Chapter 125
Chapter 125
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 125
Chapter Title: Knight Tournament (2)
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‘So that’s how it is.’
He shores up his defenses to buy time while unleashing poison to chip away at the opponent’s health.
It was a surefire tactic as long as his defense was solid enough, even if it took time. After all, few could resist poison at this stage of the game.
Some might call it卑鄙 and underhanded, but Rokan had no intention of condemning him. If anything, he respected the strategy.
It was effective against most foes as long as you could keep acquiring potent poisons.
The problem was, it didn’t work on Rokan at all.
The fate of a defense-all-in warrior immune to poison was—
“Gaaah…”
A sandbag. Nothing more, nothing less.
No matter how many defensive skills he stacked, Rokan’s attack power was off the charts.
Each blow hammered away at his armor’s durability and carved deep chunks out of his health.
To make matters worse—or better, from Rokan’s perspective—he activated Armor Break. He methodically shattered the gear the man prided himself on, then used Blood Mark to top off his own health.
Not that he’d taken much damage to begin with.
“Second match, winner: Rokan!”
“Wooooaaah!”
“You idiots!”
Lord Remington exploded in fury as the users lost match after match.
He berated them as if trusting these visitors in a territory-on-the-line battle had been his mistake, spewing curses left and right. But the Meteor Guild members could neither argue nor resist.
They could only bow their heads like condemned criminals.
Of course, once the knight tournament ended, they wouldn’t have to anymore.
“Next!”
“The third match…”
The third and fourth opponents weren’t users—they were NPCs. Sure, users had beaten Remington territory’s knights to earn spots in the tournament, but not everyone had.
Unless you were a freak like Rokan, getting assigned to a barony meant your skills were at that level.
Even if they were capable, Lord Remington wouldn’t fill his slots solely with knights he’d known for years.
Letting users take two spots was already a generous concession.
Maybe he’d been that confident of victory. Now he was learning how hollow that dream had been.
‘His face must be burning.’
Rokan almost pitied the man’s flushed, trembling rage.
Just one more win, and the tournament would end. In Rokan’s favor.
The final foe was the highest-level knight in Remington territory, but anyone could see he wouldn’t measure up. Rokan had dispatched the others too easily.
“Hold on! I request a strategy huddle.”
“Strategy huddle?”
Carbon frowned slightly at Lord Remington’s demand. Was there such a thing in knight tournaments?
He could refuse, but it would give Rokan—who’d been fighting nonstop—a moment to recover stamina.
It was a proposal that hurt them more than helped, leaving Carbon with a conflicted look.
“Lord Carbon, a moment.”
Just then, a messenger delivered news to Carbon.
His face twisted unpleasantly. Bad tidings, no doubt.
Soon, his declaration followed.
“Fine. Granted. But only one minute. Use it to strategize—or surrender.”
“Thank you.”
With Carbon’s approval, Lord Remington bowed and gathered his knights like a sports team huddle.
‘What’s their game?’
Rokan couldn’t guess this time.
No matter what they tried, they couldn’t beat him. And in this sacred tournament decreed by the emperor, any funny business meant losing the territory—or worse, clan extermination.
Poison suicide? Banned drugs for a power spike?
Rokan didn’t care. Even if he died, he’d respawn. As long as it ended in victory—forfeit or otherwise.
“Gah!”
Thud.
Then, chaos erupted in Remington’s camp during the huddle. The knight slated for the next match clutched his heart and collapsed.
“A spider!”
“You bastard! Die!”
The drama escalated. Lord Remington personally beheaded one of the men surrounding the bleeding knight.
The target took the blade without resistance—almost like he’d offered his neck.
“What happened?”
“There was an assassin.”
For an assassin story, Lord Remington was awfully calm as he lied.
“An assassin?”
“Yes. Seems there was some plot tied to this tournament.”
What gall. Was he angling to nullify the finished tournament?
Rokan and Carbon’s faces hardened—they hadn’t seen this coming—but Lord Remington pressed on undeterred. He clearly had powerful backing.
‘At least a high noble or councilor.’
Pulling this with a ‘councilor’ as referee meant he trusted his cover—or was that desperate.
Did Remington have that kind of pull? As Rokan racked his brain, Carbon spoke first.
“So, you want me to cancel the emperor’s sacred knight tournament?”
At least Carbon wasn’t bought off.
Irked by the boldness, Carbon snapped, and Remington smirked back with a proposal.
“Heavens, no. How could I commit such blasphemy? I merely request permission to replace our final fighter, who met with an unfortunate accident.”
“Replace the opponent?”
Carbon’s eyebrow twitched. Changing a designated fighter could end the tournament on his call.
But why oblige?
The recent message nagged at him. Rokan made a fine pawn, but did he warrant ignoring a request for some no-backup user?
After weighing it, Carbon decided.
“Very well. Permitted.”
“Thank you.”
Deep down, Carbon thought a setback for Rokan—who’d rocketed to full barony as a visitor—might make him easier to control.
He didn’t know Remington’s trick, but he could shield Rokan from post-tournament backlash.
“Our final knight is this man… er, this person.”
‘Crazy bastard.’
A face Rokan hadn’t seen at the tournament’s start now stood there.
Things had gone south, so they’d clearly summoned him mid-event.
“Sir Hashimoto?”
Rokan knew the name.
Master Hashimoto.
A knight who’d reached master level.
“Wasn’t Sir Hashimoto with Count Ruberon’s house?”
“He’s my knight as of today.”
Carbon questioned it, but Remington produced documents.
A sworn oath from Sir Hashimoto pledging to Remington territory.
Knight commissions couldn’t be faked, so Carbon had to acknowledge it despite the scheming.
“Fine. Approved.”
Against a normal NPC, Carbon might’ve refused. But as a respawning visitor, Rokan could handle it, suspicions aside.
‘This fucker…’
Backing a mere baron like this meant Remington and his patron desperately wanted to win.
Even a name-only master knight transfer would report to the emperor, barring a quick return.
‘Damn. At least he’s a fresh master. Small mercies?’
Rokan’s mind raced.
He couldn’t scrap his plans over one master-level foe.
Anyone else might fold, but not him.
Pure stats aside, with Berserk as a trump card, he could scrap even against a master.
A seasoned master? Slim odds. But a newbie? He might not fully harness his power.
‘Win chance: maybe 10%.’
Still low.
That 10% assumed Berserk and Rokan’s control. Any other class? Under 3%.
‘Master skill…’
The reason: master skills.
Like combos but leagues superior, they created massive gaps between masters and non-masters.
Unlike class-limited combos, master skills synergized any skills without limits.
Nail the combo, and it outdid ultimate moves.
Rokan’s SSS-rank status and “King of Violence” moniker stemmed from them.
‘The key is how well he’s built his.’
More or higher skills didn’t guarantee power. Rokan could only hope Hashimoto’s was mediocre.
He knew the man’s later master skill, but few stuck with their first.
Early ones often barely topped top combos due to inexperience.
“Fifth match: Rokan versus Hashimoto! Begin the final bout!”
Swish.
Despite Carbon’s call, neither moved much. They probed for openings.
A timing battle between masters, turning slits into chasms.
Rokan struck first. Waiting blindly didn’t suit him against unknown cards.
He switched to offense to clash and fish for intel.
“BOMBARDMENT!”
“Aegis Shield.”
BOOM!
The lightning-fast Bombardment met a combo head-on. But he held firm behind unyielding defense, eyes gleaming.
Clearly a cut above those flattened by one Bombardment.
“Strike.”
As expected. Rokan stepped carefully, slamming his axe atop the shield.
Clang! Swoosh.
Before the explosion faded, the axe fell—but he calmly blocked with shield and counterattacked.
Probing with a sword thrust while holding defense.
Solid fundamentals.
“Hmph!”
But Rokan wouldn’t roll over.
He Guarded the sword aside, dropped low, and swept the ankle—tough to shield.
“Haat!”
A split-second defense dilemma—he leaped, dodging the sweep and slamming shield-edge down.
“Counter!”
“Tch.”
Backstep to lethal strike.
Yet again, he turtle-shelled behind the shield.
‘Tanky bastard.’
Rokan’s full 8-strength gear versus 300-level kit.
Even moderately reinforced, gear edge was hard to overcome, and stats wouldn’t lag with bonuses.
But halting attacks didn’t suit him.
Rokan chained Dash and Charge, ramming the ironclad shield.
“Shoulder Charge!”
Boom!
The foe finally lifted—self-jumped to mitigate, but his stance broke first time.
Rokan pounced.
“Unyielding Advance!”
“Hup.”
Another body-check feint—then spun mid-air.
“Escape.”
Ring skill teleported behind.
Full plate, but unshielded back was weaker. Rokan unleashed a barrage.
“Whirlwind!”
“Emergency Mobilization!”
Ten strikes in one breath—but on afterimages.
The real foe had Escaped afar. Back to square one.
“Not bad. Your attack power’s near-master level.”
Hashimoto, nullifying all with zero damage, praised sincerely.
He’d underestimated the non-master, but that power matched anyone he knew.
The admiration irked Rokan.
“Who the hell are you calling near-master, you arrogant prick?”
Snorting, he prepped another charge.
“To honor you, I’ll get serious. Behold—my master skill.”
Hashimoto flipped shield to back, gripped longsword two-handed. Blue haze rose from the blade with fire and lightning.