One Line

Passing through a corridor of living wood carved into the shape of a gate, we arrived at a vast hollow.

Trees closed in on every side, sealing the space so completely that it called to mind the dungeon known as the Duelist's Arena. Where that place had been a colosseum of iron and stone, this great forest was a natural sparring ground. Wooden pillars rose here and there as if they had grown into place, and stone towers stood among them, weaving together a distinctly tribal atmosphere.

Thud. Thud-thud!

Shaaaaa—

From deeper in the woods came the faint drum of many feet, joined by the whisper of leaves stirred by wind. The air turned not merely eerie, but downright oppressive.

"Hyoooouuuuuu!!!"

"Hyohyou hyo!!"

What made the atmosphere stranger still was the sudden appearance of figures wearing masks. The masks were fashioned from stone and hide, shaped so thoroughly that nothing of the wearer's face could be seen. Yet as they danced and swayed, their bodies came into full view—unnaturally long and gaunt.

They looked every bit as tribal as the place itself. Underestimating them, however, would be a mistake. Every one of them was both a shaman and a warrior, and we had already tasted how practical that combination could be on the way here.

Haouria.

They were demihuman monsters in the same broad category as goblins and orcs. Frail as they appeared, each possessed the raw strength to shatter stone bare-handed, and that alone made them dangerous. Their tribal look was no costume either—they were born that way. Young ones grew a horn between the brows; with time the horn spread and hardened until it sealed the entire face into a stone mask. The larger and smoother the mask, the older the individual, and the greater the shamanic power it could command.

The pack thrashing about before us wore masks thicker and more massive than any we had met so far, and the shapes were already well defined. In other words, they had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the strength to grow their masks even larger—and had chosen not to.

As if to prove the point, their racket cut off at once.

BOOM!!

A heavy sound rolled through the ground. The Haouria parted cleanly to either side and thrust their hands toward the sky.

"Huyo! Ha! Huhu!!"

"Hiyooooooo!!"

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!!!

With those grotesque, rhythmic cries, something enormous shouldered through the undergrowth. A Haouria far larger than the rest, its frame packed with muscle where the others were stick-thin. Most striking of all was the mask on its face.

Crrrk—split!

A seam shaped like a mouth tore open, and from it uncoiled a violet tongue so long it could have been mistaken for a tentacle. Viscous saliva stretched like lotion and spattered the ground.

"Gu… huoa."

Even its voice was thick—a low, cavernous growl like a great beast rumbling from the back of a cave. Set against the fox-like yips of the others, it sent a chill straight down the spine.

"…?"

Shirogane Rui tilted her head in open confusion. My own sense of danger spiked for the same reason. Until now every enemy had been tuned, as promised, to a first-year's level. This thing was different. The aura alone put it at B-rank or higher; once a real fight began, it would climb higher still. It was as if the creature existed to demonstrate what it meant to transcend the limits of its species—retaining the original outline while becoming something else entirely.

In short, it was overkill. A monster that had no business appearing in a first-year trial. Suspicion hardened into something more concrete. Coincidence—or design?

No point wondering about it right now.

First we kill it. Stronger than a first-year standard, yes. Strong enough to be our match? No. We had already put down worse.

"Senior, you take the boss."

I would handle the small fry myself.

"Okay!"

She understood without another word. A fierce grin split her face as the flames wreathing her body flared hotter still.

Fwoooosh!!!

Blue fire crackled across her skin, cooling the heat that built inside her—yet the fire's own intensity was greater, and faint smoke began to shimmer around her. The moment she stopped prioritizing the cool-down and poured everything into offense, the overwhelming thermal presence I had seen from her before flickered back into view. Heat was the worm that ate away at the time left in her heart; it was also the spice that made her stronger.

Perhaps that was why—

"Ugu, grua!!"

"Hu! Hu! Huhua!!"

—they erupted like moths discovering an open flame, every scrap of their rage locked on Shirogane Rui. The boss was no exception. The entire dungeon had eyes only for her. Outside observers would be the same; the presence she carried now was more than enough to hold a crowd.

Once I was sure every gaze was fixed on her, I set a hand to my face and shaped the shadow that rose from it into a mask, then put it on.

First: mana, not through the whole body, but only where I needed it.

I released the power I had been holding down. The dense surge that came with Subjugator flooded the air at once; I converted every drop of it into shadow without waste. I drew a spear, adjusted its length, then transformed it into a sword. The moment the blade settled into that ambiguous form halfway between a katana and a hwando—shaped to receive the effect of the skill Blades—a strange strength settled through my body.

Twitch!

It was nothing like ordinary mana reinforcement. My muscles flinched at the alien sensation. I snapped Combat Focus on, stretching my perception of time, and accelerated my thoughts. If the strangeness was an enemy attack I needed to answer ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it; if not, I still needed a moment to think.

I wrapped mana carefully through my body and read the interior. The cause was obvious at once, and I settled just as quickly.

Metamorphosis.

An orange current began at the weapon, flowed into my grip, and faded. I recognized the sensation for what it was: the power boost granted by the title Metamorphosis.

…So this is what it feels like?

Not that it was "bad," or even that it was "different" from before. The effect itself was simple and tremendous—swap weapons, and attack power rises. What unsettled me was realizing I was only now properly feeling a sensation that simple.

What was the difference between ordinary me and the me of this moment?

Stats.

Obvious once I thought about it. Until now I had always been riding the inflated stats from Subjugator when Metamorphosis kicked in. When the body is already heavily reinforced, a lesser boost on top of it barely registers—like pouring a little more water into a cup that is already full. I had never deliberately suppressed my power and then used the title, because there had never been a reason to. Clear the dungeon fast, fill the quota, rest—there was never enough time as it was. Playing weak on purpose would only have slowed me down.

Now was different. Someone was watching, so I had deliberately throttled my output—held my mana down, capped my physical ability. Moving on the bare minimum of force was harder work than I expected, but it had paid off. I could finally modulate the stats I had always simply maxed out.

Fuel efficiency, if you want a comparison. Spend a little more time, burn less fuel, get the same result. Every Awakened learns the principle early. My case was different: the peculiarities of being a summoner, plus the absurd stat gains from Subjugator, meant recovery always outpaced consumption. I never needed to conserve, so I never learned the feel of it.

Pour water on bone-dry earth and the change is obvious. Splash a handful onto ground already soaked and churned to mud, and it vanishes without a trace. The boost from Metamorphosis had been so small beside Subjugator's gains that I had never noticed it—until I suppressed my power and the difference stood out in sharp relief.

I focused on the flow and fed it more mana. The orange light that had been about to fade thickened, deepening into a clear vermilion.

I brushed the system alerts aside the instant they filled my vision. Checking them could wait. What mattered now was how best to use this power.

It was a force that layered enhanced attack power onto a single decisive strike. Until now I had either swapped weapons constantly to buff my basic attacks, or poured the boost into one concentrated blow. Personally, I favored the latter. Drop the enemy with the opening hit and you win outright; even if they survive, you seize the momentum of the fight.

Sonic Impact had been like that—every scrap of power focused into a single arrow. I had tried more than once to apply the same principle to a sword and failed every time.

This time, though, it felt possible. The idea that surfaced was a sword draw.

In fantasy, you almost never get a sword without a dramatic draw. Before my previous world ended I had read those novels and played those games, so my information was skewed that way—condensed force exploding outward, friction between blade and scabbard, the whole ridiculous physics-defying package. Any passing science major would have laughed it off as nonsense. But if you have the power to make nonsense real, the conversation changes.

Real iaido exists for ambush and for answering ambush: draw fast to strike first, draw fast to counter. Those practical needs got twisted and embroidered until the fantasy image of a sword draw became "speed" and "counterattack"—force compressed and detonated for a faster strike, and that same compressed force delivered in one lethal blow.

I had never formally studied swordsmanship. I had no romantic obsession with the draw. Ideas just drifted through, and when one happened to fit, I used it. Pure impulse. But techniques of that sort usually deliver at least half their value the moment they appear.

This one was no different. Take something impossible in reality and realize it through the purest unreality. Results matter, but I enjoy the process itself. It was one of the few hobbies I still had after falling into this world.

From the stretched time of accelerated thought, I shaped shadow. I could not use magic, and summoning Kallion would break the flow. So I would do it purely mechanically. The explosive force of mana alone would be enough energy. Treat the scabbard as a launch rail and fire the blade.

I slid the drawn sword into a scabbard shaped from shadow. The image was a gun—except what it fired was not the sword itself, but sword-ki: mana fixed in the form of a blade. Ordinarily, flinging raw mana does little. I was different. I could lock shadow into the shape of mana and grant it the physical properties of hardness and edge. All of it was a kind of cheat made possible by Doteron's Masterpiece – Black.

I compressed mana into the scabbard. Timing was everything. Shadow has no fixed form; I could launch the strike first and clothe it in a shadow edge a fraction later. Or better—convert the scabbard itself into the blade, and pour every scrap of the reinforcement mana into the attack. A reinforced scabbard could hold even more explosive force. All I needed was the result: that I had drawn and swung. Mana answers image alone; if the body actually performs the motion, the image is more than enough.

The only real question was whether my body could take the recoil… and that was barely a problem. Right now I was rationing mana and reinforcing only what I needed, but underneath it all my body still carried the effects of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Subjugator. Even without active reinforcement, ordinary blades could not cut me.

Somehow it ended up similar.

Maybe the impression had been that strong. The finished structure of the scabbard ran on a flow of mana not unlike the one Shirogane Rui used for her heat detonation: gather every scrap of energy in an instant, then fire it. Hers was meant to explode hot and wide. Mine needed to be sharper, faster—a single clean pass.

All that remained was the image.

"…Huu."

I exhaled. Feet set, body slightly lowered, center locked. I matched the wavelength of the mana flowing in through Metamorphosis.

"Move."

"Awoooo!!"

At my call, Growl—who had been harassing the enemy line—threw back his head and howled, forcing them back a step. In that brief flinch I wrung every muscle in my body like a wet cloth.

Timing: a single instant.

Click!

I pressed the catch on the scabbard. Mana blasted out in a rush.

Hisssssss!!!

A sound like steam jetting filled my ears, and my arm snapped forward of its own accord. I forced the blade's path true with the strength of my body.

Crrrk…!

Muscles screamed as I wrenched them against the force. The pain stayed at a dull throb—tolerable. A short rest would fix it; if it still hurt later, the infirmary could handle it.

So I continued.

I shifted every last drop of mana from scabbard to blade. At the tip of a sword that had been empty until the moment it left the sheath, shadow flooded in late and formed an edge. It stretched, and stretched again, until it was less a blade than a single razor line.

Even in a world slowed to its limit by Combat Focus, the sword moved too fast for the eye. It brushed the enemy.

Shhk!

I cut. The feedback was clean. I tightened my grip, savoring the distinct sensation that ran up the edge.

I knew by instinct: this was a finished technique. It needed a name. Nothing complicated or pretentious. Something simple ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and direct. Shadow. Draw. Launch. A cut? No—this was closer to drawing a single line.

The strongest cut I had ever seen was Reus Vagna's Gaebyeok-geom, the Genesis Sword. The influence was unavoidable.

So I named it this:

My arm whipped back. Even at full extension the force and speed showed no sign of dying. I had packed too much mana into the launch; improvisation left the calibration rough. I flooded my body with fresh reinforcement and stopped the blade before it could tear my shoulder out of joint.

Shhhhhhk—!!!

Only then did the wind arrive. As the stretched time of Combat Focus collapsed, my head throbbed. Even a body boosted by Subjugator had its limits when thought was accelerated that long.

Trickle.

Something hot ran down beneath the mask. Capillaries in my body had burst under the strain; with mana restricted, the weakest points—eyes and mucous membranes—went first. The familiar copper taste and smell drew a sigh out of me.

The monsters that had been poised to rush me toppled one after another at a slant. No—they had been cut as cleanly as if a line had been drawn through their bodies.

Clatter! Rumble…

Not only them. The wooden pillars beside us, the stone totems—everything was sliced as if a single line had been ruled across the clearing. Dozens of enemies died in that one stroke. I clamped a hand on my aching shoulder to hold it steady, then let the shadow sword fall from my grip as if my strength had simply given out, and dismissed it.

The boss? I did not even need to look. Even at this distance, heat fierce enough to scorch my face was devouring its body.

Thud! Thud!!

Unable even to scream—air cut off from its throat—it could only stamp its feet. Shirogane Rui came flying in, a massive sphere of flame condensed around her fist.

KRA-BOOOOM!!!

An impact too vast to believe from that small frame erased the giant's upper body. Chunks of flesh and stone sprayed outward like grapeshot. It looked as if the thing had taken a direct artillery strike.

She had used the heat that Flame of Tranquility had not fully bled off, the old way. Properly managed, that heat was the seasoning that set her body alight.

Pop! Crack!

Fire caught the oil of the scattered corpse and burst like fireworks.

"Yahoo!!"

Against a backdrop anyone else would have called a slaughterhouse, she bounced in place with pure, unfiltered delight. I let out a small sigh.

What a complete maniac.

You do not spit on a smiling face, so I kept the curse to myself.