Ch.216Night’s God (7)

The night sky stretches and flows along the raised sword.

To Llewellyn’s eyes, the night sky appeared to take the form of a blade.

Not the entire night sky, just a portion.

Yet it seemed more real than if the whole sky were moving, leaving him gaping in awe.

The outline of the night sky distorted, moving in a shape resembling a blade.

Though surreal, a strange sense of reality enveloped Llewellyn’s body.

As he gazed, his field of vision narrowed. A helmet overlaid, armor encircling his body.

Beyond his fluttering cape, Llewellyn instinctively thought:

‘It’s coming.’

All outlines were blurry. Even the approaching form was indistinct.

Yet Llewellyn moved reflexively.

‘I must block it.’

Traces of his fusion with the Sword Saint remained in his body. Etched in his memory. The faint remnants of intuition and experience warned him—this was a downward slash.

With the full weight of the body behind it, a downward strike is as powerful as a diagonal slash. Even in the hands of a novice, these two strikes deliver overwhelming destructive power.

Because they fully utilize instinct and physical structure.

If that power came from such enormity…

Everyone would die. Even without careful trajectory control.

‘I must block it at all costs.’

To avoid annihilation, he had to block it. Failure meant certain death. But how?

Llewellyn knew his physical abilities surpassed human limits, but this…

This was beyond human or monster. No monster could compare.

A single strike that would dismember even a dragon, reducing it to mere cooking ingredients.

Even Llewellyn would die if hit. He knew this instinctively.

He threw the God of Dreams into his cape.

“Llewellyn?!”

“Where are you—!”

Only Melody and Lorian, with Agility 20 matching Llewellyn’s, could follow his subsequent movements.

Llewellyn ran forward. Even realizing the distance wasn’t closing, he pressed on to pose a threat.

He saw the sword path bend. The vast night sky suspended in midair was forged straight toward Llewellyn.

It’s coming. Blocking won’t mitigate the aftermath. Then…

‘What can I block with?’

Three options came to mind. Two weapons and his non-weapon body.

The body was impossible. Parrying and dragon-dropping.

Even with martial arts, he couldn’t envision blocking such an attack.

Martial arts ultimately manifested through mental imagery. He couldn’t imagine uncertain movements blocking such an attack.

The blade fell. Watching it, Llewellyn felt like he was facing a guillotine.

Star cluster?

No, it would shatter. It had broken even the Sword Saint. Though supposedly infinitely drawable from the soul, it couldn’t withstand an attack that would crush the soul itself.

Then…

Llewellyn’s eyes sharply caught the hand axe protruding from his cape.

[This weapon cannot be destroyed.]

A status window and name appearing as if in passing.

North Wind.

[“My child, I pity you.”

-Fire God, to the Steward.]

Different from what he’d seen before. But there was no time to marvel.

There was only one thing to do now. Llewellyn gritted his teeth.

Act or die.

[Mourning]

[Remaining Duration: 60 seconds]

[Temporary Health: 10]

His feet pressed hard against the ground. Crack! The demon realm’s earth split, scattering soil, and Llewellyn’s lowered body shot forward.

He gripped North Wind. This weapon wouldn’t break. Then it could block.

Really?

Erasing the doubt that sprouted momentarily, Llewellyn shot forward.

He drove his hand into the ground to tilt his shooting form.

CRACK!

The tilted sky drew closer. Watching death approach, Llewellyn released his hand.

The acceleration ended. He’d put enough distance between himself and his companions.

Swallowing his rising anxiety, Llewellyn raised North Wind.

For an instant, Llewellyn’s consciousness broke.

Clang! What seemed like a light ringing sound faded.

Indeed, North Wind hadn’t broken. Wind, not meant to break or shatter, had endured.

But what about Llewellyn’s flesh?

His body that had to absorb that force?

It was like striking something small and hard with a sword, causing that hard object to fly away.

Llewellyn’s body soared.

As if retracing the trajectory he’d taken to shield his companions from the sky-blade.

BOOM, CRASH!

His body dragged along the ground, the momentum carrying him far.

Lorian, belatedly realizing the situation, threw himself to catch Llewellyn, but only after rolling for a while, dirtying Lorian’s white dress with soil, did they finally stop.

“Llewellyn, wake up! Llewellyn!”

Melody and Isla also prepared recovery and attacks in panic, but they faced backward—to care for Llewellyn or protect him.

Only one person moved forward.

Carrying Shield Breaker on his shoulder, he advanced without hesitation.

Lorian, holding Llewellyn, belatedly saw that back.

“Sword Saint…?”

He was smiling.

“Well, when they said they prepared a trap, I wondered how magnificent it would be… what thrilling challenge awaited.”

Smiling brightly like a child receiving a birthday gift, feeling his heart pound, he gripped his sword tightly.

“Llewellyn, I thank you for this opportunity! For this unparalleled danger, this crisis that makes even my soul tremble!”

He was laughing like a madman. His laughter echoed toward the tilting night sky.

“What on earth…?!”

The enemy was mighty. Escape might be impossible, but it seemed beyond the reach of sword and magic.

A threat so powerful that not just one life, but even an army couldn’t stand against it.

Clearly transcending reason, a massive entity manipulating laws.

By Llewellyn’s knowledge, a form worthy of being called a god.

Yet despite its enormity, despite the terrifying horror of the night sky gathering to target him…

While his lips trembled and cold sweat poured, part of him feared.

But he was also immensely joyful, anticipating.

The place he would reach after this struggle.

The sky his sword would touch.

Looking at the night sky falling toward him, he said:

“Put your full strength into it. Nameless monster.”

No, he commanded:

“If you fail to kill me now, you’ll be the one cut down.”

With this bold declaration, he gripped his sword with both hands.

His stance was high. A posture to intercept and counter a sword plunging from above.

He barely managed to compose his stretched smile.

“Mental Image Manifestation.”

And when Llewellyn regained consciousness, the first thing he saw was:

“Corridor of Eternal Struggle.”

The life he’d seen when using Miracle Manifestation.

The mental image of that sword-obsessed giant.

Its manifestation.

Boom, an unfamiliar drum sound echoed.

The giant’s mental image, unlike Llewellyn’s heartbeat, had only that one trace left in the world.

Surprisingly, nothing happened.

Naturally, everyone looked at the Sword Saint.

—!

The night sky plunged toward the Sword Saint.

A thunderous roar.

The earth shook, and soil dust scattered chaotically from the impact point in a straight line.

Ah, he’s dead. Surely dead.

Even the continent’s greatest swordsman couldn’t withstand this strike.

Everyone sensed the Sword Saint’s death.

Except Llewellyn.

Llewellyn, unable to believe what he saw, opened his eyes wide.

In his wide gray eyes stood a giant.

The dust settled.

“Ha, hahaha! HAHAHAHAHA!”

As the debris and ground mist cleared with the thunderous sound, laughter rang out.

Blood dripped to the ground, pooling as dust settled into it, making it murky.

Judging by the amount of blood, it was clearly a serious injury.

Moreover, the giant’s entire upper arm was smeared with blood when the dust cleared.

But it was light considering he’d blocked the night sky with a single sword.

And Llewellyn clearly saw the change happening beyond that.

‘He deflected it.’

The most basic swordsmanship. Receiving a sword with the blade’s surface, safely absorbing the power while deflecting the sword. Parrying.

The Sword Saint had parried the night sky.

The moment he realized this, the sky that had been pushed back and surged high suddenly stopped.

What had descended to eye level returned to its proper place, but that wasn’t the end.

A single strike wasn’t all.

From the long distorted mark, the Sword Saint adjusted his grip on the sword.

“Heh, heh… Yes, this is a better way to defend.”

Consolidating the insight gained in this moment, he stepped again onto the pool of blood he’d shed.

The night sky surged again. A transparent arm wielded the god as a sword hilt.

The night sky distorted into a blade shape, and beneath it, the giant, smaller than even a single star let alone the sky, spread his legs.

He gripped his sword against the night sky trying to devour him.

Watching this, Llewellyn instinctively knew.

This attack wasn’t a single strike.

It was a combo. Like repeatedly striking an insect that wouldn’t die easily, with irritation.

It would continue until the Sword Saint died.

“Sword Saint! Dodge—”

“SILENCE!”

The Sword Saint roared, turning his body. Countless sword marks plunged toward him.

The sky distorted into lines.

The single line seen when swinging a sword. A sword strike honed with killing intent, separating life and death.

The transparent arm drew such sword trajectories.

From top to bottom, from bottom to top in a curve, then horizontally.

Not content, it swept the ground continuously from side to side, and finally plunged diagonally before striking down again.

Swordsmanship without technique or skill, just random hacking.

Against this, the Sword Saint’s technique was simple and clear.

Typical yet purposeful attacks.

A sword strike surging from bottom to top in a semicircle pushed back the night sky.

After swinging, he gathered the remaining momentum, turned his waist as an axis, and swung again.

He repeated this. Though the direction and angle changed slightly each time, the essence of the sword strike remained the same.

But Llewellyn, having seen it once before, recognized it immediately.

Swordsmanship built up over immeasurable time.

Technique and experience accumulated through countless duels.

Traces engraved deeper than reflexes, down to the marrow of that individual’s body.

His muscles, bones, and nerves moved as if his entire being was molded for that single sword strike.

His smoothly moving body, firmly set muscles, and the skeletal structure supporting everything beneath.

They completed the sword strike.

He received the god’s random sword strikes.

Sound disappeared. The sword strikes clashed at a pitch far beyond human hearing range, inaudible even to Llewellyn.

The only sound was an inexplicably low drum filling the space.

And the impossible-to-hear sounds of the Sword Saint’s shouts and his creaking body.

A storm raged, and everyone except the Sword Saint watched in astonishment.

The night sky charged horizontally. The Sword Saint spread his legs wide, pulled his right foot back, and struck upward from below.

The night sky retreated greatly, and as if taking this as an insult, it flew down to crush the Sword Saint.

Boom, the drum sound echoed again.

The Sword Saint didn’t retreat. Instead, he twisted his body and raised his sword.

From that position, he drew a large U-shape with his sword, striking the night sky hard from below, putting his waist into it.

It wasn’t a sword strike that could produce remarkable results. Effective against humans or monsters, but not against a god.

Yet though it caused no wound, Llewellyn clearly saw.

The sky being parried again, pushed back and deflected greatly.

‘He’s… pushing back the sky.’

Is that possible with just a sword?

Against a massive entity that pulls down providence and uses the world itself as a sword.

Can mere human technique and a sword reach it?

Normally, one would consider it absurd and impossible.

Laugh it off as a dream or dismiss it as nonsense.

But it was happening.

The Sword Saint, despite having reached the extreme with his sword…

A mere human was confronting the sky with a sword.

His palms were soaked with blood. His knees trembled, and his clothes were torn to rags, but.

He was alive. Alive and gripping his sword. His eyes burned like fire, and his mouth corners were greatly curved with ecstasy and accomplishment.

This time, the greatly striking night sky didn’t just get pushed back.

The Sword Saint had already taken his stance.

It was a stance Llewellyn knew well. Twisting the waist greatly, using the power starting from the legs, flowing it through the entire body organically.

A strike using his entire body as the sword hilt.

The Sword Saint’s secret technique that had cut down even the previous Sword Saint.

‘Old Tree Breaker.’

BOOM—!

As the drum sound grew louder, the Sword Saint’s single-edged sword left a fierce line in the air.

Clean, leaving no residue, giving an impression of cleanliness, yet somehow fierce sword mark.

—!

Blood gushed from the Sword Saint’s torn muscles, and his face, filled with ecstasy, was momentarily hidden by the sword mark.

Then silence fell.

The night sky soared greatly, and despite the sword ringing with a clear sound…

Everyone just looked at the sky.

Because a sword mark remained in the night sky.

Along that mark, with a cracking sound, the night sky split and shed fragments.

Stars fell as dust, and mixed clouds and drifting Milky Way crashed into the ground like steles.

Thud, boom, beneath the falling remnants of the sky, the Sword Saint adjusted his grip on his sword.

“Llewellyn.”

A gentle voice unlike the Sword Saint. Looking at his blood-stained back, Llewellyn felt something stirring within him.

“How long will you just sit there?”

A long, drawn-out breath. The breath he exhaled as if tired was thick with accomplishment and joy.

For good reason. He was a giant, but not a special one.

Similarly, the Sword Saint’s sword held no special magic or divinity.

Just an ordinary iron sword. He had wielded it for over 200 years.

His flesh contained no divinity either.

He had simply trained, cut, and been cut endlessly.

There was nothing special about him. He was ordinary. That’s how he began.

Without acquiring any special qualities, he gripped his sword at the level he had reached and…

Thus cut the sky.

“A swordsman can cut anyone… whoever the enemy may be.”

In a voice that seemed about to faint, the Sword Saint gripped his sword.

“All you need is a sword and the will to cut.”

Therefore. Without looking back, the Sword Saint said:

“Next Sword Saint, Llewellyn.”

Simply gripping his sword firmly and taking his stance:

“Draw your sword.”

Before he knew it, Llewellyn was holding a drawn sword.