Awakening (3)

Steel met steel with a heavy crash. That was the only thought that registered as I caught a nameless knight's blade on my own: Heavy.

Thinking I could talk my way out of this had been arrogance—courtesy of Martis of House Armance, a wastrel far worse than anything I had imagined.

"It's a fight!"

"Who's going at who?"

"They're both outsiders. They look like knights, though!"

The slum-dwellers who had heard iron ring on iron came pouring in like a cloud. Life-or-death brawls were apparently nothing new to them; they tossed out remarks as if they were enjoying a show.

"All of you, attack at once! There's no need to uphold a knight's honor against a bastard like that!"

Whether Martis's shout actually stirred something in them or not, the knights answered it.

Vicious strokes came screaming in, one after another. I twisted my body, slipping past the rain of steel, and set my blade on a warped, dishonest line. A few honest exchanges had already gone wide; that was enough to decide my approach.

A whisper of a cut.

"Ghk—!"

Faced with swordsmanship that looked outright possessed, one of the knights finally ate a blow. A long gash opened on his arm. He fell back several steps and shouted with absolute conviction.

"That man hasn't learned mana!"

"That's right! He's nothing but a worm!"

At the knight's cry, Martis burst into a fit of laughter.

"All of you, use mana! You dug your own grave, brat!"

"..."

A low hum rolled through the alley.

A blue aura gathered along the knights' blades. I didn't need to ask what it was. I already knew. That was mana.

Five swords, each wreathed in mana, claimed the space around them and came crashing toward me.

At the same instant, the blades' trajectories, the flow of mana, the play of force, their stride, the follow-through, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their breathing, the variations in each attack, the weight, the path of recovery, the slack in the space between—all of it crowded into my head in a dizzying rush.

...I can see it!

Between one space and the next, I found a single gap, and I drove my sword into it.

A wet slice.

"Grk—ghhhk!"

One knight's throat sprayed a dark gout of blood. The aim had not been a beheading. His head did not fall, but blood fountained from him all the same; he staggered in place and went down.

A heavy thud.

"H-how—someone who hasn't even learned mana...!"

The knights who still had their lives intact broke into cries of disbelief.

For all the trick I had just shown them, though, I was in no easy position myself. Stamina was the problem again. I could feel it clearly: my strokes were getting slower.

A wet, tearing cut.

"Gaaaaah!"

A hiss of steel—then a heavy crash as I caught a blade on my own.

Damn it!

I had just taken another knight's arm off when I barely managed to turn aside an incoming strike. The shock that slammed into my grip was fiercer than I expected.

A drawn-out fight is far too dangerous.

The reason was simple. Stamina was part of it, but the mana the enemy was using had become a far greater threat.

Mana. That damned mana. I was the one overwhelming knights with pure technique—and yet I never imagined the mere presence or absence of it would throw the entire flow of a fight this far off course.

"A talent that shines like the sun—what a waste! Don't hold it against us. This is simply our duty!"

The knight at the front called out in a voice touched with genuine regret. Whatever about that had gotten under Martis's skin, he shoved his own words in, rough and ugly.

"The end is coming! Die! I'll butcher you, Lancelot, and that mother of his—every last one of you, and I'll make it ugly. Fitting punishment for a mutt who doesn't know his place, don't you think?"

"Just shut up. You look ridiculous, flapping that mouth like it's the only part of you still alive."

"Wh-what did you say?!"

I took a single step back toward the alley wall and steadied my breathing.

One knight dead. Another badly wounded. Three still rolling murderous killing intent off their shoulders.

The situation was not good. I had just cut down two of five men on my own, a feat that bordered on the miraculous, but the enemy was still standing. They were knights who had trained in mana to begin with; their skill existed in a different dimension from the orcs.

"...Damn it."

I poured more strength into the hand around my sword. The limit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of my stamina had arrived some time ago. Against that, the enemy used their numbers with stubborn patience. Rather ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than finish me in a single killing blow, they had chosen to bleed my endurance dry.

...If. If, say.

Mana. If I had mana too...

Wouldn't I have been able to be sure of winning?

"This is the end!"

The lead knight's sword came down in a vicious arc. I barely slipped it along a diagonal, and as I did, a flicker of familiar déjà vu rose through me.

It's like a scene out of Song of the Knight.

That was when another blade came in. The follow-up, timed as if they had rehearsed the combination, was sharper than anything yet.

A biting cut.

"Kh—!"

I had no choice but to take the hit on my shoulder. It was the same place I had been wounded in the orc camp.

I carved a cross-cut in reply. The knights turned the stroke aside with practiced ease.

Then a vicious kick smashed in from the left.

The breath exploded out of me. I tumbled across the filthy ground in a heap and immediately used my sword as a cane, forcing myself up. I could not fall. I could not die like this. Was there a more wretched death than this?

A sword wound to the shoulder, and mild internal injuries.

I got my body under me, and a thick rush of blood surged up my throat. It was a kind of injury I had never taken before.

"Worm. Kill yourself this instant. I'll forgive your sins for that much!"

"Shut your mouth, Maltese."

"It's M-Martis, not Maltese, you bastard!"

Had I hit a nerve? Martis glared at me, his face dark with fury.

"There will be no more mercy! Kill him!"

The Armance knights' swords moved like living snakes. Unwilling to stake a killing blow on a single stroke, they were all aiming for an arm, a thigh, a shoulder—anything they could take.

If I had mana too.

In the middle of that fierce, razor-thin exchange, the thought rose again.

I could have cut them down.

And in that same breath, something astonishing happened. The swords hunting my life were right in front of my nose, and yet my eyes went hazy and unfocused. The change took no more than a few seconds.

A sense of déjà vu unfurled through me, as if I had lived this once before. A low, cold voice seemed to thunder in my ears.

Mana is not some energy you pile up inside yourself.

Rain had begun to fall without my noticing. A drop struck the bridge of my nose, and the voice rode in on it.

Mana is what embraces you.

That was it.

I had no mana cultivation method. In a world crawling with internal arts—demonic arts, blood arts, virgin-boy arts, and more—picking up the wrong method would ruin everything. A straight road to a destroyed character, in every sense of the word.

And yet... why?

In that brief instant, I grasped a mysterious truth. Mana—mana was not something you seized. Mana existed everywhere in this world from the beginning.

You don't accumulate mana in your dantian... you become a world that holds mana.

The grounds were thin, but my mind understood. That was not how mana was meant to be used. Mana was—mana was that kind of thing. An unknown power that could never be grasped or bound in the first place.

A magnificent fountain of blood erupted from Frey's mouth.

And that was not all. Blood ran in threads from his eyes, his ears, and his nose as well as his lips.

"What in the world is happening right now?"

Considering the possibility that he had released poison in that instant, the knights hurriedly withdrew their blades and fell back several steps to watch.

This was a man who had overwhelmed knights with pure swordsmanship. There was no way a single kick would make him bleed from all seven orifices.

A faint crackle ran through the air.

Then a rising whine, thin and piercing, filled the alley.

"...Ha. Haha!"

"Huahahahaha!"

The knights who had been crossing blades with Frey burst into wild laughter without warning. They knew all too well what that sound meant.

Mana. And the howl of a sword overlaid with mana. Mana that had taken perfect form was screaming as if it would erupt at any moment.

"Sword Qi—it's Sword Qi!"

"Sword Qi that wounds a man..."

Those who had embodied mana were called the 1st Tier. The 2nd Tier were those who could fill a weapon with mana, and the 3rd Tier those who could release it.

Then what realm was the man before them displaying now?

"A man who had no mana until a moment ago is wielding Sword Qi."

It was a thing that left common sense far, far behind.

The knights' beards trembled.

"A legend—a myth—is being written anew. Right here, a new sun is rising."

"Wh-what are you doing? All of you! Kill him already! This is your chance!"

The knights cleanly ignored Martis bellowing behind them. And then, like warriors stepping into a battle of the highest sanctity, they tightened their grips on their swords and spoke.

"Come forth! Nameless swordsman! We are the knights of Ruten!"

Writhing black mana reared like a waking dragon, crackling as it came alive.

A hard click of a grip taken in earnest.

"...This..."

Frey's unfocused mouth opened, slow and careful.

The sky answered him, pouring down a thick, driving rain. In the slums, where the drainage was a wreck, the water wound around every ankle on the scene.

Energy past its limit tore space apart and surged forward, crackling as it went.

Frey's enemies, the knights, smiled and raised ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠their swords. And they threw themselves, willingly, into the tidal wave of the blade.

...It was a glorious death.