stiffness.
Meanwhile, his eyes swept over Ragna's body once more. Because Ragna held the grip with both hands and lowered his arms, his left arm crossed his abdomen. He had swung his greatsword once, but looking at him now, Hescal realized: Ragna hadn't truly moved yet. That greatsword was the source of the threat.
What he holds is a two-handed sword.
He had no other weapons, and his offensive technique was likely a style that staked everything on a single, decisive blow. It felt similar to what Hescal had taught Riley.
What I taught Riley was modeled after the Clan Head's.
Since Ragna had also learned in his childhood, his swordsmanship would naturally resemble Tempest Zaun’s.
Should I consider myself lucky to have sensed this danger even now?
There was no need to ask; of course he should. As his thoughts flowed, he predicted the techniques Ragna would display. This would increase his chances of winning. He also understood why he had felt that dread.
You've trained quite a bit, Ragna.
The strike Ragna was preparing would be formidable.
But, Ragna...
Hescal narrowed his eyes as the rain pelted down, wrinkles forming at the corners. Hescal had survived as a swordsman for a long time, overcoming countless near-death experiences to reach this point. It was thanks to those years that his instinct had triggered the alarm. The small fruits of wisdom he had gathered by repeatedly braving danger would save him once again.
Not everyone fights honestly, child.
If he didn't know that, he would have died long ago.
Rumble, crash!
Lightning snaked across the sky over the sorcery snake. The flash replaced the light blocked by the dark clouds, a white glare temporarily expanding everyone's field of vision. Hescal waited until the afterimage faded before speaking.
Until then, Ragna remained silent, standing in the exact same posture.
"That must hurt."
The words were intended to shake his opponent's composure. To win a fight, one must do whatever it takes. Children trapped in the well of Zaun do not know this. The same goes for geniuses. They think facing someone head-on with pure skill is the only path to victory.
Fair and proper methods? There is no such thing in a real fight.
Ragna Zaun, do you understand this truth?
Probably not. To gain such wisdom, one needs the experience of desperately struggling against a superior foe. One must overcome the wall blocking their path. Sometimes, such experience was more important than raw talent. The kind of experience that breaks through limits. That becomes the strength to move forward when your feet sink into the swamp of despair; it serves as the foundation of an unwavering will.
It would be difficult to expect such things from you.
Perhaps the only impressive things about him were his crude but improved eloquence and the concentration he was displaying right now. There was no sign of him being shaken by Hescal's words. Ragna simply stood there, serene.
Suddenly, Encrid of the Border Guard came to mind. Even in Hescal's eyes, that man was extraordinary. Regardless of his current skill, the traces of his arduous path were etched into his very being. It wasn't just about the scars; everything from his ingrained habits to the choices he made during sparring spoke of a man who had crawled through hell.
If it were him, it might have been a bit different.
Along with his thoughts, Hescal spoke.
"Watch out."
With that, he thrust his sword from the exact same stance. Ragna reacted even faster than before. If Ragna moved at his previous speed, he would be pierced by the deformed sword, so it was only natural for him to accelerate.
Hescal snapped his wrist mid-thrust. The blade silently extended from the advancing sword, twisting in midair and lunging forward at full length. Even with the same slash, extending the blade doubled its range. Hescal aimed to strike upward at the greatsword hanging low.
Use what you've prepared!
The moment he impacted the greatsword with Camouflage, a hidden blade would spring out horizontally to sever Ragna's neck. He calculated the angle and gauged the force Ragna's sword would exert. He would clear a path and corner his opponent.
With everything calculated, he swung—and with a sharp slice, Ragna's cheek was cut.
Instead of swinging his greatsword, Ragna had momentarily stepped back, escaping the lethal range. Then, Ragna's foot kicked off the ground. His advance was faster than his retreat. The ground shattered under his boot with a thunderous boom, leaving a crater.
Closing the distance, Ragna raised his foot, aiming to shatter Hescal's knee.
If there was one thing Hescal excelled at, it was defense; he was second to none in House Zaun. He bent his knees to lower his center of gravity and brought his left hand down to cover his abdomen. With a metallic clack, the gauntlet wrapping his left hand transformed into a small shield, blocking the kick.
Thud!
The moment the blow landed, Hescal hopped back slightly, dispersing the impact. He distributed the shock across his ankles, knees, and waist, bleeding off the remaining force by jumping.
Having kicked the shield, Ragna pulled back his left foot and slammed it into the ground, utilizing the rebounding force.
Crash!
His foot sank up to the ankle. To anyone else, it looked like an attacking posture, but his greatsword remained still. It was a feint. Hescal, thoroughly accustomed to deceptive tactics, was not fooled. He read the muscle movements, the shift in momentum, and the tension in the fingers gripping the hilt.
Besides, if Ragna swung now, it would be easy for Hescal to dodge. No matter how foolish Ragna might be, there was no way he would unleash his trump card in such a clumsy manner.
Hescal did not underestimate Ragna.
"Clumsy," he muttered.
Ragna did not reply.
Hescal continued his onslaught. Sometimes Ragna dodged, and sometimes he received minor cuts on his forearms or neck. If Alexandra's fight had been a single-strike showdown, this felt like a contest of endurance. Hescal constantly calculated several moves ahead, cornering his prey. Ragna seemed to barely dodge each time.
How much time had passed? It was a duration that could be considered either short or long. It was long for a battle between knights, yet short in the eyes of an ordinary person. Time, by nature, was relative.
It was the same for the two of them. To one, the present moment felt short; to the other, it felt long.
Hescal paused just as he was about to swing his sword.
A dead end.
The Orthodox Sword Style, forged from experience, intuition, and talent, was like a guide leading him. But the path ahead—the one he had to open with his sword—was blocked. It was a pity; just three more swings and he could have cornered Ragna. But if he continued this sequence, he would leave himself open to a counter-strike.
Knights displayed movements that transcended human limits, but they were not omnipotent. Limits existed.
If you want a prolonged fight, I'll give you one.
Hescal swung his sword again, seeing through the clumsy feints Ragna occasionally threw out.
Blocked again?
Even precise swordsmanship was bound to have errors. If there was an error, he simply had to correct it. Hescal was fighting while looking several moves ahead, not just one. As far as the Orthodox Sword Style was concerned, he believed Ragna could never hold an advantage over him.
Yet, a succession of strange things began to occur. Dead ends kept blocking his path.
It's not connecting?
Creating a path with the sword and cornering the opponent—this simple tactic was being stifled at the source. He needed to swing, but the path kept cutting off abruptly. If he struck down from here, he could see the result: either his sword would break, or he would be forced into an evasive maneuver from a posture where he couldn't exert his full strength.
What if he backed away completely? Was Ragna's footwork fast enough to close the gap?
Yes, it was. He had seen it during that kick earlier. The physical abilities and movements Ragna had shown so far naturally painted the next picture in Hescal's mind.
Only then did Ragna open his mouth.
"You're clumsy, Hescal."