The Heavenly Demon Ranks Up (3)
But how? What would it take to break through that hand? If this had been the Berserker he normally played—if he had been a giant wielding an axe as tall as himself—he would have unleashed a lethal strike those tiny hands could never have stopped. If not that, he might have simply charged in with his shoulder to force a single step backward. Or. If not that, either.
Countless possibilities flashed through Juhan’s mind, yet every last one of them was built on the foundation of his Berserker playstyle. As a swordsman, as a Sword Saint, he had no idea how to break through this person. And because of that, hesitation crept into Juhan’s blade.
Hwaryeong did not miss that fleeting tremor. The frenzied storm of sword strikes suddenly stopped. It wasn’t that Juhan had halted his arm. Hwaryeong had caught the edge of the blade between his index and middle fingers.
He caught it in the middle of an endless barrage? That’s impossible. A dry laugh slipped out of Juhan.
He remembered a story an older teammate had once told him. When the wall blocking your path is so impossibly high that it pierces the clouds and vanishes into the sky beyond, when you can’t even see its summit, the only thing left is reverence. No fighting spirit. No jealousy. No despair. No rage. Nothing at all, the senior had said.
Until now, Juhan had thought it was nonsense. If someone was better than you, you were supposed to slam into them like a madman and keep challenging them until you won. At the very least, a real pro shouldn’t be the one to give up even if everyone else told them it was fine to stop.
But now, Juhan could understand a fragment of what his senior had meant. It might be unreasonable, but not every wall in the world existed to be overcome.
Even if I brought out my Berserker, could I really get past this person? Could a massive axe even scratch the surface of that wall enough to let me glimpse what lay beyond it?
Hwaryeong plucked the sword from the dazed Juhan’s grip and gave it a light swing through empty air. In that instant Juhan felt as if lightning were racing along the blade’s path.
“A fine sword. Far too good for you.”
It was blatant provocation, yet Juhan could not answer. Because Hwaryeong’s words were nothing but plain fact.
“At this rate you won’t be able to threaten me even once, so I’ll offer you a single piece of advice.”
“...Yes.”
“This sword is not the weapon you originally wield. Why are you swinging a blade like an axe?”
Huh? Did I ever mention that I use an axe? There’s no way someone who didn’t even know I was a pro could know about my main character. So he figured out that my original weapon is a two-handed axe just by watching the way I move?
He really is more like a real-life martial arts master than a game character. Seriously.
“No, saying it that way will only confuse you.”
“I roughly understood what you meant.”
Still, Juhan was a professional. The flaw Hwaryeong had pointed out was something he had already felt himself. In fact, his team coach constantly nagged him to stop playing every character like a Berserker no matter what he chose.
“Knowing is meaningless if you don’t know how to fix it.”
“Uh.”
“Enough. Since your fundamentals appear solid, I will teach you one of my own methods.”
Hwaryeong told him to recall the opponents he had faced until now. To remember those among them who had wielded swords. To picture exactly how they had swung their blades and then walk that same path.
“In any case, you currently have no foundation that can be tainted by outside influence. When that is the case, blindly imitating is perfectly acceptable.”
After finishing his explanation, Hwaryeong tossed the sword. It flew through the air and embedded itself in the ground before Juhan as though it had been aimed there from the start.
Grasping the hilt, Juhan tried to recall a Sword Saint player just as Hwaryeong had suggested. The first person who came to mind was naturally the Sword Saint user who had handed him a crushing defeat not long ago.
It had been a tournament where active first-string pros could not participate, yet it had been packed with famous amateurs and second-string professionals. That player had displayed overwhelming swordsmanship. Juhan recalled those techniques.
He didn’t want to remember the pain of defeat, but among everyone he had ever faced, that person had wielded a sword better than anyone else.
He had definitely gripped the sword like this.
His stance finally looked proper.
Hwaryeong spoke those words and raised one hand, crooking a finger in invitation.
In terms of HP, Hwaryeong held the advantage. That was only natural—none of Juhan’s attacks had landed even once. But half the match time still remained. There were plenty of chances left.
All I have to do is make him take one step. It’s still too early to give up.
Juhan swung his sword. In a way, his strikes had become even more clumsy than before. He was forcing himself to confront the memory he had been avoiding and imitate his opponent. Clumsiness was inevitable.
Yet that clumsiness vanished quickly. Juhan still remembered the day of his defeat clearly. The scenery of that day still haunted his dreams as a nightmare. Reproducing those vivid memories was not difficult at all.
The sword strikes continued. The blade he wielded was different now. Between one sword path and the next, another blade slipped in, creating linked attacks. The endless chain of strikes served as preparation, as offense, as defense, and as killing blows all at once. Everything was both lie and truth.
It had already gone beyond swordsmanship; it was more accurate to call it an illusion woven from swords.
Of course the imitation was imperfect. The paths he followed while fumbling through the memory of defeat were riddled with awkwardness. The illusion occasionally revealed reality to the opponent, and the sword lines that should have bred doubt were far too honest.
Even so, the blade still could not reach Hwaryeong.
But that no longer mattered. Juhan had already become captivated by the swordplay he himself was unleashing.
The slash coming from the left is a feint. He plans to stab while pretending to target the left side? I will brush it aside.
Oh. This time he strikes straight down from the front? After laying several lies beforehand it might look like another deception, but it was different. This one was sincere.
He struck the wrist holding the sword, blocking the attack.
How delightful. A sword art where everything can be either truth or falsehood—how could facing it not be enjoyable?
Come. What is next? What move will you show me? What other attack, what other miracle will you produce?
Ah, I am unbearably curious. Just who is the person you are imitating? Who stands at the end of the path you watched and now walk? What does that person consider “nothingness” that they can unfold such a brilliant sword dance? I want to know.
As much as I would love to savor this moment longer, every performance has its time limit. It was time for the imitator to leave the stage.
Ten seconds. Only ten seconds remained.
After showing this much, it would be wrong to let him lose to the time limit. This person deserved a defeat worthy of what he had displayed.
He drove his fist into a gap created by the opponent’s intoxication with his own offensive. Not to defeat him—this was only to create a moment of distance.
“Child. Do you know the technique called Empty Air Grasping?”
“Huh?”
It did not matter if he did not. He would learn it now.
He drew internal energy from within his body and spread it outward. Then he focused that qi around the boy. Grasping his limbs to halt his movements, seizing his waist to stop any struggle, covering his mouth to silence any sound. The child’s body rose into the air. Slowly. Gently. Like a moth fluttering upward, the boy flew through empty space.
The instant the height of that flight equaled the combined stature of ten grown men, he ignited the simji of his internal energy.
Another sun appeared beside the one already hanging in the sky.
Before long the simji had burned away completely. With nothing left to hold him, the child’s body plummeted to the ground.
The word VICTORY floated before my eyes. The moment the match ended, the child who had just experienced death revived. I wanted to thank him for entertaining me, but the instant I took a single step forward he flinched, shoulders trembling.
“Why do you tremble so?”
I had gone out of my way to give the boy a grand and memorable defeat, yet that had frightened him? Hmm. Now that I think about it, that does make sense. Experiencing incineration in mid-air is not something one encounters every day.
The chat window was echoing the same sentiment.
What are you all saying? It is not as if he actually died. If one must die, is it not better to die in a more spectacular fashion? Among the martial artists of the murim, there were more than a few who begged others to make their deaths glorious. My methods may have been a touch cruel, but treating me like some kind of demon is unfair. Compared to the things I did in the past, this was nothing!
To be criticized for something so trivial feels truly unjust!
“Are you all right?”
Still, it seemed to be my fault, so I asked the boy in the gentlest voice I could manage.
“Yes? Yes! I’m fine. I was just a little startled.”
There, you see? He says he is fine. You people are making far too much noise.
“Thank you for the match. You reached Master, right?”
“Indeed. You were my final opponent.”
“You really are strong. Since things turned out this way, please keep winning until you enter the pro league.”
“I shall make the effort.”
I am not particularly obsessed with winning streaks, but if no one capable of defeating me appears, it will happen naturally.
“Before we part, there is one thing I wish to ask.”
“What is it?”
“The person who showed you that sword art just now—who is he?”
I would very much like to meet that fellow. After engraving his sword art into my eyes, I want to shatter it with my own hands.
“He’s an amateur Sword Saint who’s been making a name for himself lately. His nickname is definitely Yi Sun.”
Yi Sun, is it? I will remember that name. A duel with him seems like it would be most enjoyable.
“Next time we meet, let us fight with the weapon you handle best.”
“Yes. I will give it everything I have.”
After parting with the boy on that promise and returning to the VR room, I realized one thing I had been too flustered to notice earlier.
“You lot! I succeeded in ranking up—why are none of you congratulating me!”
Honestly, what picky viewers. When I frowned, a few belated compliments finally appeared, but they felt as meaningless as receiving a bow while lying face-down on the ground.