Chapter 150
Chapter 150
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 150
Chapter Title: 62. Turbulent Times (2)
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Yalta's swordsmanship seemed utterly chaotic at first glance, but it followed its own rules, forged through countless real battles.
He had fought life-or-death struggles amid tribal wars since childhood. With every new scar on his body, his strength had grown.
By the time his entire frame was covered in battle wounds, he had no equals left.
Among the frontier barbarians, Yalta's name was synonymous with invincibility.
His fame spread across the continent, and the emperor, promising wealth and glory, demanded his service. Yalta gladly pledged himself to the empire and stepped into the wider world.
Yalta was utterly confident.
No one had fought more battles than him. A sword grew stronger through risking one's life in combat, not from some teacher's lessons.
The sword arts taught in the empire were all fake.
The enemy now before him was no different—a textbook continental knight.
Yalta smirked.
"Predictable. Still, might be a bit entertaining."
He had been bored stiff without a proper opponent.
Yalta took no pleasure in pulling weeds. To him, Joachim's knights were little more than plants he could uproot anytime.
But at last, a beast with teeth and claws had appeared.
Not a lifelong predator like himself, but at least a well-trained hunting hound.
"Hah!"
Yalta bellowed as he swung his sword. A fan-shaped burst of sword aura exploded outward.
"Joachim's got a decent pup after all!"
And the one facing him was Hose, disguised as Hopper.
Hose twisted his face.
"What did you say?"
He was a dog lover who raised pets back in his territory. He didn't meddle in people's diets, but this bastard he had to kill was spewing vile nonsense, igniting a surge of fury.
Hose swung his sword in return and roared.
"Dogs are our friends!"
Now Yalta faltered.
It was just a figure of speech—he loved dogs too. To barbarians who lived by the hunt, dogs were companions rivaling humans.
Th-that's not what I meant!"
"Then what did you mean?!"
"You were like a dog. That's why I said I'd eat you!"
Yalta wasn't much for words.
Hose burned hotter.
"Even worse! Die, you calf bastard!"
"Hold on. Aren't cows our friends too?"
"Who said anything about killing real cows? You're just too dumb to compare to one!"
"I-I know that!"
"What the hell are you babbling about, you ignorant barbarian?!"
Yalta's temper flared. When he first arrived in the empire, people had sneered at him as a barbarian. He'd smashed their skulls for it.
"You! Mocking me for being a barbarian?!"
Now Hose hesitated.
Discriminating between races was far graver than between dogs and cows.
One slip, and his hard-earned Hopper persona—a principled rogue—might get branded a racist.
Hose backpedaled.
"No, not 'cause you're a barbarian. Just... you're ignorant..."
Yalta cut him off.
"Listen up. No such thing as absolute cultural superiority. Every culture evolves in its own natural, geographical, and environmental context—none's inherently better.
That arrogant mindset can slide into ideas of racial hierarchy, undermining universal human values. So respect other cultures, as long as they don't violate those basics."
"Uh..."
Hose blanked out. Yalta's sudden eloquence felt like a dagger slipped through his guard.
He swung wildly in rage.
"Sh-sh-shut up!"
"Heh, losing the logic war, so brute force now?"
Yalta grinned.
"Who's the ignorant one?"
Back then, he'd slaughtered anyone who looked down on him.
Then Graham had come along.
Recite this instead of killing, he'd said—lest no one remain around him.
Grateful for the lesson, Hose yelled again.
"Who's calling who a barbarian?!"
Hose's face flushed beet red. The slime mask, absurdly lifelike, mirrored it perfectly, drawing louder laughs from Yalta.
Hose burned with shame.
"Shut it!"
He lunged at the opening.
Yalta's style was feral, tough to parry. But gaps abounded.
Unfamiliar type made it tricky, but it lacked polish.
Deflecting the savage overhead slash at an angle, Hose countered for the wrist.
Often dismissed as a brute for his build, he was a technical fighter.
Blood sprayed from Yalta's hand.
Hose sensed momentum shifting his way.
Then the impossible.
"Huh?"
Not a clean wrist cut.
Yalta had coated his hand in mana and grabbed the blade.
Blood poured, but his face showed no pain.
"What the...?"
"Nngh..."
Hose yanked. No give. His hand shook.
Yalta leered.
"You continentals love these parlor tricks."
Hose fired back.
"'Continentals'? Discriminatory! What'd you say earlier?"
"Huh?"
Yalta paused, then booted Hose's gut.
"Screw it. Whatever, continental!"
"Guh!"
"Mad? Then win!"
Hose stumbled back but kept his grip. Yalta released the blade.
Grip on hilt versus edge was worlds apart. Even with his leg strength, holding on risked severed fingers.
Resetting his stance, Hose muttered.
"Guess real debate's impossible..."
A true Ten Strong.
But not invincible.
Yalta sensed Hose's caliber too, wiping the smirk as he raised his sword.
Their mana circulation methods clashed, sparks flying at the boundary.
Hose faintly smiled, sea of Burssen in mind.
"Ten Strong..."
A boy by the shore, swinging his sword daily.
Dreaming of claiming a Ten Strong seat, then surpassing to Fiore Brioll's level.
Still a long road, but the first milestone felt in reach.
"The Ten Strong don't scare me anymore."
As said, Yalta was mighty.
But no fear.
Confidence swelled from deep within.
Before Joachim, he'd clashed in a near-death duel with Brioll's third prince on coastal cliffs.
There, he'd gained what he sought.
Met the genius Yuri Brioll, glimpsed boundless potential, and grown another step.
Even shared sword hearts with another master, peeking new realms neither knew.
Since, he'd known: he matched the continent's elite.
Time to prove it with steel.
"Yalta."
"What?"
"Ten Strong doesn't suit you."
"Say what?"
"I don't sense it."
"Sense what?"
Hose steadied his breath, then raised his sword vertically.
Blazing sword aura ignited like flames.
"Fundamentals."
He slammed his foot down.
Boom.
Net-like mana strands spiderwebbed from his soles, anchoring him to earth.
In that instant, Hose was an ancient tree, roots gripping the ground.
Then, sighting like a cannon, sword tip locked on Yalta.
Mana flared at the edge.
"Block it."
A beam of light streaked straight. Ultra-compressed mana arrow erased all in its path, homing on one point.
An unblockable stiletto.
Hose's sword aura pierced space, converging on Yalta's chest.
Yalta's eyes bulged.
This wasn't brushable.
Too swift to evade, too fierce to block. He needed a response—but he'd missed the beat.
So he just stared, dazed.
Just before impact.
Clang.
Someone intervened from the side.
"Yalta. Get it together."
"Lord Graham?"
Graham, who'd parried, rubbed his elbow. The shock would sideline it awhile.
"Why'd you freeze, Yalta?"
"I..."
Yalta fought on instinct.
But it hadn't triggered.
No danger ping. Hence the daze.
Grasping the meaning, fury boiled.
"Just off-guard. Lord Graham."
His face contorted.
No more play. He clenched his sword, muscles swelling. Mana throbbed wildly, kicking up dust clouds.
"I'll kill you for real."
Yalta's presence shifted.
Hose, watching, swallowed regret and retreated a step. Graham's meddle was unforeseen.
"Yeah, wouldn't be that easy."
Things were about to get tougher.
Then the Joachim lord behind shouted.
"We're pulling back! Hopper, this way!"
Joachim's troops were withdrawing.
While Hose tied Yalta, other forces had traded fierce blows. With the asymmetrical threat pinned, Joachim had notched gains.
"Hopper! Plenty of chances later! Tactical retreat!"
"Understood."
Hose nodded, flashing Yalta a grin.
"Hey! Catch you later, barbarian!"
"Fleeing, continental?"
"Fleeing? Without your nanny jumping in, you'd be chest-holed on the dirt."
"Shut up!"
Yalta bristled.
Brushing death—even briefly—had stung his pride.
Backpedaling to the lord, Hose taunted once more.
"Next round, drag that nanny along! Looked like he pissed himself—someone's gotta wipe him!"
With that, Hose turned and retreated boldly with the Joachim forces.
"You mangy cur!"
Yalta's neck veins throbbed as he lunged after.
Graham blocked him.
"Don't!"
He shoved his face in Graham's, snarling.
Graham stayed unshaken, calmly placing a hand on Yalta's chest and shaking his head.
"You're worked up. Can't fight like this."
"I decide that!"
Yalta shrieked.
He followed Graham usually, but in blind rage, heeded no one.
Graham murmured low.
"Yalta. Deep breaths."
Panting fiercely awhile, Yalta's lip twitched. Finally, a long exhale.
Repeating, he wiped his still-fevered brow with his palm.
"Sorry. Lost my head. Lord Graham."
"Can't let emotions drag you."
"Y-yes. Still..."
Yalta grumbled.
"They're running. Why no chase?"
"No need for more needless blood. Enemy turf—could be traps."
"Nngh..."
He respected Graham, but these prim lectures chafed.
"Fine. If you say so, Lord Graham."
"Appreciate it."
"That Hopper guy..."
"His name's Hopper?"
Yalta eyed the vanished foe's direction.
"No ordinary. Not far off my level. Next time, his head goes on my shelf."
Yalta's concession meant Ten Strong caliber.
"That strong in Joachim..."
The three brothers thrashing troops in the sweet potato patch, now Hopper stalling Yalta—obstacles from nowhere.
Who could've dreamed Joachim hid such talent?
In turbulent times, hidden heroes stepped forth.
Yalta still simmered.
"Who knows what mountain tricks they've got. Burn the cities as we go."
"No."
"They poisoned His Majesty—no mercy for such a land. Only way to make 'em kneel scared."
"Won't foist their guilt on innocents. Capture the king, judge him."
Graham was resolute.
He'd taken command to curb sacrifices. He'd reined the army tight, sparing Joachim civilians as much as possible.
Without him, empire's wake would've been corpse mountains.
"Nngh..."
Yalta eyed Graham with an odd glint.