Chapter 232: A Festival for the Festival (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 232: A Festival for the Festival (3)
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
The people formed a long, winding procession.
At the very front of this endless march walked a giant of a man, drawing every single eye to himself.
"Lord Morales! Please uphold the honor of Valhalla!"
"We believe in you!"
"The likes of Roman Dmitry can never take your place, Lord Morales!"
Shouts erupted from all directions.
It was a familiar sight.
The Beast of Valhalla.
Or, as some called him, the Berserk Warrior.
Morales was a figure who truly embodied Valhalla.
Having perfectly inherited the bloodline of Valhalla as people commonly envisioned it, he had roamed battlefields since childhood, proving his mettle as a warrior. He knew absolutely nothing of cowardice. Even if it meant putting his own head on the line, he purely enjoyed clashing with the strong. The memory of his debut in the Valhalla Rankings—where he had severed his opponent's head while drenched in his own blood—was still spoken of with awe by the people of Valhalla.
He was ranked 12th.
Though he did not belong to the top ten, the people of Valhalla loved him regardless of his rank.
And now, such a man had stepped forward to face Roman Dmitry.
The crowd following behind Morales was absolutely certain of his victory.
Barbosa. With this duel, I will sever the chains of our wretched ill fate.
He reached back into his memories.
He recalled his first encounter with Barbosa.
In the beginning, Morales possessed talent that rivaled Barbosa's. However, during the tournament to decide the village's greatest warrior, he had fallen before Barbosa, bruised and bleeding. It wasn't due to a lack of skill. Before stepping onto the stage, a faction hostile to Morales had sabotaged him, forcing him to fight in the worst possible physical condition.
But he made no excuses.
Preserving one's own body was also a skill.
And so, Morales had knelt in defeat.
Though he spat blood and his flesh was torn to ribbons, Morales had glared up at his opponent with a face twisted in venomous spite.
From that moment on, their ill-fated relationship began.
He covered the scars of that day with tattoos and threw himself into grueling training, living only for the day he would face Barbosa again. Yet, reality remained unyielding. Barbosa was the descendant of a prestigious family. Backed by political power, he grew under lavish support, developing at a meteoric pace that contrasted sharply with Morales, who had grown up wild and rough in the wilderness.
Rank 6 and Rank 12.
Their futures seemed set in stone.
Though the slight gap between them had now widened into an insurmountable chasm, Morales still refused to let go of his grudge.
If I compromised with reality, I could live a comfortable life just like you. But I am a warrior of Valhalla. To stand tall and unashamed under the heavens, I will strive to grow strong through my own power. Barbosa... I cannot tolerate a disgusting human being like you wearing the mask of a warrior and receiving the cheers of the people.
This duel.
His life was on the line.
Barbosa would undoubtedly try to kill him, but the memory of that day—of gritting his teeth through the pain—guided his steps now.
Thud.
He came to a halt.
He had arrived at his destination.
The residence where Roman Dmitry stayed came into view.
Morales took a deep breath.
Then, in a booming voice that matched his massive frame, he called out the name of the man destined to become his stepping stone.
"Roman Dmitry! I, Morales, shall be your opponent!"
*
Beyond the door, Roman Dmitry appeared.
Even upon hearing Morales's name, Roman Dmitry showed no particular reaction.
His face was completely devoid of fear.
Seeing him accept a duel with a powerhouse as a matter of course, Morales asked with an intrigued expression,
"Roman Dmitry. I will ask you one thing. The Valhalla Empire summoned you as Barbosa's opponent to avenge the death of Count Denver. It is a setup that clearly threatens your life, devoid of even a shred of a warrior's pride. Why on earth did you accept the Valhalla Empire's proposal despite knowing their intentions?"
"An invitation for revenge?"
"What in the world does that mean?"
At Morales's words, the crowd began to murmur.
It was the first they had heard of this.
The common folk had assumed Roman Dmitry was simply an invited guest. But beneath the surface lay a filthy truth. Valhalla's festival was a sacred event meant to honor the souls of warriors. It required people who would purely grace the occasion, yet the leadership of Valhalla had tainted it with their own selfish, underhanded motives.
Some among the crowd grew furious.
If Morales's words were true, the Valhalla Imperial Court had plotted a scheme that defiled the very spirit of Valhalla.
Roman Dmitry spoke.
"Why should I avoid it? Even if it is a place that threatens my life, as long as it is on a stage where we prove our strength... the Valhalla Empire cannot kill me."
"Does that mean you believe you can defeat Barbosa?"
"If I didn't, there would have been no reason to accept the invitation."
"Bwahahaha!"
Morales burst into hearty laughter.
Roman Dmitry.
He liked him.
He hadn't expected Roman to walk straight into a trap, fully aware of Valhalla's cowardly scheme, solely relying on his own strength.
It was reckless.
And bold.
He was a man who truly suited Valhalla, one who understood the true spirit of the empire.
"Arrogant. And because of that, you deserve respect. I absolutely love men like you. Warriors who know they are standing in the jaws of death, yet still fight to the end to test their strength—even in death, they will receive the blessings of Valhalla. But it is still too early for you. At a mere twenty years of age, having never experienced the real world, it is premature for you to face Barbosa. Therefore, I shall take your place."
"You speak of amusing things."
Roman Dmitry let out a smirk.
"Until I reached my current position, as I faced swordsmen commonly referred to as Rankers, there was never a single person who was certain of my victory. They always spouted the exact same words as you. 'At a mere twenty years of age.' 'How could a mere brat like you.' 'You can never win against Rankers who have already proven their strength.' And yet, here I stand before you, as the victor."
Shring.
He drew his sword.
"Do you think you are any different?"
At those casually tossed words, a crack formed in Morales's expression.
It wasn't anger, but pure joy.
This was unexpected.
Roman Dmitry, whom he had thought to be an ignorant brat, was actually a magnificent madman who understood the spirit of Valhalla.
A clash with the strong.
It always made his blood boil.
No more words were needed.
"Very well. From this moment on, let us see who is the warrior truly worthy of the festival."
Rumble!
Mana exploded.
Morales charged toward Roman Dmitry.
*
The onlookers couldn't even see it happen.
In a single blink of an eye, the giant of a man who filled their vision suddenly appeared before Roman Dmitry, swinging his greatsword.
Boom!
Rumble!
A powerful explosion erupted.
An Aura on a completely different level from those of his previous opponents flared from Morales's greatsword. It was a massive storm of energy that seemed ready to swallow everything in its path as it swept toward Roman Dmitry. The ground shook. At the immense shockwaves generated every time their weapons clashed, the onlookers tumbled to the ground in utter chaos.
Crash!
He brought his sword down toward Roman's head.
Roman Dmitry raised his sword to block, but Morales paid no heed, relentlessly hacking down with his blade like a madman.
Crash!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
It was a brutal, savage assault.
With his chest wide open, completely disregarding defense, he poured everything into his offense.
Flash.
A sword sliced through the wind.
Roman Dmitry attempted a counterattack.
Yet, Morales caught the movement of the sword right before his eyes. By detonating Aura in a specific part of his body, he twisted his frame out of the way. It was a hair's breadth. A hair's breadth of an error, and his flesh would have been sliced open, spilling his entrails. But Morales lunged forward again as if it were nothing.
"Where do you think you're going?!"
Boom!
Rumble!
The Berserk Warrior.
This was the reason he was called that.
A being who completely disregarded defense, seeking victory purely through offense.
Morales walked on the edge of a blade.
Beneath the tattoos that obscured his skin lay the evidence of the horrific price his fighting style demanded. He was covered in scars. Cuts, tears, and deep gouges marred his entire body, but Morales was of that stubborn breed who believed a fight without a single wound was no true fight at all.
Whoosh.
Cornering his opponent, he flared his Aura.
An Aura that erupted as if to pierce the heavens pressed down upon Roman Dmitry once more.
Boom—
Rumble!
He blocked this?!
Morales's eyes gleamed.
The clash just now... it was an attack that even fellow 5-Star swordsmen could not block.
Yet, Roman Dmitry had not only blocked Morales's strike, but had immediately taken a follow-up step to exploit the opening. He was fast. Though Morales reacted instantly by detonating the Aura in his body, a thin red line was drawn across his cheek, and blood began to bead.
He grinned.
Roman Dmitry was the real deal.
It wasn't baseless confidence; he truly possessed the strength to face Barbosa.
The world is indeed vast. To reach such a realm in his twenties.
He recalled a figure from the depths of his memories, the one known as the First Sword.
Even that monstrous existence, the only one to whom Morales had ever completely conceded defeat, had likely not been this strong at Roman Dmitry's age.
But Roman Dmitry was still young.
Meeting him before he had fully matured was a truly cruel fate.
Thud!
He stomped on the ground.
A wave of Aura rippled out, fracturing the earth as if an earthquake had struck.
It was an unusual application of Aura.
The collapsing ground restricted Roman's movement, and the stone debris flying in all directions hindered his path.
Having cornered his opponent,
"Let's see you block this too!"
Rumble!
Morales's sword descended toward Roman Dmitry.
*
In that split second, Roman saw through his opponent's intention.
Morales had collapsed the surrounding terrain to force a clash of pure strength.
So high-ranking Rankers are indeed different.
The opponents he had faced so far had limited applications of Aura.
They either channeled the explosive Aura from their bodies through a medium, or used it to amplify their physical capabilities. But Morales was different. He dispersed his Aura into the ground to create fractures like an earthquake, and individually manipulated the airborne stone debris to position them in hard-to-evade spots.
A split-second decision.
He was cornered.
Roman Dmitry could have met him head-on, but he actively played along with his opponent's intention.
Tap, tap.
He quickly stepped back.
As the ground crumbled the moment he stepped on it, Morales charged like a bear.
"You can't run anymore!"
Rumble!
His greatsword swelled massively.
The clarity of the Aura was so immense that the greatsword appeared to have doubled in size.
Crash!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The attacks exploded.
Restricting the space with the collapsing ground and flying debris, he relentlessly drove Roman Dmitry into a corner where evasion was impossible. Blinding flashes of light erupted in rapid succession. The ordinary onlookers couldn't even open their eyes against the storm of Aura; the only thing they could barely make out was the chaotic collision of clashing lights.
Whoosh—
Slicing through the wind, the air split open, and Morales's gaze locked onto Roman Dmitry.
Thud!
His foot slammed onto the ground.
The earth collapsed.
At the same time, the flying stone debris perfectly blocked Roman Dmitry's path.
A dead end.
It was then.
The moment Morales's sword descended toward Roman Dmitry, Roman vanished from his sight.
Morales.
He had fallen into a massive delusion.
To begin with, assuming he held the upper hand in a clash of pure strength was a premature judgment, and the terrain had absolutely no effect on Roman Dmitry. In his past life, he had fought in all kinds of environments. On vast plains, on swaying ship decks, and on the edges of precipices where there was nowhere to retreat.
Space.
Was merely space.
How one utilized it depended entirely on human capability.
Tap.
Above his line of sight, Roman Dmitry rose.
He stepped on a stone floating in midair, yet the stone did not sink even a fraction of an inch, instead providing propulsion to Roman Dmitry's body.
The Lightness Skill.
It was a martial art of movement.
Roman Dmitry used the stones floating in all directions as if they were stairs, vanishing in an instant to a position Morales could not hope to reach. In that moment, Morales's trap was rendered utterly useless. A method that had defeated countless enemies was effortlessly neutralized by Roman Dmitry's miraculous movement.
An unbelievable sight.
As Morales's eyes widened in shock, above his head, a torrent of Aura fell like a bolt of lightning.