Master of Combat
Master of Combat
Ereta was no fool.
One did not become a high priest through lack of intellect or deficient empathy. High priests were those who had proven their worth and significance among the priesthood.
Meaning, they were the most capable among a given god's followers.
Ereta's fighting prowess may have been the primary reason for her elevation, but she had not become a high priest by accident.
And being who she was, the moment she saw the girl who had suddenly appeared and landed a solid hit, she had already pieced the situation together.
The scarlet-haired girl who had materialized out of nowhere was unmistakably stronger than when Ereta had seen her days before.
If it were merely a matter of increased strength, that would be one thing. But what drew sharper notice was the divine presence occupying the space around the girl—its intensity had swelled.
Even so, the girl was no hybrid, no mixed-blood offspring of priest and human. She bore none of the priestly stigmata distinctive to hybrids. Her identity was simply that of an ordinary human.
An ordinary human producing this kind of strength?
The notion was absurd.
Ereta understood.
And once she understood, she pointed at the girl.
"You are the last descendant of the Ancient God. Is that not so?"
A chill voice. A cold, expressionless mask ill-suited to her gentle features. Angie fell silent at the sight of that face, and Aslan answered with a matching absence of expression.
"Does knowing that change anything?"
"What do you mean?"
Aslan gave the sword in each hand a single rotation, and the air split with a singing keen.
"Whichever one of us you try to kill first, whatever scheme you've laid... in the end, you can't accomplish anything unless you take us both out."
At that, Ereta's eyes went cold and she gave a short, scornful laugh.
He was not wrong.
"Truly, you've become a nuisance. I prefer my fights at a more... recreational level, you see."
Aslan did not dignify the grumbling woman with a reply. He lunged, and at his side, the girl lunged with him.
Swoosh!
Fittingly, Aslan struck first. A broad horizontal sweep of the single-edged longsword. The darkness-limned blade scoured empty air as Ereta tilted her head back to evade.
"Hup—!"
Crunch!
She conceded her leg to the spear-haft driving in low. The limb buckled with a sick crack.
A grimace flickered across Ereta's face. Aslan crossed the arm that had swung with the arm that was about to swing and delivered a short rising cut.
Even as she toppled, Ereta drove one leg into the earth with monstrous strength and arrested her fall. From a grotesquely contorted posture, she thrust her forearm into the path of the incoming blade.
Cr-rack!
Ereta's forearm was incomparably harder than any ordinary person's. Hard enough to stop even a sword-blow from Aslan laden with his considerable attack power—once.
Ignoring the blood welling from the slash inscribed across her forearm, Ereta whipped her arm around and smashed the back of her fist into Angie's head as the girl closed in from behind.
"Guh—"
That backhand carried the monstrous force capable of popping a human skull like an overripe fruit.
But Angie's body was no longer that of an ordinary human. Blood streamed from her nose. Her face twisted in pain. But she did not die.
Ereta's eyes rolled—flicking to Angie, then to Aslan. Aslan was already pressing in, recovering from his sword strike. Angie was staggering, but she would be attacking again in a heartbeat.
The Saintess of Slaughter clicked her tongue and kicked the ground with the same leg she had braced.
Kwaaaang!
The ground cratered. Her body launched backwards. Having opened distance in a way no ordinary human could, Ereta took in the sight of the man and woman standing side by side, their eyes fixed on her.
"Ah... damn, that hurts."
The girl spat blood and wiped her nose.
The man lifted the blade he had struck her forearm with to eye level, examined the blood slicking the steel, and shifted his gaze back to Ereta.
Aslan exhaled at the sight of the gash on Ereta's arm—already closed.
There had never been a perfect plan from the beginning.
Ereta had no clear weakness to exploit. That was simply the reality of it.
All they could do was fight to survive and fight Ereta with everything they had.
Aslan's strategy for hunting Ereta existed only up to the preparation stage. Everything beyond was improvisation.
Cut her, tear her, again and again, until that monstrous regeneration finally faltered. Then, when it did, kill her.
It was a reckless approach for someone like Aslan, who possessed no regeneration whatsoever, and for Angie, who had only begun to draw on her power as a descendant of the Ancient God.
It sounded like the plan of a madman. But there was no alternative.
No other path existed.
This was the only plan with any chance of victory. Even if Aslan threw every tool and method at his disposal onto the scale, he could not forge a better one.
He had held Angie back—the one most likely to collapse first from lack of combat experience—until she leveled up.
He had reserved his own regeneration for the aftermath of the long battle to come.
And he had opened the fight having already dealt her meaningful damage with a bow.
No set of circumstances could have been more favorable.
Now, only two things mattered.
Focus. And Fighting Spirit.
Fortunately, those were two things Aslan possessed.
Aslan charged alongside Angie.
Between Aslan's twin flashing blades and Angie's wild, haphazard spear-thrusts, Ereta irritably swept the weapons aside and counterattacked.
Claaang!
The counter shattered Angie's spear. Her forearm tore open in a wide gash, blood spurting.
Angie did not retreat. She gritted her teeth and pressed in. As the girl dove low, Ereta drove a knee into her face.
"Gahk—!"
Her head snapped back violently. A blow that would have killed any normal human. The girl staggered for a breath—and lunged again.
Ereta was about to swing her axe at the girl rushing toward her when Aslan's sword came crashing down.
Chaaang!
Aslan chopped downward. The Saint, caught off-balance, swung upward. Axe and blade bit into each other and shrieked.
Thwack!
Angie's fist found its opening. Ereta's head rocked sideways.
Aslan twisted at the waist, flowing with the movement, and thrust out a cut. A short, stabbing slash that raked across the nape of her neck. The flesh tore—and regenerated.
Face crumpling in annoyance, the Saint reversed her axe and swung. Aslan accepted the brutal blow with an angled blade, deflecting the force. Blood ran from the hand and forearm gripping his sword.
And so it went. Aslan attacked; the Saint defended. The Saint attacked; Aslan deflected.
In between, a pommel strike he failed to turn aside smashed into his flank. He did not fall back. He fought on even as he coughed up blood.
The exchange broke the moment Aslan's sword shattered.
Chaeng-gang!
The blade snapped at the body. The Saint sensed opportunity and raised her axe—
Thud!
Angie's fist slammed into the Saint's midsection. Blood burst from Ereta's mouth.
In the same beat, Aslan kicked the broken blade that still hung in the air. The spinning steel buried itself in Ereta's chest, and fury ignited behind her eyes.
She lashed out with that fury and kicked Angie. A front kick driven with full body weight, launching the girl backwards.
Aslan filled the gap immediately, sword already swinging. A diagonal rising cut. The nape of Ereta's neck tore open once more.
Ereta allowed the hit and reeled. However freakish a high priest's regenerative abilities might be, even she could not shrug off a direct strike to a vital point with impunity.
Especially one who had not abandoned her human form.
So the instant the reeling Saint righted herself, Aslan came at her, blood pouring from his mouth.
The axe came screaming in horizontally. Aslan tilted his sword and caught the blow.
He angled the hilt. The axe skidded along the down-turned blade and was deflected.
Before Ereta could recover her weapon, Angie was already rushing in from behind her.
She cocked her arm back, then launched it forward. A brutish, unsophisticated haymaker—a telegraphed punch—but against the unprotected Saint, there was no dodging it.
Cr-rack!
The fist buried itself into Ereta's spine. Her back arched as the follow-up attack was wrenched out of her. Aslan's sword ripped through the nape of her neck again in the same opening.
Blood fountained. The regeneration slowed.
"Guhk—aaaah!"
Desperation rising, the woman swung again. The blow caught Angie across the face and sent her sprawling.
Ereta, frantic now, weathered the storm of Aslan's cuts.
Technically, Aslan held the advantage. Physically, Ereta did. By all rights, she should have been able to crush him like an insect.
But Aslan deflected her attacks, endured them, and struck back—over and over. Ereta absorbed those hits, and with each one, she could feel her regeneration wearing thinner.
Even just receiving the attacks drew blood. Broke bone. Aslan's entire body was already drenched in gore.
Still, he did not retreat.
How...?!
Whenever the battle's balance seemed about to tip, Angie—who should have stayed down—rose again and attacked.
Every tiny opening the girl created was exploited by Aslan's ferocious cuts, steadily carving away at Ereta's regeneration.
Desperation curdled into bewilderment.
This was not how humans fought.
Ereta strangled her panic and blocked Aslan's next strike with her forearm once more. Weakened regeneration meant the arm was severed, but the blade's momentum died. She twisted her hips and kicked Aslan away.
Then she smashed the haft of her axe into Angie's head, flattening her.
Angie's eyes rolled back, unconscious. Aslan, hurled backward, lay crumpled on the ground.
The woman looked at him and thought:
Don't get up. Please, don't get up...
Despite her silent plea, Aslan rose. Blood streamed from his mouth where her kick had caved in his abdomen. Not a single part of his body remained whole—yet he rose.
Unless she rendered him into scattered meat, he would rise again and again.
A sudden, chilling certainty settled over Ereta: she could no longer even imagine putting him down.
"Why...?"
Aslan stood, a broken sword and a sword on the verge of ruin leveled at her.
She could not comprehend what she was seeing. And because she could not comprehend it, she screamed.
"Why won't you fall?! Just die already, I said!"
Ereta was exhausted. Her regeneration had begun to slow. Wounds were beginning to linger on her body. The small cuts went unhealed as her body prioritized the larger injuries.
Cornered and thrown into turmoil, the woman cried out. And Aslan answered.
"Because I'm the only one... who can."
He raised his lowered eyes and met her gaze. In those eyes, not a shred of fear.
Unlike hers.
I'm... afraid?
Irritation flared at this fight that refused to go her way.
Rage at the sight of Aslan taking her attacks head-on and answering with telling blows, again and again.
Impatience at her regeneration beginning to bottom out.
Bewilderment at these two who, struck down and beaten, refused to stay down.
And at the end of it all, for a single moment, Ereta felt fear.
Fear at this battle that seemed it would never end. Fear at the two of them, hell-bent on her death, hurling themselves at her.
Fear of a mere human called the Master of Combat, and of Angie, who was a complete novice in a real fight.
The knowledge was an indignity.
Her chest seethed with shame and humiliation.
She—the spearhead of the god who would one day set the universe ablaze and heap mountains of ash—had, however briefly, felt terror at the hands of two mere humans.
To kill that emotion, to kill its source, she flew at them in a rage, axe clenched tight. She brought the axe down with fervent violence. The target was Aslan's head.
Watching the axe hurtling toward him, Aslan's lips curled upward.
A master was a virtuoso among virtuosos.
A human who had reached the pinnacle of technique—the very apex of mortal skill that even gods coveted.
And that kind of technique revealed its true value only within a spirit that was still and calm, sharp and serene.
A weapon swung in wild passion held no technique at all.
This was the opening Aslan had waited for. The one he had been hoping for.
His half-lidded eyes sharpened as he let the broken sword fall from his hand.
Now you've finally lit the fire.
Aslan dashed straight at the charging Ereta. A leg that was clearly broken jarred beneath him.
Wearing down her regeneration and positioning himself for the killing blow had never been the only objective.
More than that, his aim had been to wear down her technique.
Emotion wobbled the axe-blade. Aslan could read its trajectory. He brought his sword to the arc he read.
Kaaaang!
At the moment of impact, he reinforced with Wild Magic. Without even bothering to deflect the axe he had barely stopped, Aslan stepped in.
Ka-gak, clang!
The blade shattered. He did not stop. Discarding the sword, he anticipated the panicked Ereta's desperate punch and swept his arm from inside to outside.
Claaang!
His arm broke. He braced it with Wild Magic.
He poured his remaining mana into strengthening muscle, forcing joints into alignment, dispersing impact.
With bloody froth bubbling at his lips, Aslan smiled.
He placed his arm against Ereta's wrist, pressing it aside, then smoothly seized and twisted it. He pulled, grabbed the axe haft, and wrenched it away. That seemingly shallow movement was packed with a master's stubbornness and technique.
Aided by a Grappling skill honed to its absolute limit, Aslan executed the perfect throw.
"Uh..."
He took the axe. A two-handed axe of considerable weight—he could tell the moment he lifted it.
Gripping the axe in one hand, Aslan looked at Ereta, who was reaching for the weapon with an expression of pure shock.
His lips moved.
"Shadow Flip."
Aslan's shadow, which had been stretching along the slant of the setting sun, vanished.
Chwa-jaaak!
Ereta's hand and arm burst apart.
A heavy, blunt scar of destruction followed the explosion.
As a Master of Blunt Weapons, Ereta recognized that scar for what it was.
It was the signature of an axe—her axe. The axe she had swung countless times. The axe that had reaped innumerable lives.
The axe now gripped in Aslan's hand as he stood posed, as if frozen in the instant after a swing.
She understood.
The moment she realized the technique executed with her own weapon, Ereta's eyes flew open in horror.
A double strike launched at a speed beyond perception.
That was the Blunt Weapon Technique special feat: Shadow Flip.
Aslan held the axe low and spoke.
"One time won't end this."
As much as his Fighting Spirit would permit.
He unleashed the technique he had kept in reserve.
Shadow Flip.
Aslan's Fighting Spirit was 7.
The level-up had increased it by three. He had used one on the way here, and one just now.
Remaining Fighting Spirit: 5.
He would leave none remaining.
Ten consecutive strikes no eye could follow rained down.
Without any discernible sequence, almost simultaneously, her arm split, her leg split, her torso split.
Her spine was crushed. Her ribcage peeled open. Her forearms were severed. Her legs pulverized. Amid the relentless onslaught, Ereta screamed in terror.
Her bottomed-out regeneration scraped the very bottom of the well. Beneath it lay death. The natural conclusion that awaited everyone was waving its hand.
A sensation she had never experienced in her long life. The moment Ereta's fear became nakedly apparent, Aslan murmured:
"It's over."
With the last dregs of his Fighting Spirit. With a body shattered beyond recognition.
The Master of Combat swung the axe.
Crrrack—
The axe-blade cleft through her cervical spine. It parted flesh and crushed bone on its way through.
Death closed the distance, a span that felt like an eternity. Ereta tried to scream—
Thwack!
—but before she could, her cervical spine was severed, and death found her first.
Ereta's head went flying.
The severed head struck the ground and rolled to a stop, its white hair fouled with dirt.
A beat later, her body slumped and collapsed. Aslan looked at the fallen body and the motionless head, then dropped to his knees.
His mana and Fighting Spirit were utterly spent. His body was barely clinging to life.
An impossible predicament.
A hellish ordeal.
An opponent without equal.
Even inside the game, with optimal items and settings, a level 5 character could not defeat the Saintess of Slaughter.
[LEVEL UP]
[MAIN QUEST COMPLETED]
[ ! Defend the Margraviate or Flee]
But Aslan had done it.
He had surpassed the impossible and seized victory.
Looking at the system window that announced the fact, Aslan slumped down, exhaling a ragged breath.
I'm tired.
How could he not be? He had shed a body's worth of blood, swung his weapon past his limits again and again, and poured every drop of his Fighting Spirit into his special feats.
Aslan welcomed the exhaustion and the encroaching drowsiness. He had thought that after a victory well-earned, he would be able to sleep deeply.
He leaned against the axe, about to close his eyes in anticipation of that rest.
That was the moment.
[U̷n̸k̷n̶o̷w̶n̵ ̸Q̴u̷e̶s̷t̴ ̴C̷l̵e̷a̵r̴e̶d̵]
[!!Acquired !!]
Unreadable characters flickered into existence.
Fwoooosh!
The axe in Aslan's hand ignited in white flame.