Chapter 169

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Translator: 8uhl

Chapter: 169

Chapter Title: The Sword That Slays Dragons.

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Shhrrrrk.

From the tips of her fingers—white and slender as jade rings—extended hundreds of threads.

Threads infused with psionic energy far more potent and pure than that of hundreds of Seven Dragon Society masters combined. They twisted together in midair, forming the shape of a tiger.

Two massive tigers lunged forward, kicking off the ceiling beams as if they were living creatures.

Slash!

A single gleam of sword light pierced both beasts, beasts that could have shredded a tank to pieces.

With one draw of his blade, he severed the necks of the two tigers charging from either side—a technique from one who had reached the pinnacle of the sword.

The threads lost their form and scattered, their heads severed.

But that was an illusion.

The threads that seemed to scatter wove themselves back together in an instant, forming ten wolves in the blink of an eye.

Under the leader's command, they stalked their prey.

Seven wolves charged at Rimon in perfect unison.

Four aimed to clamp onto his wrists and ankles, two rammed his body from front and back, and one went for his throat to finish him.

Crack, crack.

But Rimon didn't falter.

He spun in place like a top, bisecting the four wolves.

Twisting his body at an angle and arching his back to evade the two body slams, he simultaneously drew his sword diagonally, slicing their throats.

Then he thrust into the brow of the wolf lunging for the opening, piercing it clean through.

A simultaneous step forward.

Thud, thud, thud.

While Rimon dealt with the wolves, the three that had targeted Tata were cleaved in half with each of his strides.

The threads forming the wolves tried to intertwine again into new shapes, but Rimon ignored them.

He charged straight toward Aynsha, the one controlling the threads.

Perhaps because there was no time to weave complex forms against Rimon's lightning-fast assault.

Aynsha hastily drew back her threads to form a thick barrier and five spears.

The barrier, capable of deflecting even shells, blocked his path, while the spears—able to pierce bunkers in a single strike—targeted his vital points all at once.

Screeech!

But that was all.

As if such hastily made toys could never stop him.

The moment Rimon's sword, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠which had split the barrier with one stroke, lazily traced a circle in the air.

The five spears halted in midair like petals caught in a spiderweb, then shot back toward Aynsha, following the tip of his blade.

Aynsha dispersed her psionics in an instant, scattering the spears.

Her response was swift.

But not swift enough.

By the time she disrupted the spears, Rimon was already right in front of her.

The blade thrust out immediately.

A thrust so simple it was all the more terrifying, plunging into Aynsha's thigh without even giving her time to blink.

Clang!

What blocked the blade was the flared hem of her garment.

The cheap 5,000-won cardigan Rimon had bought her became an impregnable fortress in that moment, deflecting even the sword of a Sword Master that could pierce a 500-billion-won warship.

Rimon wasn't disappointed.

As if he'd expected it to block, he swung his sword again without the slightest hesitation, attacking Aynsha.

Aynsha showed no agitation either.

Facing the storm of chilling sword gleams, she countered with her impassive face, swinging the cardigan to meet them.

And so, the brawl began.

Shwick-shwick-shwick-shwick!

She wrapped the swung sword with her cardigan to block it while twisting her body slightly and extending her leg toward Rimon's abdomen.

Rimon deftly withdrew his sword from the gripped cardigan to parry the kick.

The spiraling twist that seeped along the blade toward her wrist the moment it seemed to connect was dispersed with a mere flick of his sword tip.

A counterattack unfolded simultaneously.

Dozens of strikes in succession, artfully avoiding vitals while targeting areas that would hinder movement.

Aynsha defended against the barrage—like a raging storm—with her cardigan while channeling psionics according to the Fairy Wave Style.

Clang-clang-clang!

The cardigan fluttered like a fairy's wing robe yet repelled the sword like waves pushing back even the mightiest ship.

With each clash, the sword grew faster, and the cardigan's ripples grew larger and fiercer.

The moment those ripples peaked.

A wave of psionics burst from the cardigan.

Seizing the opening as Rimon cleaved it head-on, the edge of the undulating cardigan whipped across his chest.

Boom!

It was just a thin cardigan.

Yet infused with psionics from the Iron Robe Long Robe Style and Fairy Wave Style, it sent Rimon skidding back as if struck by an iron mace.

But the expression on his face wasn't one of dismay—it was a cold smile.

And in Aynsha's mind, staring impassively at her halved cardigan and her bruised blue arm, a single question arose.

'Why?'

Rimon had exploited the momentary gap when she fused the two styles' psionics to whip her arm and slice the cardigan.

His skill was impressive, but not surprising.

He was the Sword Duke, after all.

The Seven Dragon Society's greatest nemesis.

Still, seeing Aynsha freeze in unresolved doubt, Rimon spoke softly.

"You still don't get it? Why you can't read my future?"

"……."

Aynsha flinched.

Rimon chuckled at her body's honest reaction, so at odds with her expressionless face.

"Nothing to be shocked about. It's just a trick."

"Impossible."

"No, it makes perfect sense."

How could a mere trick block precognition?

Dismissing her instinctive rebuttal, Rimon continued in a languid voice.

"This is a trick the Sword Emperor figured out while fighting your ancestors, the seven dragons."

"……!"

Perhaps because the words were so unexpected.

The moment Aynsha's pupils shook.

Rimon mercilessly exploited the opening and swung his sword.

Even amid her agitation, Aynsha reflexively moved to counter Rimon's attack.

With one hand, she swung the half-remaining cardigan to parry the sword; with the other, she unleashed countless beasts and weapons formed from hundreds of threads.

She deflected the assault with circular motions while spinning like a vortex to deliver a kick, countering and disrupting the flow.

Her movements were otherworldly.

A display befitting the strongest expert of the White Dragon Clan, wielding principles from myriad styles as the situation demanded.

But Aynsha had no room for leisure. Sweat beaded on her impassive face.

She foresaw her wrist being severed.

But it missed.

She foresaw striking Rimon.

But it vanished.

She foresaw blocking the sword strike.

But it entangled.

At first, it was just that she couldn't see Rimon's future.

But as the close combat dragged on, and each time she parried his sword, even her own future began to blur. That fact shook her.

'No. This is horrible.'

To her, the prophet, it was terror.

A sensation more dreadful than going blind in real time, ears deafening, limbs detaching bit by bit.

That was why.

Why Aynsha forcibly shoved Rimon back and drew up her psionics.

It wasn't because she judged she needed to end it quickly as predicting her next move grew harder.

It was a desperate urge to shake off this sensation as soon as possible that drove her to take the risk.

She overlapped her hands, infusing the thousand threads with psionics from the Heavenly Net Shaping Style to give them form.

She pulled the threads to add the Iron Robe Long Robe Style's steel-like toughness, flicked them to seep in the Fairy Wave Style's undulations.

She wrapped the midpoint around her ankle for the Spiral Submerging Leg Style's rotational force, and pressed the threads with her toes to infuse the Tai Chi Wandering Style's softness.

Thus, psionics from five styles mingled into the thousand threads, amplifying repeatedly.

From the thousand threads crossing and intertwining a thousand times in midair, a single form bearing a pure white glow exploded forth.

Ruuuuumble.

It was a marvel.

A white dragon form filling the ceiling—so intricate it was hard to believe it was made of mere threads.

But it was no mere ornament of beauty.

The psionic waves bursting with each twitch of the white dragon and the studio shaking as if struck by an earthquake proved that.

"Whoa! What is it? An, an earthquake?"

"M-More importantly, what's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that? Special effects? Was that planned?"

Perhaps due to the sheer spectacle and shockwaves.

The host, staff, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and audience—who had been oblivious until now—looked up at the ceiling.

But Rimon neither panicked nor was surprised.

He merely gripped his sword with both hands at a diagonal, letting out a smirk.

"A dragon in front of me, of all things... How amusing."

Long, long ago.

The first Sword Master, the Sword Emperor, had faced the seven dragons ruling the world and the Seven Dragon Society almost single-handedly.

The greatest hindrance to him had been their precognition.

No matter where he fled, they found him; no matter when he struck, they knew. It crushed the will to resist itself.

But precisely because of that, amid repeated assaults and escapes, the Sword Emperor gradually mastered ways to counter precognitive foes.

Those ways accumulated principles during his battles with the seven dragons, forming a systematic technique.

"Then I'll show you mine as well."

The sword learned alongside the Sword Emperor against dragons.

The same battlefield as the Sword Emperor.

Bathed in dragon blood like the Sword Emperor.

A sword only his two disciples could learn.

No Sword Master after dared to comprehend it, and with one dead, only the last remaining one remembered it.

The Sword Emperor's final disciple now awakened that swordsmanship, lost even to legend, across eons.

"What it means to slay a dragon with the sword."

Thus, the writhing dragon form opened its maw toward Rimon and lunged.

The instant Rimon thrust his sword toward the dragon form.

—The future of the world split apart.

"……!"

Aynsha swallowed hard.

Not just because the dragon form—imbued with the power to crush mountains—was being shredded like meat in a grinder.

Only she could truly see what Rimon was doing right now.

The future split.

The certain future into two.

Two imperfect futures into four.

Then eight, sixteen.

Each sword swing split her precognition, unleashing a storm of tens of thousands, hundreds of millions of futures.

'Th-This…….'

What he was cleaving now wasn't just the dragon form or psionics.

Just as he'd once piled up process and cause to shatter Tata's precognition.

The sword principles he'd built step by step—reading her thoughts, predicting her moves—overwhelmed as undeniable reality, slicing through her shallow futures.

Only then did Aynsha understand.

It was only natural that precognition didn't work on Rimon.

For one who could create infinite possibilities with a single sword swing, there was no fixed future.

And she realized simultaneously.

This was the Sword Emperor's sword.

The sword of the transcendent who, with just two disciples, faced the seven dragons and ended the Bronze Age.

The sword that forged its own future.

Knowing that, her ancestors had fled from Rimon without ever confronting him.

But by the time she realized it.

Rimon had already cleaved the dragon form entirely, and his sword was extending toward her.

Overwhelmed by the absolute sword that even severed futures, Aynsha was about to take the blade without resistance.

"Princess!"

Slash!

A shadow interposed between her and the blade.

Splattering crimson blood hung in the air, staining the cheeks of Aynsha, whose eyes were wide in frozen shock.