Chapter 791: The Sparring Was Long
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 791: The Sparring Was Long
"Your skills..."
The faint smile on Oara’s face faltered. It wasn't that she always wore a grin, but she wasn't easily rattled. However, the way her eyes blinked in rapid succession made her surprise obvious to anyone watching.
It was only natural. Even after a few brief exchanges, it was impossible not to realize he was a different man.
From his inexhaustible Will to his swordsmanship, his mindset, and his sheer mastery of Will—the Encrid standing before her now was a far cry from the one she had met in the city once known as Thousand Bricks, which now bore her name, Oara.
Just moments ago, Oara had brought her sword down in a heavy arc, only for Encrid to deflect it with a precise thrust. In response, Oara had used her strength to arrest her blade as it was forced back, shifting her footing to redirect the residual momentum.
The skills of the knight who had renamed a city were as sharp as ever. Encrid confirmed this through the clash, while Oara realized that the man before her had undergone a total transformation. A smile played on her lips once more. This was proving to be far more amusing than she had anticipated.
Seeing how much Encrid had changed and crossing blades with him like this... it was likely the only moment since her capture by the Balrog that a genuine smile had graced her face.
"Didn't I advise you to throw something away back then?" she asked, a casual question born of old memories.
Encrid replied nonchalantly, his voice immediate, as if the matter wasn't even worth a second thought. "Ah. I ignored it."
Oara chuckled, her eyes narrowing. "...You’ve certainly developed a knack for getting under people's skin."
She was learning something new about him: the man had a tongue like a ghoul. Scraping at someone’s nerves with a straight face and a stoic attitude only doubled the irritation. Having survived countless battlefields, Oara knew that tactic all too well.
Clang.
This time, Oara thrust forward. Encrid brought his sword down in a tight, efficient arc. Their blades met lightly and parted. Not a single spark flew. They swung, evaded, blocked, and parried in a seamless dance, as if performing a perfectly choreographed spar.
This wasn't Oara’s doing; she was merely matching Encrid’s intent.
I knew he must have improved to make it this far, but... was he really this good?
Oara found herself surprised again and again. Originally, she had no intention of playing around with her sword. She didn't want to drain his strength, which was why she had planned to skip the sparring and go straight to talking. She was only humoring him now because he had insisted.
Despite her surprise, Oara knew that this level of skill was still not enough to overcome the Balrog.
But then, do I have any right to say anything?
Probably not. Oara watched his eyes as they moved. They were as clear as a cloudless sky, harboring a light rarely seen in a place like this. They revealed a resolve that would never falter, no matter the odds. That was why she couldn't stop him. By what right could she hinder someone who stood here swinging his sword of his own free will?
Even if the end was predetermined—even if the conclusion of the story was already written in blood—Oara felt compelled to read it to the end. Even if that end was a tragedy.
It’s still not enough.
She knew from fighting it countless times: the Balrog was not an existence that could be dismissed as a mere monster that fought well.
As always, time was finite. Whether in the world above or inside this labyrinth, every beginning had an inevitable end. Oara decided it was time to move forward, regardless of whether the path led to tragedy or triumph.
Thud.
Having shoved his sword aside, Oara was about to declare that their time was up.
Encrid, yielding to the pressure without resistance, sheathed his sword. There was a crisp, military discipline to his movement; it wouldn't have been surprising if he had followed it with a formal salute.
Oara murmured to herself, Right, you must know the time has come as well.
But just as she was about to speak, Encrid beat her to the punch.
"Do you know how to fight bare-handed?"
With that, he suddenly lunged. Oara dodged a fist aimed squarely at her brow. This time, she couldn't evade with a casual smile. She twisted her waist, shifting her center of gravity, and snapped her neck back sharply. Simultaneously, she thrust her open palm forward—a counterattack born of the realization that simply dodging wouldn't suffice. A knight’s insight and reflex took over.
Thwack!
Encrid had targeted her face with his left fist, then drove his right elbow forward to strike her incoming palm. The impact was loud and heavy. He wasn't holding back.
Her palm blocked, Oara retreated like a startled rabbit, executing a double jump backward. Since her specialty involved a linking sword style that required constant movement, her footwork was extraordinary. Even to a master’s eyes, her shift of gravity was lightning-fast.
"...What is this?" Oara asked as she backed away.
"A warm-up," Encrid replied calmly.
"So, I'm just a warm-up to you?"
Oara realized once again just how exceptionally skilled Encrid was at wagging his tongue. This bastard really knew how to grate on her nerves. Regardless of his experience, he had a natural talent for provocation. The mention of the Balrog she had been about to bring up vanished from her mind.
"Why? Is Oara without her sword, Laughter, just third-rate? A piece of trash? A small fry? Is that it?"
While the smiling Oara was a knight of incredibly resilient mind, she was not the type to let such insults slide. She was someone who crushed her opponents with sheer skill, no matter what they said.
"It's not quite like that, but..."
The blue-eyed bastard replied with utter nonchalance. It was that very composure that truly set her off. Oara reacted, and Encrid smiled. She took even that smile as a challenge.
"Fine. Let's see who hits the dirt first."
Once, she had roamed the battlefields with nothing but a single blade. That was her life before she became a knight.
"Bring it on!"
Her name had become legendary because she had slain ten renowned mercenaries single-handedly. They had ambushed her, targeting her alone in a war where elite-focused tactics were common. They had calculated that killing her would win them the war, even if they lost the battle.
"I'll make you crawl between my legs."
The bastard who had kept provoking her back then had been the first to have his crotch sliced open. She never tolerated provocations. Why was she remembering that now?
Oara gathered her scattered thoughts and gripped her sword. Laughter, her imprinted weapon, was gone. But the 'self' who had wielded it still existed. Whether this was a fragment of her soul, a remnant of her memories, or a crumb of her thoughts, she did not know.
He had asked if she could fight bare-handed, but she ignored the question. Her hand went straight to her sword.
Shring.
The drawn sword rode the flow of the air. Her blade was an unstoppable line—an endless wave. Oara’s sword traced a diagonal arc, and Encrid’s sword met it along the exact same path. It was a downward strike in the opposite direction, as if he were her reflection in a mirror. The two blades clashed in midair.
Clang!
Sparks flew. Both had swung with genuine force. Oara was wearing a wide-sleeved robe, and the impact of the clash pushed her sleeves all the way up to her elbows, revealing fine lines of muscle rippling like waves.
It's fluid.
In the briefest instant their swords met, Encrid grasped the nature of Oara’s style. Reading her so quickly wasn't just a matter of skill; it was because he had known her before and had used her techniques as a benchmark for his own training.
He applied pressure, shoving her sword aside with heavy, raw strength.
Screeech!
Just before their blades locked in a bind, Oara realized she was being overpowered in the exchange. She retreated instantly, then lunged forward to swing again along the same slanted trajectory.
The rapid tap-tap of her feet kicking off the ground was followed by a dull-colored blade falling in a fierce, rigid strike. Encrid raised his sword, smoothly redirecting the force.
Screeech.
Their swords crossed, and they swapped positions. Oara now had her back to the campfire. The torch stand was distant, but the campfire was close. Standing between the light sources, their shadows overlapped. Just as their bodies crossed, so did their gazes.
Those inscrutable blue eyes remained upright, clear, and pure. Oara finally realized why she had remembered those ten mercenaries. She had noticed their ambush long before it happened. Their tactics hadn't been sophisticated. Yet, knowing full well what was coming, she had humored them anyway. Just like she was doing now.
This was a choreographed spar. Oara knew that if she fought with everything she had, she could leave at least one wound on him—even as a mere crumb of thought—but she chose not to.
"You really have improved a lot."
"Thanks to ignoring you back then."
"...Did you always talk like this?"
"Ah, it seems you were the one who tuned me out, Knight Oara. I was always like this."
If there were a competition for the most obnoxious speaker on the continent, this bastard would surely be the champion.
Oara had wanted to help Encrid by humoring him. She had intended to pass on the experience she had gained from fighting the Balrog, but...
...Why do you already know everything?
How to utilize wings, how to break free from intimidation, and even how to handle strikes flying in from outside the realm of calculation—he knew it all.
It was only natural for Encrid, who had fought the Balrog over a hundred times recently, but from Oara’s perspective, it was baffling. Not that she could demand answers.
From then on, Oara understood what Encrid wanted. Even without speaking, their intentions aligned through the clashing of their steel. She swung her sword with utter disregard for defense, while Encrid parried, deflected, and blocked every single strike.
Their sparring was long. Long enough, in fact, for a certain group of madmen to come looking for the madman who led them.
"Ah, let's stop here."
Oara backed away in the middle of their prolonged exchange. Encrid naturally lowered his sword and took a stance.
There was no time for words. Oara’s body suddenly flew sideways, flung to the side like a puppet on a string.
Immediately after, a dark-red, leathery foot burst out from the shadow where she had just been standing. Their positions had swapped again; Oara was now the one with her back to the campfire. The foot had erupted from the exact spot where their shadows overlapped.
It happened right under his nose.
Encrid’s thoughts slowed to a crawl. The air pressed heavily upon his shoulders, and his dynamic visual acuity, far exceeding human limits, identified the entity rising from the shadow. In truth, he would have known even without seeing it. His insight, forged through death and experience, recognized the presence instantly.
The Balrog’s foot had burst forth. Even within his dilated perception of time, the limb left a blurry afterimage. It was a trajectory and speed that could not be evaded, no matter how much he accelerated his thoughts. Furthermore, it wasn't just a physical strike; it was accompanied by a crushing intimidation. An intangible pressure, manifested as burning chains of dread, bound his limbs.
Bam!
Encrid was kicked. His body flew backward in a flash, hurtling toward the wall. But the impact never came.
Thud.
A massive hand—one as large as a bear’s paw—caught Encrid mid-air, redirecting the force to the side. The hulking figure who caught him spun, dissipating the momentum that could have easily shattered the wall and buried him within it.
A high-pitched ringing buzzed in Encrid’s ears. Though he had protected his body with Will, the sudden acceleration had caused tinnitus. Even that quickly faded, thanks to his sturdy physique.
The very person who had helped train his body to become what it was now was currently supporting his back.