Chapter 233: A Festival for a Festival (4)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 233: A Festival for a Festival (4)
The sequence of events unfolding before their eyes defied all logic.
Nowhere in the world was there a technique that allowed one to gain momentum by stepping on stones suspended in mid-air.
Rumble!
The world was bathed in a blinding light.
As lightning crashed from the heavens, Morales threw his head back and swung his sword upward.
Boom!
Crash!
A tremendous shockwave erupted.
An immense overload surged through his muscles, making the hair all over his body stand on end. Even while maintaining his defensive stance, Morales was shoved straight back. Gasps of shock erupted from the crowd. As a monster of Valhalla, Morales was hailed as the absolute epitome of monstrous strength. Yet, the scene playing out right in front of them clearly showed him being overpowered in raw force.
Crunch.
The ground collapsed.
The earth, pulverized by the impact, crumbled beneath their feet, but Roman Dmitry remained completely unhindered by the collapsing terrain.
Tap.
Tap-tap.
His movements were bizarre.
Like a weightless phantom, he stepped across the crumbling earth without his charge slowing in the slightest. The people of this world only knew how to explosively manifest the destructive force of Aura. Roman Dmitry’s power, however, was rooted in a martial art that pursued absolute "lightness." The sight of him gaining momentum by kicking off falling debris only deepened their bewilderment.
Flash.
Boom—
He ricocheted to the side.
In a space where there was clearly nowhere to find footing, Roman Dmitry stepped on a fist-sized stone mid-air and swung his sword. Morales’s reaction was swift. He boldly threw his head back to deflect the strike, but Roman Dmitry used the clash to gain momentum once more, leaping higher into the air before bringing his sword crashing down.
Rumble!
Crash!
Morales’s face contorted.
Just from blocking Roman Dmitry’s relentless barrage, his face had flushed a deep, strained red.
He, too, shared the crowd's disbelief.
He had recognized Roman Dmitry as a kindred spirit, a true warrior, but he never imagined a swordsman only in his twenties could physically overpower him. This wasn't merely a judgment blinded by common sense. The instincts forged across countless bloody battlefields vehemently rejected the notion that Roman Dmitry could be stronger than him.
But right now, reality was proving otherwise.
In this fierce clash of offense and defense.
Roman Dmitry was undeniably the dominant force.
Not only did he render the collapsing terrain irrelevant, but he also suppressed Morales with overwhelming might from every conceivable angle. Truly, the world was vast. Roman Dmitry’s bizarre footwork, his logic-defying strength, and the terrifying fact that a monster possessing all of this was still only in his twenties—as the boundaries of common sense crumbled around him, Morales finally accepted the reality that he might actually lose this duel.
Crash!
Both men were blown back by the impact.
Pushing Roman Dmitry away with an explosive burst of Aura, a wide, savage grin spread across Morales’s face.
"This is truly exhilarating!"
He had always yearned for this—to fight a true warrior like Roman Dmitry.
To truly exist as a warrior under the blessing of Valhalla.
He bared his chest.
The myriad of scars etched across his broad, muscular chest proved that Morales’s joy was entirely genuine.
"From this moment on, I care nothing for the future. I, Morales, will wager everything I have to bring you down, Roman Dmitry!"
Rumble!
His mana boiled.
A horrifying transformation spread throughout his entire body.
His bones twisted and popped.
His already massive frame swelled to an even more monstrous size. Coarse, wild fur sprouted from his pores, covering his flesh until his tribal tattoos were completely hidden. Morales’s face contorted violently. When he finally let out a guttural groan of intense pain and glared forward, his eyes were no longer human.
He looked like a beast in the shape of a bear.
He was a descendant of the Wildmen.
* * *
The high rankers of the Empire.
To reach such a pinnacle, each of them had honed their own unique weapons.
Simply possessing a strong Aura was never enough.
How one wielded that immense power was the true measure of strength, and Morales had not claimed the 12th rank solely through reckless aggression. The ability to transform was a gift granted only to the descendants of the Wildmen. By pushing this innate trait to its absolute limit, Morales had reached the stage of Assimilation.
"Grrr..."
Beastly blood surged through his veins.
His senses expanded, taking in his surroundings with an incomparably sharper, predatory precision.
And then, he discarded his greatsword.
The razor-sharp claws sprouting from his hands were instantly enveloped in Aura, making it look as if he wielded ten blades from his fingertips.
Tap.
Rumble!
The moment he kicked off the ground, a shockwave erupted, making it seem as if the earth itself was caving in.
Morales’s massive, three-meter-tall frame barreled toward Roman Dmitry. As he swung both hands, the ground beneath him was violently gouged out along the trajectory of his Aura. It was an attack so terrifying that merely witnessing it sent shivers down the onlookers' spines. It seemed as though Roman Dmitry was about to be reduced to mere prey for the beast.
But Roman Dmitry faced the monster head-on.
Without taking a single step back, he met the charge.
Boom!
Rumble!
From that moment on, the battle entered a realm of transcendence.
As if fully expecting Roman Dmitry to block his initial strike, Morales abandoned all defense and pressed his assault with frantic ferocity. Roman Dmitry’s counterattacks did not land easily. Morales's beastly instincts, heightened tenfold—no, twentyfold—perceived his opponent’s intentions the very moment they formed.
The moment Roman’s right finger twitched, Morales had already slipped into a blind spot to evade.
When Roman twisted his body and brought his sword crashing down, Morales reacted instantly, parrying the heavy strike with his Aura-coated claws.
Crash!
A sickening impact reverberated through the arena.
Blood seeped from Morales’s mouth, but his grotesquely contorted face welcomed the pain with pure, unadulterated joy.
"Let us see... grrr... the end of this!"
Bam!
Crash!
He unleashed a torrential barrage of attacks.
Whether he died or Roman Dmitry died, there would only be one victor standing at the end of this fight.
Though there was no deep-seated grudge between them, being born a warrior of Valhalla meant embracing death at any given moment. At the very least, Roman Dmitry was far more suited for Valhalla’s festival than Barbosa. The way Roman met every single one of his attacks head-on was the exact type of warrior's duel Morales had always yearned for.
His life force was burning away.
Every time he unleashed his Aura, every time his claws clashed with Roman Dmitry’s blade, Morales’s body screamed in agony.
The excessive power, which wholly transcended human limits, warned him that even if he won this duel, he would pay a permanent, crippling price.
Yet.
'I must win.'
He might gladly accept death, but he would never accept defeat.
Morales pushed his Aura to its absolute limits.
As if he had already lost all sense of reason, Morales scraped the very bottom of his reserves, drawing out every last drop of Aura dispersed throughout his body just to avoid being pushed back by Roman Dmitry. His Aura blazed fiercely. The ten blades of light manifested through his claws proved to the onlookers exactly how Morales had climbed to the 12th rank.
The Berserk Warrior.
He was an opponent that even the top ten rankers actively avoided.
His troublesome nature as a descendant of the Wildmen, combined with his reckless, defense-ignoring style of combat, made everyone loathe the thought of facing him.
Because of this, rumors had even circulated that Barbosa intentionally avoided dueling him.
Barbosa was one of the Twelve Swords of the Continent and a 6-Star swordsman, but that did not mean he could defeat Morales unscathed. An opponent against whom one had to accept grievous injuries regardless of their Aura realm—that was the description that defined Morales. He was a being who fell short in no way as a true warrior of Valhalla.
Crunch.
Once again, he shattered the ground beneath his feet.
He anticipated that his opponent would finally retreat.
Though Roman’s bizarre footwork wouldn't be restricted by the ruined terrain, Morales intended to predict his exact trajectory and detonate his Aura at the point of impact.
But at that very moment, Morales’s eyes trembled.
Before he could even detonate his Aura, a flashing blade cleanly slashed open his chest.
* * *
Morales was strong.
He was on a completely different level from the opponents Roman had faced so far. However, there was one crucial fact the people of Valhalla had overlooked.
The rumors circulating the continent, the legendary achievements that had shocked the public—none of them were the result of Roman Dmitry fighting at his full strength.
'Morales. You are a true warrior.'
Valhalla.
The so-called nation of warriors.
The Valhalla that Roman Dmitry had experienced so far had been a series of bitter disappointments. It showed a reality far removed from the rumors—a place where discrimination was rampant and people openly spoke of bending the knee to overwhelming violence. The sole rival to the Kronos Empire did not seem to possess the dignity required to rule the continent.
Yet, in the midst of all that, Morales proved the true foundation of Valhalla.
How Valhalla was born, and how it had built an empire—his very existence spoke volumes about their origins.
Roman's blood boiled.
The struggle Valhalla spoke of was strikingly similar to the ways of the Demonic Cult.
Although this law of the jungle carried a brutal desperation that forced one to stake their very life, Valhalla was, out of the entire continent, the nation that pursued a path most familiar to Roman Dmitry. Dueling Morales properly was not an act of mercy. If Valhalla truly mirrored the Demonic Cult, then from this moment on, it was time to prove who was right through sheer, unadulterated force.
Roman Dmitry would prove that he—the swordsman from a weak nation whom these people looked down upon—was in no way lacking as Barbosa’s opponent. In fact, he would prove that it was Barbosa who should be worrying about defeat.
A pure clash of raw power.
He was thoroughly enjoying this duel.
He didn't want to simply end it by displaying some overwhelming power that ordinary people couldn't even perceive; he wanted them to witness his absolute presence directly with their own two eyes. In that sense, Morales was an opponent who truly brought joy to Roman Dmitry. His ferocious onslaught as a transformed Wildman proved that the Salamander Continent had indeed built a profound martial world of its own.
Slash.
The sword cut deep across Morales's chest.
His hide was incredibly tough.
Even though skin as hard as steel was sliced wide open, Morales didn't let out a single groan as he aggressively pressed his attack.
"Aaaargh!"
Boom!
Crash!
Even knowing that defeat was imminent, there was not a single ounce of fear in the beast's eyes.
Against Morales, who was burning away his very existence for this fight, Roman Dmitry gladly traded blows.
He slashed the Wildman's arm, blocked a frenzied swipe, carved into his leg, and ruthlessly slammed the beast trying to tackle him straight into the ground.
Crunch!
Blood splattered in all directions.
Morales's face was crushed into the dirt, and the ground beneath him shattered.
The blood flowing from Morales had already formed a dark pool, but he immediately raised his head, displaying his blood-drenched, mangled face to the crowd. Screams erupted from the spectators. They could not accept that the mighty Morales they trusted and revered was being so one-sidedly overwhelmed, but the brutal scene before them left no room for denial.
Drip, drip.
Blood steadily stained the ruined earth.
Morales merely smirked.
He was intimately familiar with pain, and he knew he was now standing on the very brink of death.
It was an absolute certainty. He would die here today, in this very arena.
* * *
The beastly transformation began to wear off.
Reverting to his human form, Morales shouted, his face painted with a warrior's madness.
"People of Valhalla! Remember this day! Roman Dmitry, the successor of Dmitry, accepted our invitation even though he knew Valhalla was trying to trap him in cowardly schemes! He is a man born with the true pride of a warrior! While we all doubted his worth, he accepted our challenges without an ounce of hesitation before all of Valhalla, even with his duel against Barbosa looming!"
His shout was desperate.
His voice, thick with blood and spite, proved that Morales had very little life left in his broken body.
"How glorious this is! Valhalla lost its roots the moment it leaped to become an empire. The nation grew large, but its heart became narrower than that of a petty kingdom! It is no longer warriors seeking strength who rule, but politicians playing games who seize power! Therefore, welcome Roman Dmitry’s presence! Engrave his stage into your memories! Keep your eyes wide open so that no cowardly rat can interfere in the duel between Barbosa and Roman Dmitry!"
The Valhalla Imperial Court.
Barbosa was their loyal dog.
The Imperial Court would surely devise a scheme to ensure Barbosa's perfect victory, attempting to manipulate the situation behind the scenes just as they had when Morales himself was forced to kneel in his own duel against Barbosa. The fact that Roman Dmitry, upon arriving in Paulo, received no official guidance and suffered from blatant discrimination was proof enough of the leadership's narrow-mindedness.
"Cough."
He violently coughed up a mouthful of blood.
Morales gripped the hilt of his sword one last time.
Channeling his final embers of Aura into the chipped blade, he charged fiercely toward Roman Dmitry.
His internal organs were already failing.
From the sheer recoil of their intense clashes, his life force flickered precariously, like a candle melted down to its very wick.
In this fleeting, final moment, as Morales charged forward by detonating the last of his life force, Roman Dmitry finally revealed a 'fraction' of his true power.
Flash.
A brilliant flash of light.
No one in the audience saw the truth of that strike.
Before anyone could even register that something had happened, Roman Dmitry’s sword had already slashed across Morales’s broad chest once more.
Slash.
A searing pain flared.
As the burning agony spread throughout his entire body, Morales smiled brightly at Roman Dmitry. He had gained absolute certainty from that final strike. A powerful, undeniable conviction that Roman Dmitry could defeat Barbosa.
'Barbosa. The grim reaper who will take my place will be visiting you very soon.'
Morales collapsed.
Behind him, Sanchez and the other warriors of Valhalla stared with wide eyes, their faces painted with sheer, unadulterated shock.