Paranormal Link - Threads of the Blade
I sensed something was off when about three-tenths of the killer puppets were left.
"Haa... haa...."
Rough breathing. Strange? I wasn't that winded. As the doubt crept in, a heated sigh transmitted to me from the back pressed against mine. Sticky exhalations clinging amid the artificial presence of synthetic lungs and skin.
Clang!Kang! I deflected the blade lunging for the split-second opening, but no follow-up attack came. The knife that had flown into the gap I'd created by parrying froze mid-air. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the woman from next door standing there blankly. Her vacant eyes—utterly unfocused—roamed the empty air uneasily, while her blade-tipped arms dangled motionless. Harsh breaths leaked from her slack, gaping lips.
She'd clearly snapped. No, I'm not crazy—what the hell am I supposed to do if you lose it?!
Her assault halted, and the seamless, flowing joint attack that had followed like water ceased as well. The killer puppets clocked it as an opening and instantly switched targets from me to her.
"Snap out of it!"
Even as razor-sharp blades closed in on her throat, she didn't budge. Damn it, no wonder our coordination felt too good to be true—this was the catch. What the hell had set her off? Battle frenzy? Cyberware overload? Was that why she'd shown those subtle hitches earlier?
Either way, one thing was crystal clear: if we stayed like this, this woman was about to evolve from killer to victim. No matter how tough her body was, it couldn't outlast those arm blades! Death was a problem, rampaging from wounds was a problem, and just plain rampaging was a problem.
No choice. I drew up my inner energy.
Channeling inner energy through the art intensified, slowing everything around me.
Five blades targeting the dazed woman. Three more hurtling back at me. Over thirty killer puppets still lurked nearby. I sized up the situation, traced my movement path, and poured energy into my legs.
Stepping on lightning—the name felt overly grandiose for my level, but it would do for now.
Crackle. Faint electric sparks danced, dragging the scenery even slower. Just speed—maximum speed I could muster right now—and launch my body forward.
I evaded the three stabbing at me and plunged into the five aimed at her. First, I deflected one of the two thrusting from behind her, making them clash into each other. At the same time, I unleashed the sole sword art paired with my deepest, oldest mastery, the Wall Force Thunder Heaven Art.
The fastest stance unfolded from my fingertips. A fleeting glimmer too shameful to call lightning, yet faintly charged with thunder qi, the straight thrust pierced a killer puppet soundlessly.
As the blade speared through its frontal armor like paper and into the power core beyond, I withdrew most of the energy I'd infused, leaving only the bare minimum.
Shatter! The force that breached the thick chest plate couldn't punch through the rear and rebounded instead, flinging the scrap heap away. The now-junked puppet collided with its comrades behind it, tangling them in a rolling heap on the ground. Clanging metal crashes, scraping trash piles amid the chaos.
Even in that mess, she still stood there dazed. Hands trembling uneasily, breaths still ragged. Up close like this, it looked like she was desperately holding something back. Just like that time on the boarding house rooftop.
"Snap out of it!"
In the brief gap I'd carved by shoving the robots aside, I locked eyes with her and yelled.
"......Isan?"
Focus slowly returned to her gaze, my reflection appearing in her pupils.
"Fall back!"
Kagagang! Rejecting a barrage of handshake offers from encroaching killer puppets, I shouted.
"If you go berserk now, we're all dead—so get behind me and clean up the scraps I drop!"
"...But."
Pathetic whining didn't suit her at all! If she dug in her heels and snapped now, my remaining energy wouldn't cut it. I'd felt it during that spar disguised as a match: among everyone I'd faced in this world, she was the strongest. Even at my peak, she'd take me down in fifty seconds. Without energy? Ten seconds tops.
I had zero interest in mutual destruction with these scrap heaps, so better me handling it than unleashing a psychotic murder machine.
"Just grin like usual and stick with Blanca! Don't roll your eyes and fuck everything up."
Dropping Blanca's name worked; she bit her lip slightly and slowly clenched her fist. The blades protruding from her trembling arms began retracting into her limbs, sluggish and reluctant—like the psychosis had infected them, or some insane tech birthed self-awareness. They twitched as if refusing to withdraw.
Of course, I couldn't leisurely watch her negotiate with her madness. Endless handshake requests swarmed me in the meantime.
Handshake. Troublesome.
As a somewhat civilized martial artist, I had to politely reject each one individually.
Once I'd refused them all, her hesitant presence finally retreated—apparently, arm truce achieved. With her out of the way, I became priority target one. The scrap-to-be's (scheduled) encircled me en masse.
Assault concentrated, I had to move at full throttle. Evade as much as possible, parry only when unavoidable, and think.
Energy running low meant no more flashy moves like before. Deflecting attacks alone drained me; a war of attrition would dry me up fast. So, what's the breakthrough now?
I dodged an incoming blade with minimal motion and eyed two killer puppets sprawled amiably in the trash pile. Like Romeo and Juliet of the scrap world, they'd mutually stabbed each other's chests in double suicide.
Why were they lying like that? Before the question fully formed, I recalled the five blades that had surrounded her earlier. The ones I'd deflected to clash.
Dodging the chaotic flurry chaotically, my mind spun wildly. Their blades could shred that chest armor. Obviously they'd shred a person too... no, that's not it. The realization I needed was...
'So, yeah.'
An annoying voice. One the Central Plains romantics loved. I never got why they swooned over that gigolo's throat-slitting tones, but men and women are eternally incomprehensible aliens, right? Quit with the useless thoughts and figure out a breakthrough!
'If you can use the enemy's strength, you spend less energy and less force.'
'Kid's talking all highfalutin...'
Please shut up, Thunderclap Sword Sovereign Moyong Cheol—keep going.
'...I won't deny a strong, fast sword packs power, but it depends on how you use it... right?'
'Especially handy in defense or chaotic melees against multiples.'
'And the stronger and faster the blade, the easier it deflects if you just graze the tip...'
'Then why couldn't I deflect with my sword, you punk.'
'How about it?'
Moyong Cheol wasn't cutting it; a slender voice cut in.
'A blade's might—whether famed or forged—ultimately depends on the hand wielding it.'
'As you say, if the stronger always wins, weapon matchups mean even less. Right?'
'What matters is... who comprehends deeper. Who hones it more.'
Focus shattered by the gentle chiding, "Almost died!" A blade nearly took my head.
Moyong lady! Sorry I forgot your name! Get to the point already!!
Too frantic, I rolled like a lazy donkey across the floor to evade the blades stabbing from all sides. Blades pinning ghost-like wherever I rolled—honestly, my legs went a bit numb.
'If you don't give up pondering, you'll get it someday. You're the fastest to grow strong among us. For sure.'
'Remember how I parried your sword just now? I learned from Brother Moyong's blade art—you'll get it too eventually.'
'You said it was a strike perfected in real combat? Then... realize the subtlety through combat too?'
Her rare smile was like...
'Die already...'
Die already...
"Why not hold a funeral?!"
The words I'd spat back then reflexively burst out, but that was the only immediate help. Still... way too skipped. There were more theoretical talks in between, all vanished—now it was just do it or die.
But what could I do? No time for leisurely recalling ancient sages now, or I'd join their ranks. Brute force it was.
I sprang up from the roll into stance. Escape Fate Blade Art's starting form. Honestly, I still didn't get it. Never even tried in my past life; in this one, I'd grasped a faint thread, but too dim to call enlightenment.
But not doing it meant death. Failing meant death. And me—hate to admit it—I always ignited in do-or-die spots.
Shiiik!Kang! Predictably, these robots' strikes outpowered the thread I'd glimpsed in our spar. She'd eased up until the final blow.
The razor-thin insight shredded under brutal slashes. The shallow intent clinging to form crumbled beneath unyielding blades. Gap born from the disrupted art—blade invades.
Shiiik! Footwork evades.
Kang!
'Not rejecting or parrying the foe's power. Ah, damn! ...No, it's using the opponent's power.'
'Just graze the tip—even heavy strikes deflect easily.'
Thirty killer robots. Thirty murder arms. Not a sword forest, but enough to pin-cushion me. Amid it, trial-and-error with fond voices. Laughter bubbled up inexplicably. Back then I barely listened; now I dredged them up, recited, flailed to grasp even a bit.
Kiiik!Kwajik! A blade glancing off my dagger's flat pierced the one targeting my neck from behind—now scrap.
One thread connects.
Ting! Deflected blade ricochets, smacking aside a stab from the side.
One thread connects.
Shiiik!Gyaaaak! Too focused—late to spot the blind-side blade. No dodging. Dagger too far to swing.
Damn! No choice—thrust out my tripod leg.
Sorry, Tripod! But I gotta live, right?!
Kang! Apology retracted! Sorry retracted! You bastard! You're tough as hell!
Right—Tripod tanked Sheriff Lena's gun without a scratch!
"One more round, you punk!"
Tripod's heroic save dodged the stab. Thanks, X-Monster!
Calm the mind, regather shattered focus, unfold Escape Fate Blade Art.
Once, twice. Luck-like forms aligned. Uncomprehended, meaningless—the halted blade slows, then flows, flows.
Flow is flow, stream is deflection.
The single thread at my fingertips connected, tangled into a skein.
At the starting line now, but meaningful realization—through my hands—birthed Escape Fate Blade Art, Moyong Cheol's Escape Fate Blade Art.
Immortal's Returning Gaze
One slip in this deadly handshake frenzy, and my head's gone—but I swung the blade laughing.
To say it again.
Handshake. Troublesome.