Chapter 56
Chapter 56
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 56
Chapter Title: Jacques Noire (2)
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"It's interesting, but nothing special."
When Demian spoke those words, Jacques Noire felt a flicker of anger.
The swordsmanship he wielded was an advanced technique that low-class riffraff had no right to belittle.
Pseudo-True Mirage Sword.
The signature sword art of the Swordmaster Mirage, who had shone a century ago.
Mirage had been a renowned Swordmaster of his era—one even the Empire, said to be overflowing with Masters, had to watch closely.
When Jacques Noire obtained the manual for the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword, he was so thrilled he nearly lost his mind.
But the joy didn't last. Most of the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword had been lost to time.
Still, Jacques Noire couldn't let it go. The prestige of the name Mirage was simply too immense.
He believed that mastering a perfectly restored Pseudo-True Mirage Sword would elevate him to Master realm.
So he devoted his entire life to it.
After endless effort, Jacques Noaire had restored only about 30%—but even that allowed him to create illusions indistinguishable from the real thing.
"You seem awfully proud of that sword art."
That was why every word from Demian Haksen grated on him.
The Pseudo-True Mirage Sword was everything to Jacques Noire—the guide that would lead him to Master realm.
"I'll shatter that illusion."
The sword in Demian Haksen's hand began to hum with sword resonance.
Seeing it, Jacques Noire felt a chill of unease.
In all his years, he had never seen a sword art that amplified sword resonance like this.
Demian flicked the blade with his finger. The resonance exploded outward in all directions.
A storm of sound swept the area. The afterimages charging at Demian turned to dust and vanished.
No, it wasn't just the charging afterimages. Every single afterimage Jacques Noire had created disappeared cleanly, leaving him utterly alone.
"......"
The unexpected sight left Jacques Noire's mind blank.
Illusions from the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword weren't so easily dispelled.
Slashes or thrusts from a sword did nothing. Only an accumulation of shocks beyond what ordinary people or low-class knights could deliver would make them fade.
It wasn't for nothing that a Master had made it his mainstay.
And yet, a mere sound had wiped them all away?
"That's the biggest flaw of illusionary sword arts. They have clear weaknesses to match their strengths."
Demian readjusted his grip on his sword. Jacques Noire's instincts screamed in alarm.
"Now it's my turn."
Demian charged at Jacques Noire.
The sight snapped Jacques Noire back to reality. The fight wasn't over yet.
"Don't get cocky just because you cleared some afterimages, you low-class scum!"
A low-class knight daring to take the offensive against a middle-class one.
Unthinkable. Jacques Noire burned with rage.
The two swung at each other.
Dozens of trajectories clashed and vanished. The clash of steel rang out repeatedly.
"Demian Haksen! You'd better get your head straight from here on out! I'll show you the true essence of illusions!"
Jacques Noire thrust his sword at Demian Haksen, creating two afterimages at the same time.
Three Jacques Noires struck simultaneously. Their three blades each targeted different vital points.
In that instant, Demian ran his palm along his blade. Sword resonance pealed out.
The resonance erased the afterimages, exposing the real Jacques Noire.
"What?"
Compared to before, it was a ridiculously faint resonance. And yet it had been enough.
As the stunned Jacques Noire faltered, Demian swung. A long gash opened on his cheek.
He had taken a wound from low-class trash.
Before the pain could even register, thick humiliation flooded Jacques Noire's body. Murderous intent exploded in his eyes.
"Don't get above yourself!"
Jacques Noire channeled mana to create illusions.
But the mana scattered before it could form even one. No matter how many times he tried, the same thing happened.
The user of an illusion sword unable to create afterimages.
To the bewildered Jacques Noire, Demian said,
"A middle-class knight like you really should grasp the situation better."
Only then did Jacques Noire realize why his illusions were blocked.
It was Demian Haksen's sword.
That damned sword's resonance was disrupting mana condensation, preventing illusions from forming.
"Th-this... how...!"
For the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword to be thwarted by such a simple trick.
Impossible. It couldn't be.
"Time to end this."
Suddenly, Demian Haksen's speed increased. The number of trajectories multiplied.
"Th-that's... impossible..."
He had no room to speak. Jacques Noire desperately parried Demian Haksen's strikes.
"Huh? Careful, or you'll lose an arm."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Jacques Noire's forearm burned. Demian Haksen's blade had grazed it.
"Get your head in the game. You'll lose your wrist next."
This time, his wrist was sliced. Not deeply—just a shallow cut through the skin.
"If you're only watching above, you're screwed. Look below too."
His pants and thigh split open simultaneously. Again, just a skin-deep cut.
Jacques Noire's eyes shook violently.
He, a middle-class knight, was being overwhelmed by a low-class one. No, "overwhelmed" was too dignified a word.
He was being toyed with like a plaything.
"This sword... do you even know what sword art it's from? It's not something trash like you can handle!"
Jacques Noire screamed. Demian Haksen let out a scoff.
"You're making such a racket over some mediocre sword art."
"Mediocre? Don't talk nonsense... Gah!"
Demian Haksen kicked Jacques Noire. His body flew backward.
It had hit a very unpleasant spot. Jacques Noire stabbed his sword into the ground and coughed.
"Y-you bastard..."
Jacques Noire glared at Demian Haksen, who now stood at a distance.
"Before I kill you, let me show you something fun."
Demian Haksen took a step forward. An afterimage lingered where he had been.
With each step, another afterimage appeared.
Dozens of them dotted the ground.
"Y-you..."
Jacques Noire pointed a trembling finger at Demian Haksen.
"H-how... the P-Pseudo-True Mirage Sword..."
"I learned by watching."
"Ridiculous..."
"Oh, and I can do this too."
Demian snapped his fingers.
Suddenly, the afterimages swung at each other. Those struck by blades vanished.
Jacques Noire's jaw dropped at the sight.
He couldn't control afterimages with such precision.
The best he could do was command a single motion. Issuing different orders to each was a pipe dream.
"Jacques Noire, snap out of it. This sword art isn't that impressive."
At Demian's words, Jacques Noire slowly shifted his gaze.
"To be precise, it's a pretty decent sword art. But it's broken. Weird, right? The underlying principles are highly advanced, yet the techniques built on them are garbage."
Demian Haksen continued.
"There was probably an original sword art. You must've tinkered with it on your own—a botched modification. You wouldn't ruin a perfectly good technique on purpose, so maybe you failed at restoration."
Demian Haksen wasn't just mimicking the sword art.
He had peered into its every detail.
"Once you grasp the principles, creating techniques is easy. The original probably looked something like this."
An afterimage appeared before Demian Haksen.
It stepped forward. Then it began to split.
One became two, two became four, four became eight.
Soon the world was filled with afterimages.
"......!"
The Pseudo-True Mirage Sword as restored by Jacques Noire could only create illusions where the user stood.
That's why he moved constantly—to leave afterimages behind.
But Demian Haksen had conjured them while standing still. And in numbers several times what Jacques Noire could manage.
At this point, they weren't mere afterimages.
They were duplicates.
"Pseudo-True Mirage Sword, was it? This must've been the original form."
To restore the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword, Jacques Noire had collected every tale about Mirage.
Many claimed the Master called Mirage wasn't one man, but dozens.
Because his illusions moved just like the real thing.
Jacques Noaire had strived endlessly to realize those accounts.
But all he could make were afterimages, not duplicates.
What Jacques Noaire couldn't restore in a lifetime, Demian Haksen had perfectly reconstructed in mere minutes.
"H-how... how did you restore... the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword... perfectly?!"
"Just did."
Demian said it nonchalantly.
"It just worked when I tried."
Those words darkened Jacques Noire's eyes.
* * *
As a child, Jacques Noaire thought he was a genius.
His fellow trainees were all far weaker. He reached low-class realm years ahead of the others.
How could he not be deluded? He was a "genius."
That delusion shattered right after he became low-class.
In a duel against another knight dubbed a genius, he lost in one strike.
His first defeat.
His first bewilderment.
His first rage.
Emotions tangled within him. Jacques Noaire refused to accept the loss and demanded a rematch.
The result was even more humiliating. Unlike the first time, where he'd at least swung once, this time he couldn't even raise his sword before losing.
When he demanded to know how he'd been beaten so easily, the genius replied,
-Just did.
-It just worked.
That single phrase shattered Jacques Noaire's delusion.
He wasn't a genius. Just a bit better than average.
From that day, he obsessed over the sword like a madman. He cast aside all pleasures to focus solely on training.
After over a decade, he reached middle-class.
And the "real" geniuses had advanced to high-class.
Faced with a gap effort couldn't close, Jacques Noaire despaired.
That was when it began—his obsession with elixirs and Masters' techniques.
He thought supreme elixirs that enhanced senses would compensate for his lacking talent.
He hoped the knowledge left by Masters would grant insights he couldn't reach alone.
Another decade passed.
Jacques Noaire was still middle-class.
Others would have given up, accepted their limits, and settled.
But Jacques Noaire refused. He was determined to surpass the "real" geniuses.
And today, he heard those same words again.
"It just worked when I tried."
Long-accumulated emotions ignited.
They were like rotten oil. The flames devoured them and roared fiercely.
A rage too vast for even Jacques Noaire to contain surged up.
"You just said... 'just'?"
His grip tightened on the sword hilt involuntarily.
"Yeah! It just worked, right? Just! Just! That damned 'just'!"
His teeth ground together. Blood rushed to his veins, ready to burst.
Geniuses were always like that.
They casually matched what he strained desperately to achieve.
And always spouted that absurd line: "Just."
"It wasn't luck! You're a genius, a genius! Demian Haksen! You're a genius too!"
Jacques Noaire began to laugh spasmodically. Madness seeped from the laughter.
"No, not just any genius! No genius I've ever seen could do what you did!"
No genius Jacques Noaire had encountered could steal another's sword art like Demian Haksen.
Yet Demian hadn't just stolen it—he wielded it perfectly and restored it on the spot.
"Enough. I don't need anything else. I'll throw away everything I have to kill you!"
If he couldn't become a Master, he'd find meaning elsewhere.
In this moment, Jacques Noaire decided his purpose was crushing Demian Haksen—this once-in-a-generation genius—before he could bloom.
Jacques Noaire possessed more than just the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword from Master-class techniques.
He jabbed his fingers into key points on his body.
He stimulated mana channels.
The stimulated channels sent his mana into rampage, drawing out his latent power.
Mad Drug of Severing Vitality.
The secret art used by a war incarnate Master to burn away his final life in desperation.
Far superior to the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword in level, but unusable without sacrificing one's life.
A mutual destruction technique manifested.
His muscles swelled across his body. Mana raged ferociously.
Jacques Noaire raised his sword. The wildly surging mana formed blazing red Aura.
"Die!"
He brought the sword down. A massive slash cleaved Demian Haksen's body in two.
"......?"
But something was off. No blood flowed from the halves. The cut surfaces were hazy.
"No way...?"
The bisected Demian dissolved into an illusion.
He had fooled his eyes using the Pseudo-True Mirage Sword's techniques.
Betrayed by his own art.
Veins bulged in Jacques Noaire's eyes. The whites turned blood-red.
"Demian Haksen! You son of a—"
In that instant, a sword bursting from behind sliced Jacques Noaire's throat.