Chapter 23
Chapter 23
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: A Coincidence for the Heroine (4)
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Iron Dung Beetle had no idea what swordsmanship really was.
The only sword he’d ever swung in his life was a kitchen knife, and he’d never once used anything to hurt another person.
The only swordsmanship he knew came from fake routines performed by celebrities on TV and that one time he’d seen an elf wield a blade.
Even then, he’d only mimicked the forms a little. He didn’t know how to circulate mana or the profound truths embedded in true sword arts.
And yet, Iron Dung Beetle prepared for swordsmanship anyway.
Something in his mind urged him on. It whispered not to pound away with kicks and punches, but to sever the neck in one stroke.
These were the bastards who’d threatened Jang Man and shoved a gun in his face. There was no reason to let them live.
Iron Dung Beetle raised his hand blade in the exact same stance as the elf from his memory.
He substituted his lacking mana control with Wave Yang Art. He filled the empty truths with raw talent.
“Uwaaaah!”
Before Iron Dung Beetle could finish preparing, Brute charged first. Mortimer, was it? His burly build screamed brawler.
‘He’s aiming for... the neck.’
Iron Dung Beetle silently swung his hand.
Mana tore through the air. Hand met hand, superhuman flesh collided.
Clang!
The first clash ended in a draw.
Iron Dung Beetle’s hand blade didn’t slice Mortimer’s neck—it carved into his chest instead. Mortimer’s grip missed Iron Dung Beetle’s neck, snagging only the hem of his jacket.
‘Too short.’
Was it because he was using a hand blade instead of a sword? The reach fell short, striking chest over throat.
‘But the attack landed.’
Blood poured from the long horizontal gash across his chest. Mortimer stared in bewilderment from his wound to Iron Dung Beetle and back.
Iron Dung Beetle pulled back, raising his hand blade again.
The other gang members seized the moment, drawing pistols, but Mortimer threw up a hand to stop them.
“Mortimer?”
“That guy... strong. Run. Get... backup.”
The instant Mortimer spoke, the M-shaped balding man scowled.
“What’re you saying? You can’t handle a kid like th—”
Before he could voice his doubt, Iron Dung Beetle charged again. Mortimer met him mid-leap.
Whoosh!
Mortimer targeted Iron Dung Beetle’s right hand instead of his neck this time. It wasn’t a one-strike finisher—it reeked of desperation to buy time.
But Iron Dung Beetle was already used to his tells.
Over his golden eyes, Mortimer’s every trajectory traced out like lines.
Simple attacks relying on his massive frame and brute strength. Compared to Seti’s Flying Leg Art or the elf’s swordsmanship he’d faced before, it was like a child flailing wildly.
The only issue was how damn tough he was.
Now that he could cut through that toughness, the guy was just a fish flopping on the cutting board.
The moment Iron Dung Beetle slapped down his arm, he whipped his hand blade through the opening.
Slash!
The upward slice met the man’s right arm. The sharply surging mana sliced cleanly through thick skin, muscle, and bone in a neat line.
Thud.
The severed arm hit the ground, followed by a spray of red blood.
“Wha...?!”
Only the rest of the Blue Rats recoiled in shock. Iron Dung Beetle, who’d cut the arm, and Mortimer, who’d lost it, locked eyes, readying for the next clash.
‘This time, the neck.’
With iron resolve to kill, he channeled Wave Yang Art.
Swish!
A nameless sword art flowed along his hand blade. Surging mana shoved the air aside once more.
And in the next instant.
“That’s far enough.”
Iron Dung Beetle’s hand froze mid-swing.
***
A single voice from an unknown source chilled the entire bar’s air.
The fleeing Blue Rats and the death-ready Mortimer halted like a paused frame.
Like mice frozen before a snake... they rolled their eyes frantically but couldn’t so much as twitch their lips.
In the deadly silence, Iron Dung Beetle was the only one who could even turn his head.
‘What... the?’
He reflexively pulled up mana through his entire body. Vast mana rebelled, slamming him down once more.
“Wow, you can still move in this?”
From beyond the bar’s shattered door, through the market alley, came a cheeky young woman’s voice.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him. That voice’s owner was the cause of this sudden hush.
Iron Dung Beetle gritted his teeth and turned to face her.
The moment he confirmed her identity, he swallowed unconsciously.
...!?
The woman strolling toward the bar from afar was all too familiar.
Neatly tied-up tawny ponytail, a beauty whose age was impossible to guess.
And above all, the trademark eyepatch over her left eye.
It all matched exactly what he’d seen in that TV documentary.
‘Freya Khan...?’
Wielder of the Holy Sword. Savior of Melbourne. Guardian of White Fire. Australia’s pride... and one of Earth’s top ten strongest.
Why was someone like that here, right now?
While Iron Dung Beetle reeled in confusion, Freya Khan sauntered casually into the bar.
She scanned the wrecked interior, then hopped onto the counter—the one thing still somewhat intact.
“Jeez. Superhumans these days have way too much energy. Starting a brawl in broad daylight right in the middle of town.”
Her one exposed hazel eye flicked between Iron Dung Beetle and the Blue Rats.
Her gaze lingered briefly on Iron Dung Beetle, then shifted to the rats.
“Hey, you rat bastards.”
The moment she spoke, the pressure pinning the Blue Rats vanished.
Regaining control of their bodies, they yelped and fell on their asses, or rolled their eyes toward Freya Khan.
Regardless, she pointed at the M-shaped balding man among them.
“Hey, you. What’s your name?”
“W-Willard, ma’am!”
“Good, Willard. Let me ask you one thing.”
“Y-Yes! Ask away!”
Willard trembled violently but bowed repeatedly. Yet at her next question, his back went rigid.
“What the hell’s your boss thinking these days?”
“P-Pardon?”
“You know. Ben. Your rat king. What’s going through his head that he’s sending goons all the way out here?”
“I-I don’t... I’m not in a position to see him often, so...”
“You don’t know?”
Was his answer unsatisfactory?
The instant Freya Khan’s brow furrowed slightly, Willard’s right arm dropped clean off.
No visible swing.
Even Iron Dung Beetle, who could sense mana, barely caught the tail end of that terrifying swordsmanship.
“Eeeek!”
Blood spurted from the stump a beat late. Willard clutched his shoulder in horror.
“Willard. Go tell your boss this: during admissions season, stay dead quiet like the rats you are.”
It was a one-sided threat, but from Freya Khan’s lips. Willard didn’t dare ask why, just nodded frantically.
“Don’t screw it up unless you want funerals piling up. Got it? Now... scram.”
The words barely left her mouth before Willard, Mortimer, and every last Blue Rat bolted from the bar.
As the final one crossed the threshold, Freya Khan suddenly called them back.
“Hey! Take your arms with you. Not hard for a priest to reattach ’em.”
With a glance from her, Willard’s arm and Mortimer’s severed limb floated up and flew to the rats.
Witnessing mana control bordering on the divine, they freaked but snatched the arms and fled into the market streets.
Only after their footsteps faded did Freya Khan look down at the still-frozen Iron Dung Beetle.
“Hey, kid. Which sect’s disciple are you?”
The moment she asked, the mana pressing Iron Dung Beetle lifted. With the foreign mana gone, his own returned to normal.
“...Pardon?”
Iron Dung Beetle replied humbly without thinking. How could he not? She towered over him in skill and character alike.
“Sect. Sect. Which sect’s martial art did you learn?”
“...”
“That killing intent was no joke. Looking at your age, not Juga Shibili Style. Something from beyond the dimensional gate?”
Killing intent? Sect? Juga Shibili? Iron Dung Beetle frowned slightly. Nothing but unfamiliar words.
“I... have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Hey, come on. What’re you hiding for? You think I’d mess with you over my rep? Just curious.”
“...”
“...?”
A brief silence, exchanged glances.
Freya Khan’s brow arched long, then she raised her hand. She balled her fist, extending index and middle fingers.
Sword fingers.
Unlike Iron Dung Beetle’s hand blade, this was the true form for barehanded swordsmanship.
Seeing he didn’t recognize it, she arched her brow again.
‘What’s with this guy?’
And in the next moment, she swung.
Sword energy surged between her two fingers, slicing the air as it shot forth.
“?!”
Iron Dung Beetle reflexively extended his hand blade to block.
Clang!
He struck the side of the incoming mana, shock surging from palm to toes like it’d rip his arm apart.
Iron Dung Beetle stumbled off-balance but barely held his stance.
He glared at Freya Khan, half-shocked, half-flustered.
“What the hell was that for?”
Freya Khan didn’t answer.
She scanned him up and down with a puzzled look, then confirmed something by swinging sword fingers again.
Clang!
Iron Dung Beetle blocked this one too. Unlike the first, he deflected the impact perfectly—not even his knees buckled.
“...”
Freya Khan’s single eye chilled over at the sight.
At first, she’d only meant to chide a junior superhuman. She didn’t like seeing killing intent spill in the city center like that.
But up close, his talent was no ordinary thing.
Breaking her earlier pressure to move hadn’t been luck. The mana from his body was so pure it was almost transparent.
Meeting a guy like this, in a place like this, at a time like this—was it mere coincidence? Freya Khan didn’t buy it.
So she’d spoken to him, swung sword fingers.
To gauge him by his martial art’s form, which held a wealth of info.
But confirming his art... far from resolving her doubts, a massive question mark bloomed in her mind.
“Hey, you... what the hell are you?”
“...”
“Why’s a human using elven swordsmanship?”
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