Chapter 4
Chapter 4
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Melee Combat (3)
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My breathing falls apart amid the furious movements. It's not full plate armor—just light gear, no less.
Even that feels more stifling and heavy than any shackles right now. But there's no time to catch my breath.
He's coming.
A merciless demon without a shred of pity.
I grit my teeth and somehow block the knight's sword as it crashes down like lightning with terrifying speed.
Kwajik!!
But in the process, my wrist snaps. I couldn't fully redirect the force, turning it into a raw clash of strength against strength.
And naturally, the one with superior power comes out on top.
Strength and speed.
Even technique.
I don't have the edge in any of it. And now injuries pile on top.
A searing heat radiates from my broken wrist. No more strength left in that hand.
So my barely intact other wrist has to handle the knight's onslaught alone.
Not that it lasts long.
I've lost too much blood.
No more strength enters my body.
The knight clicks his tongue as he looks down at me kneeling completely.
"Your spirit is admirable, but your skill doesn't keep up. Spirit without power is mere recklessness."
What a fucking asshole.
After all this bullshit, can't he cut me some slack out of sheer appreciation?
Why's the bar so goddamn high?
I'm surrendering here. What? Lack of ability?
For an ordinary person, this is more than enough.
I spew every curse in my head. Of course, it all ends with my head rolling.
"Ah, fuck, you absolute piece of shit."
At this point, it's pure hatred and rage keeping me going through the pain.
Can't be helped.
I've already died to this one guy over thirty times. How could I not be pissed?
And not for some grand reason—what? Honor??? Loyalty???
I'll kill you. Even if it kills me, I'll kill you. I'll keep killing until you're dead.
Of course, I'm not blinded by hatred. I have solid gains, at least.
The biggest is that my hypothesis proved true.
I've reached a level where I can somewhat hold my own now.
The problem is getting here took over thirty deaths.
And even that's just "somewhat." It's embarrassing to call it an even match.
Strength and speed.
Even technique.
I have no advantage anywhere.
No wonder they say you can't win no matter how many times you die and revive.
But it's not impossible.
I'm gaining experience bit by bit with each fight, and my stats are growing, however slightly.
Proof? In the first duel, I lost in one exchange. Now I last over twenty.
"Uwaaaaaah!!!"
"Fine ferocity!!!"
"Shut up, you fucking bastard!!!"
Hesitation in killing? Not a chance.
I've died to the same guy over thirty times already. He's worse than a blood feud enemy.
My sword, laced with killing intent bordering on resolve, aims for the knight's throat.
"Your strike is plain as day."
"Fuck."
Regrettably, my sword doesn't sever his neck.
I thought it landed clean. But that was just delusion.
The knight's swift blade cleanly severs both my arms in an instant. They hit the ground.
I stare vacantly at my arms rolling on the dirt. The knight speaks, looking at me.
"That was sufficient."
"...What?"
"Your skill may lack, but your will to fight for your homeland is clear. I can spare someone of your caliber."
"???"
What the hell? Is he insane?
He chops off both my arms and now says he'll spare me?
The rage that had quieted surges back. Like a thousand flames erupting.
I drop to my knees. No choice—gotta pick up my sword from the ground.
With my mouth, not hands. Agonizing pain like my teeth might shatter. Still, I grit and grab it.
"That won't..."
Die!!!
I swing wildly with the sword in my mouth. But if I couldn't do it with two hands, no way with my mouth.
As expected, the knight is briefly startled but takes my life effortlessly. This time, no beheading.
Instead, as I collapse with a pierced heart, spilling blood, he even bows his head.
"I've confirmed your mettle, Sir Rayfield von Orcd Valentis. I salute you, nameless lord."
I don't need your fucking salute.
I open my eyes again. Still on this damn wall. At least the enemy army doesn't scare me anymore.
I'll kill him.
Definitely kill him.
Stake everything to kill him.
I don't hold back the boiling killing intent. The soldiers just watch warily from the side.
Come to think of it, about thirty stuck around without fleeing now.
Maybe my words carry more weight after repeating death. Who knows.
Anyway, I roar with true feeling.
"Hans! You think fleeing lets you survive to the end?!"
Hans is the one soldier's name I remember. Common name, maybe that's why.
Anyway, my shout makes the soldiers turn to me in unison, startled.
Their panicked faces scream they're ready to bolt if things go south.
"L-Lord. What suddenly..."
"Do you really want to die under military law? Now you're trying to fool your own lord!!"
No need to read faces. I've experienced it plenty.
Over thirty deaths, and now nearly thirty soldiers stay till the end.
Meaning seventy out of a hundred still desert. I need to curb that.
"Hold your posts! Anyone leaving without orders faces military law!!!"
Truth is, I don't know military law well.
But desertion means instant execution—that much I know.
And Arpen Kingdom probably isn't much different.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Honor.
It's the dignity every noble holds—and their duty.
One who discards honor lacks noble standing. Nobles don't get privileges for nothing.
That's the creed, values, and path of life for Sir Rayfield von Orcd Valentis.
Some might call him a madman.
But he never expected universal understanding.
A thorny path of pain, sure. Yet because it's right, Valentis walks on without surrender.
Hoping someday to meet true comrades who grasp his will.
This campaign held no special meaning. A kingdom clinging to the Empire like a parasite, barely surviving.
No great talents there.
If any, they'd be in the capital, not this backwater. So he thought.
Until he saw the man boldly opening the gates and marching out with his soldiers.
Numerical odds no ordinary man could bear—especially a weak frontier lord.
Yet he opens the gates and faces them head-on.
No cowering in the castle like a coward, no hasty surrender.
If just that, one might call it foolhardy bravado.
But soldiers follow him—over a hundred.
Imperial intel said that's this territory's max force.
Not one deserted. All follow that man.
Loyalty to stake their lives for their lord.
Spirit overpowering fear.
Command to hold soldiers firm despite overwhelming disadvantage.
A satisfied smile spreads on Valentis's lips for the first time.
Never dreamed he'd find a worthy rival here.
"I, Cain Blackguard, challenge the Empire's knight to single combat!!!"
"I, Sir Rayfield von Orcd Valentis, gladly accept the duel."
It doesn't take long for their swords to clash.
At the first exchange, Valentis is inwardly shocked. Just a rural lord, he thought.
But the moment swords meet, he realizes.
'No ordinary aura. No wonder he holds a border fief.'
His swordplay is crude, but packed with power. Speed surprisingly decent.
A feral blade, rough like honed in countless battles.
Indeed.
Challenging to single combat after opening the gates—at least not mere bravado.