Chapter 32
Chapter 32
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 32
Chapter Title: Ralph's Aura Awakening
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"You insolent bastard…!!"
As confidence bloomed into a radiant smile across Ralph's face, Arthurin's expression twisted into something ferocious by contrast.
A greenhorn whose blood hadn't even dried on his head yet—treated like a stray mutt within the clan—was mocking him to his face.
"Don't make me regret this."
Arthin spat the words laced with murderous intent as he straightened his stance.
Woooong!
A blue-tinged haze of energy, like heat shimmer, slowly enveloped his sword.
No one could deny it—it was genuine sword aura.
Not the pathetic, piss-yellow fleck that had clung to Ralph's halberd during his scrap with Sylvia in the past. This was the real deal: beginner-level aura.
Worthy of the man holding the Crimson Corps' third seat, perhaps.
The energy cloaking Arthurin's rapier had surpassed novice Expert and reached mid-level without exaggeration.
If this were Ralph right after being assigned to the Latent Dragon Squad before entering the Trial Spire, he couldn't have blocked it even in his wildest dreams.
"Blame your own arrogance, pup."
Paak!
Arthin's charge toward Ralph was incomparably faster than before.
With aura-infused footwork, the speed gap was on another level entirely—a natural outcome.
In an instant, he closed in above Ralph's head.
To his eyes, Ralph seemed utterly oblivious to the peril he was in.
'They said just don't take his life.'
So.
Chopping off one arm from this cheeky brat wouldn't draw much ire.
Arthin hadn't planned to go this far originally.
A hole in the lung could heal with quick treatment—bed rest, then full recovery.
It'd hurt like hell for a while, sure.
But this situation? Ralph had brought it on himself.
'Payback for that clumsy taunt.'
Kwaaaang!
The rapier, drawn back into its sheath for momentum, came crashing down on Ralph's shoulder.
The speed was flash-like, beyond doubt.
Ignoring aura or overall prowess and focusing solely on pure sword speed?
Arthin outpaced most mid-tier Striker Squad swordsmen.
Deflecting that blow with a heavy halberd? Far too late.
Not that blocking would help anyway.
The Kalia clan's wandering stray wolf, Ralph, couldn't possibly parry his sword.
For all his talent, he had a fatal flaw as a warrior.
Aura.
The indispensable virtue for climbing higher in a martial clan—one Ralph's halberd lacked.
Block with the halberd? The shaft would slice clean like pudding.
Swooooosh!
Ralph's polearm shaft began to move—slowly.
The minimal motion.
His intent was crystal clear.
Using the heavy weapon's principles: a short, concise swing to smack Arthurin's thrust with the shaft.
"You fool!!"
Arthin let out a chilling sneer.
Reading his sword path so swiftly and reacting in kind with that cumbersome weapon? Worthy of praise.
However.
In the end, utter folly.
A mere power swing without aura couldn't overcome one backed by it.
He'd aimed for a clean shoulder cut, but Ralph's halberd swing aligned his hands in the blade's path instead.
This way, the halberd would snap—and Ralph's arms would follow, tumbling clean off.
"You idiot! This is what your reckless arrogance gets you!"
Kuuuung!
Arthin poured more power into his arms, slashing down harder.
Intending to sever shaft and arms alike.
That crude lump of metal would split in two any second.
Arthin had zero doubt.
Yet.
Kaaaaang!
"...?!"
A heavy recoil shuddered through his sword arm.
A dull thud lingered in his grip, like smashing aura-less into a boulder.
Flustered by the alien sensation, Arthurin's gaze snapped to his blade tip.
There.
Stood the halberd, steadfast amid an orange haze of equal brilliance—not outshone by his own aura.
"...Aura?!"
Not just Arthurin or the displeased Heto watching the rematch.
The crowd gawking at the duel couldn't stifle their shock either.
It defied reason.
Aura: the dream of every armed warrior, the gateway to true strength.
Yet few were granted its path.
It demanded insight backed by a proper cultivation method.
Hence, only great clans or top continental powers touched it easily.
Of course, exceptions existed.
Stray dog or not, as a Kalia scion, late access to a method wasn't impossible.
But with Manus overseeing from above? Ralph getting prime clan techniques was near impossible.
So how? In such short time?
"I told you."
Creak!
Ralph flashed a grin at the frozen Arthurin, too stunned to alter his strike.
"No lame excuses this time."
Kwaaaang!
"Gahk!"
Ralph twisted the aura-clad halberd, smacking Arthurin broadside. The man spun like a top midair before crashing down.
Unprotected against the hefty weapon? His arm hung twisted at an unnatural angle—likely shattered.
He hadn't dropped the sword, but fighting on? Impossible for anyone to see.
The referee declared flatly in the end.
"Winner: Latent Dragon Squad's Ralph."
Krunch!
The drink sloshed in the glass until it shattered, liquid trickling between fingers to soak the floor.
Manus, gazing languidly at the drill hall, had clenched unconsciously.
The events unfolding above had rippled his composure.
"...Aura? How?"
No illusion.
The brat standing tall over fallen Arthurin: Ralph.
Orange energy shimmering faintly on his halberd.
Weak as it was, undeniable aura.
"Dakan. Check if anyone in the clan slipped him an elixir. Right now."
"Yes. What then?"
"Kill them. Check for backers thoroughly."
"As you command."
Catching the low chill in Manus's tone, Dakan turned and left the drill hall for the Kalia estate.
Dull as he was, even he grasped the rift between Manus and Ralph.
"...Vermin dares."
Manus's once-jovial smile as he watched the hall had frozen cold as ice.
Ralph Kalia.
His half-uncle's bastard whelp, not bowing to the future clan lord—defying him outright.
Ralph reaching him? Laughable.
Yet his face stiffened regardless.
Simply irked by the worm crawling from dirt, aspiring to butterfly on defiance alone.
That was all.
'I won.'
Truly won.
A genuine aura warrior, by his own hand.
Sure, a surprise blow—and Arthurin hadn't fully leveraged his aura in shock.
Still, victory.
Sweep.
He turned, locking eyes with the man below: arms crossed, bored expression fixed on him.
Amid universal shock, no praise in those eyes. Just the indifference of expected routine.
Damn captain: Ian Lichtenauer.
"Shit, his standards are brutally high."
Not impressed by this much?
'Well, the monster who soloed an orc chieftain—sky-high bar.'
Ralph pursed his lips briefly, slung the halberd over his shoulder, and descended slowly.
Brushing past Ian in that moment.
"Good work."
A short, crisp commendation from the captain.
Pfft!
"Man, satisfying the captain's a bitch."
The Crimson Corps' air grew heavy from the drill hall's shocking result.
"Arthin lost?"
"No way..."
'...This is bad.'
Alarms blared in Heto's mind at the situation.
To seize momentum, he'd sent third-seater Arthurin first.
A total steamroll, to show the Latent Dragon Squad their place.
You're not ready yet.
Whatever they'd done to the orcs remained a mystery, but they were just promising pups.
Yet Ralph exceeded expectations: aura out of nowhere, felling Arthurin.
A fluke strike, sure—but the third-seater.
This image? Unfavorable.
Underestimating foes was bad, but excessive wariness worse.
Over-vigilance stiffened the body, cramped skill, froze thought.
'Must shift the flow.'
Battlefield air was a beast potent enough to flip outcomes.
Had to drag it to their side.
Clap!
As Heto pondered, a priestess-robed girl from the Latent Dragon Squad ascended with a dainty bow.
Their priestess: Helena.
'...Godshot?'
Small mercy.
Her archery fame spread through the clan.
But so did her crippling timidity, making her skills moot.
Solo duel without allies? Unlikely to shine.
'...Fools think that. After Ralph, she's surely prepped something.'
What trump card?
Heto agonized over picks, then sent one up.
"Huuu..."
Helena steadied her heart with deep breaths, lightly plucking her bowstring.
Twing!
The clear, pleasing vibration eased her tension.
'I can do this.'
Ian had bulldozed her into the Trial Spire to start.
But it forged her—overcoming much.
Relentless, no mercy for fears or pleas.
Recalling that cold, brutal, spine-chilling grind relaxed her further.
Compared to that madness(?), no foe could top it.
She steeled her pretty eyes, glaring at her opposite.
Threatening? Nah— just adorable.
The Crimson Corps fighter had the inverse build: short, pudgy. Midsize longsword at his belt.
Less warrior, more merchant dabbling in martial arts. He offered Helena a mild smile and greeting.
"Pleased to meet you, Miss Helena. Name's Gufran. Let's have a good clean match."
His affable vibe clashed with the Crimson Corps' sharp edges.
Like the nice guy from every neighborhood.
Helena's temperament couldn't stay sour against that.
"Ah, y-yes! Looking forward to it!"
Brief exchange done.
The referee's coin fell slowly, as before.
Ting!
Second bout: begin.