The Knight of Reverse Odds [Part 1 Complete]

The impact ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hit like a blunt instrument. The secret lay in a complete reversal of thinking. A ground-dweller’s invention that had transformed the sword’s purpose through real combat. Mordhau. Or half-swording. The pommel’s weight, originally meant to anchor the blade’s power, could instead become a high-performance hammer supported by a steel haft.

“If every match is like this, that embarrassing promise will just be a warm-up before I even hit the bed. I suddenly feel happy. What do you think, you concept-obsessed pointy-eared bastard?”

Nathan gripped the ‘hammer’s’ haft with both hands, spun it once, and returned it to blade-forward position. He glanced at the pommel that should have delivered a massive shock. He’d struck without mercy, so he half-expected something to have gone wrong.

Of course, nothing had. He brushed away the iron powder that had flaked off during the collision. The weapon remained perfectly intact, every part fused into one solid piece. He had no idea who made it or how, but—

“You rude piece of shit.”

Morbi’s red blade remained annoyingly flawless.

“I think I get what Santra was thinking when she looked at me. I hate you. I can’t possibly like a damn piece of metal that hurt me and hurt the people I care about. So I’m going to roll you around until you break.”

The blade gave no answer. The slowly fading resonance of the impact almost sounded like an arrogant sneer.

Go ahead and hit harder. I’ll never break the way you want and make you happy.

Feeling both an interesting sense of kinship and irritating disgust at the same time, Nathan tapped the ground twice with the sword tip and readjusted his grip. Hands crossed on the hilt. Horizontal at eye level. Blade pointed at the enemy. The most basic stance that served as the foundation for attack, defense, advance, and retreat. In longswordsmanship, the most dangerous and profound posture didn’t even have a fancy name. When it had to be described, it was simply called the defense stance.

Wolfrag struggled desperately to regain control of the pain. And he felt shame. The Sapiens on the other side hadn’t taken advantage of his moment of panic. There had been dozens of seconds where he could have attacked while Wolfrag was writhing.

“Why didn’t you attack when I was vulnerable? Are you pitying me, you bastard?”

“Why didn’t you attack after that first ambush? Are you begging for pity?”

At Nathan’s indifferent provocation, dozens of veins bulged on Wolfrag’s neck.

I’ll make you regret acting so relaxed.

The advantages of quadrupedal movement weren’t limited to raw physical power. The skeletal structure itself was fundamentally different from that of bipedal creatures. So enemies who had only ever faced two-legged opponents naturally struggled to read Wolfrag’s four-legged movements. That was only natural.

But this guy—

How the hell—

“You’ve got plenty of experience fighting beasts, don’t you?”

“I’ve fought just about everything. I’m a Lion Wing Knight.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Never asked you to, you moron.”

Wolfrag, who had deliberately spoken to create an opening and slip through it, was thrown off balance. There was no gap to exploit. The moment he carelessly extended his uninjured right hand, the Sapiens’s foot moved in perfect sync. Nathan had already secured the ideal stance for smashing a charging enemy with a half-beat faster reaction.

An image flashed through Wolfrag’s mind of his remaining hand being destroyed. Only now did he understand. A surprise attack had never been possible.

“You like chit-chat?”

When the flustered Wolfrag began pacing around, stalling for time, Nathan couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter.

“Earlier you were spouting all kinds of bullshit philosophy about beasts and nature, but now I see you’re just a true civilized man. I can count on one hand the number of opponents who relied on language as much as you do. And yet here you are, badmouthing two-legged people while using tools yourself?”

Nathan suddenly set the sword down carelessly on the ground and tapped his temple with his right index finger.

“Walking on four legs doesn’t make you stronger. That’s called regression, you beast-wannabe piece of trash.”

Wolfrag’s eyes widened. Inside the eyeholes of his armor, the whites expanded endlessly while the pupils contracted to pinpricks.

What the hell did you just say?

“Regression?”

“I apologize. I was too dismissive of your efforts. Let me rephrase it in a way that might hurt less. ‘Returning to the innocent childhood world of your dreams.’”

You dare call my suffering. My noble holy war to reclaim my beastly nature—

“How dare you treat it like a child’s mud pies—!”

Wolfrag roared and leaped. He vanished from Nathan’s sight in an instant, like a predator sprinting across the plains.

Turning your head in a hurry is useless, prey.

A common misconception. The belief that moving one’s head is faster than circling around to find a blind spot. Nonsense. Rotation from a stationary position carries no acceleration. A predator will always find the blind spot.

Wolfrag ran. On four legs—no. On three, with one ruined foreleg. The moment he caught sight of the back of Nathan’s head, which had turned too late, he charged instantly. Exploding the power in his legs that had been perfected by pumping them full of animal hormones.

I’ll rip your throat out like a clump of grass roots.

The jaw strength built over a hundred and fifty years of chewing bones and raw rubber, reinforced with artificial joints. Tiger-like fangs crafted from steel helmet components. The clamping mechanism of a maw fitted with terrifying blades aimed for Nathan’s throat. An attack that burrowed in from an extremely low trajectory, like a wolf targeting a buffalo’s leg. A terrifying maw capable of delivering several tons of bite force—more than enough to take a life.

But it never sank into Nathan’s throat.

At the final moment, Nathan was no longer in front of Wolfrag. Where had he gone?

Wolfrag’s instincts dragged his gaze downward. Nathan’s upper body was tilted so far it almost touched the ground. Above it, the only thing raised was a single steel-hard right fist placed directly in Wolfrag’s charging path.

A vivid sensation of impact. Vivid pain. The senses clearly distinguished between attacker and victim, yet neither of them knew exactly what had happened inside that body. Had the cervical vertebrae been pulverized? Had the broken neck bones folded into the back muscles? Was the skull cracked? Would the soft contents inside even be intact?

Only one thing was certain.

A backhand with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠enough strength to snap steel. Exposed to that overwhelming violence, Wolfrag had been compressed. Literally compressed.

Like a sheet of tin crushed flat. His neck had been driven into his torso.

The sounds that announced the beginning were a wet crunch. A crack. Then, after about two breaths, a heavy whoosh. The metallic clatter of something heavy slamming into a pile of scrap metal the size of a hill.

The elf, launched into the air with his crushed neck as the pivot point, spun grandly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠once before crashing down miserably.

“Orcus said: Do not needlessly increase the number of enemies surrounding you. Even if there is only one. Because that one might be the one who takes your head. You should have realized you were standing in front of that one from the start, pointy-ears.”

Nathan calmly muttered as he flicked a fang off his gauntleted fist.

“Wrapping your body in metal crafted by artisans, denying your natural form and modifying it to hell and back, then calling that ‘wildness.’ There’d be enough bullshit there to embroider the entire sky. That must be why you people insist on living up in the Heavens.”

Medical staff rushed out in a hurry. Thousands upon thousands of pupils in the spectator seats anxiously followed the medics’ backs. Whether they were transporting a critically wounded executioner to the infirmary or simply collecting a corpse would only be known by listening to the medics’ conversation up close.

In other words, the match was over.

The moment the announcer said the name Nathan Maia, a riot might break out. The commentator was flustered, trapped in a terrible dilemma handed to him by the human knight. Even without saying it, the boos were snowballing, growing larger by the second. Trying to soothe the crowd’s dissatisfaction with a few words would only damage the commentator’s reputation. But he couldn’t just let the explosive jeers continue unchecked. If they had at least seen a single drop of blood, this kind of backlash wouldn’t have erupted. The pathetic commentator kept glancing down at the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠arena as if clinging to the vain hope that Wolfrag might stand up again.

Nathan broke into a full, natural smile.

His happy expression was being zoomed in on the giant screen. Nathan’s smile widened even further because he liked that fact. It was a smile designed to drive the spectators insane.

“Yaaaaaah—! You—”

Swears that parents would never want to hear. Expressions even a debtor running away after kicking his creditor in the balls would hesitate to use.

“—filthy ground-dweller bastard—!”

Oh. I can hear you perfectly. Keep going.

For some reason, Nathan felt a thrill. It was as if a bizarre new taste had blossomed inside him.

Confess your defeat louder. Tear your own chests apart with those idiotic screams and make me even happier. Because from now on, I will never give you what you want.

“I will never die for you.”

Nathan thought about what would happen if he died. The demon would once again pick and choose among mortals’ bodies like inspecting fruit at a market. If his father couldn’t stop it, not only would that hateful father of his die, but countless others—regardless of race—would lose their lives purely for entertainment. Just as Nathan had seen in the vision.

The disaster that returned to the surface would plunge the world back into chaos. And what about the people closer to Nathan?

Benny would return to her wretched daily life and try to forget me. Aspen would end up crying over both her father and me.

The patients at the Graveyard House would probably mourn for a little while out of a sense of loyalty. He couldn’t tell whether that bitch Santra, whether goddess or minor deity, would find it amusing or not. And most of the pointy-ears…

Ah. Looking at those boos, he could tell. There would never be a happier moment for them than this.

Nathan yawned openly toward the disgusting world without even covering his mouth. These were the days when even the fact that he had grown used to it made him sick.

The bizarre sight of people pouring out every last curse in their vocabulary at a knight who served the public. And as if that hatred meant nothing, the countless metaphysical entities that had come for Nathan. His hands had been cut off, yet new ones had been attached. The ones he thought were elves turned out not to be elves. The Heavenly God turned out not to be a god at all. His father turned out not to be his real father. His girlfriend’s family turned out to be worshippers of some minor deity. That minor deity who called himself the God of Man tormented Nathan by saying he wasn’t even human. The man-killing evil spirit tempted him by saying he should enjoy every pleasure a human could have.

Stories that would have been hard to accept even if given several years had flashed by in just a few weeks. But in truth, the situation itself was really quite simple. Or rather, it could be simplified.

Survive. Until you die.

He didn’t worry about the method. Because there was only one thing Nathan Maia knew how to do.

“Come at me.”

Not breaking. Not doing what he was told. Acting like a rebel. Feeding bitter shit water to the dog-like bastards who prayed for him to be defeated, to give up, to fall. It might seem overly simplistic to call that a coping method, but if you were exceptionally good at something, there was less need to consider other options.

“If there’s one animal of a different kind mixed in among a pack of hyenas, you worthless pointy-eared scum. No matter what kind of animal it is, that one is the most dangerous.”

And Nathan truly had the qualifications to say so.

“The proof is that I’m still alive and haven’t been eaten yet.”

Life never gives what you want for free. Nathan intended to show them that clearly. To those who had fled from the surface and their descendants. To those lazy Eleim who seemed to believe they could kill him with boos without lifting a finger. Judging from the number of Abyss Mouths he had seen not long ago, it looked like they had been slaughtering surface-dwellers in their territory whenever they could get their hands on them. But someday, one of them was bound to appear. A natural enemy who would never obey their will.

Who knows? It might be me.

From one corner of the arena, something shot a heavy object into the air like a catapult. The wet, heavy lump that fluttered down from the sky landed with a thud right at Nathan’s feet. He already knew what was going to happen. He had heard about it. If spectators paid a certain ‘donation,’ they could interfere with the content or method of matches held in the Punishment Arena.

Thanks to the enormous sum poured out enthusiastically on the first day, the warden of the Punishment Arena had made a very rare decision. A same-day double match that required an astronomical additional fee.

Nathan looked down at the creature that had fallen at his feet with a fair amount of sympathy. It was a hippopotamus. A baby hippo still small enough to be cute, but one that would never move again.

“After living for hundreds of years, I guess you end up having to do these ugly things in front of others. Otherwise you get mouth ulcers or something. I definitely want to live modestly and die at a hundred.”

The outer wall of the arena opened wide. A deep, rumbling growl came from within the black shadow. A massive mother hippo was staring straight at Nathan. A beast with a size that could rival the Pretty Boy of the Floating Arena and teeth as powerful as a dinosaur’s. Beside it, an Eleim handler quickly injected the beast with a stimulant and fled. With the drug in its system, any chance of persuasion was gone. Not that communicating smoothly with a beast that had just lost its child would have been possible anyway.

You lost it. It must feel like your heart is being torn apart. But I have no intention of dying. I will defeat you. I will keep winning and eventually return.

To the person who, at some point, had come to share his heart—the one who wanted to increase his chances of survival even by making absurd promises.

“That’s not enough.”

Nathan casually rolled his shoulders. He rotated his wrists and stretched his back fully. That wasn’t enough. Combat was as ordinary as daily life to Nathan. There was nothing special about it.

“Send something bigger, you senile old fucks whose personalities have been warped by the years.”

Then he lifted the red longsword—the one that taunted its owner to hit harder—with the hand of a miracle that would never break. The basic stance of Federation swordsmanship. The defense posture. The blade pointed at the enemy.

“Because I still won’t die for you.”