Chapter 73 – If You’re Upset, Try Keeping Up (2)

I’d had a faint hope.

There are countless ways to manipulate mana.

Mana itself has various types, and each race handles it differently.

Humans, whose physical abilities rank lowest among all races, are consequently among the most mana-dependent species.

Even in simple running, the difference between those who use mana and those who don’t is so vast that it far exceeds the natural gap between a child and an adult.

Therefore, for a warrior—certainly for a knight—strengthening one’s body through mana is as natural as breathing or drinking water.

That fundamental gap is what made me an underachiever at the Academy, destined to fall behind.

In that sense…

…Although my mobility might appear extraordinary, when compared to those who enhance their physical abilities in actual combat,

I still fall short in many respects.

Yet if someone cannot keep pace with me, what does that say?

‘It’s the same story.’

For him to chase me as I leap across buildings with just my legs—while some of that is natural talent,

It’s more likely the result of rigorous training.

And though his approach differs from mine,

The way he uses mana and its effects probably resemble what I’ve been demonstrating.

However, the fundamental difference remains clear.

I cannot properly manipulate mana.

But what if someone who can wield mana performs sword techniques identical or similar to mine?

‘It would be a losing battle for me.’

But there’s no cause for regret.

I’d already assessed how he handles his sword when we were in the warehouse.

There are limits to what I can discern from that brief encounter alone.

But a direct confrontation will reveal everything.

The location seems suitable.

An empty lot in a back alley.

The stench of sewage suggests it’s a place people rarely visit.

So,

“Where did you go?!”

After abruptly halting my movement—killing all presence, soundlessly reaching the opposite direction from where I was being pursued—

The moment I arrived at my chosen location, I launched myself forward in ambush.

Though a surprise attack, I wasn’t expecting to inflict any real damage.

And as expected,

His sword came at me faster than my eyes could track.

I barely managed to block it mid-air,

But my entire body shuddered from the impact.

‘…The physical difference is…’

Overwhelming.

I channeled the force through the air and landed at the same moment he did.

His physical strength—born from natural talent and harsh training—was truly formidable.

And his swordsmanship…

“……”

Something felt… different.

Though his two-handed grip and sword stance appeared similar to what I’d seen before,

Somehow, the connections and the aggression in his movements diverged from what I expected.

A sword strike launched with killing intent, designed to initiate an attack…

Why did it feel so off?

I deflected it with my single-handed sword, redirecting the force.

Like flowing water.

At times, as if caught in a sudden whirlwind.

I deflected, and dispersed.

“What?!”

He seemed to sense my intention and tried to overwhelm me with raw physical strength, without relying on mana.

His swift sword strikes cascaded down like blows from a heavy single-bladed axe.

Though it sounds contradictory, his abnormal physique made such a thing possible.

In close combat, that kind of movement is nothing short of catastrophic.

Combined with his relentless momentum and extraordinary instincts, the attacks were viciously persistent.

Even so,

His two-handed grip made his movements and control somewhat predictable.

No, that’s just from my perspective.

From the beginning,

I was conditioned to face hundreds, even thousands of arrows raining from the sky—learning not just to avoid them, but to counter each one.

I had to break through the charge of dozens, even hundreds of warhorses head-on before I could finally escape that accursed training.

…Speed alone isn’t the issue.

In the chaos of close combat with no allies, with weapons converging from every direction unseen,

…I somehow pushed through.

It feels like a tale from the distant past now.

But when I face such clear hostility and killing intent,

…It’s as if

All my senses suddenly awaken.

That which I recognize as a threat,

Before fear can freeze my body,

Before tension can constrict me,

Before all that—rage erupts.

An uncontainable fury tears through my chest, my very core.

I didn’t hone my sword skills and techniques merely to endure and bear suffering.

It’s not that I wish to lash out indiscriminately.

…But like some fool, some idiot, some blockhead,

To just endure, endure, and endure again—to withstand it all,

That cursed ordeal and torment, dying dozens, hundreds, thousands of times over,

…That’s not what I went through all that for.

“You’re actually blocking everything?! Despite being inferior in strength and speed, you still manage?! Is this the difference in skill mastery?! No, how are you doing that so fluidly with just one hand?!”

Even as he speaks, his strikes show no mercy. No hesitation, no trembling.

Not a moment’s doubt.

Any brief lapse in attention would be like offering my throat to a snake—his attack would instantly pierce through.

Once he breaks through, for someone like me, that’s essentially the end.

That’s why I deflect his sword with calculated movements, widen the distance, close in again, and entangle him in return.

Fighting with pure physical strength is hellish for me.

…But haven’t I recently learned to sustain myself even in battles like this?

I relax my shoulders and absorb everything.

Gripping the sword hilt tightly won’t enhance technique or strengthen my strikes.

No.

Just hold it firmly enough not to lose grip, enough to withstand any impact.

Don’t unnecessarily tense the arm joints or shoulders.

Whether tense or emotionally charged, there’s no need to strain my muscles forcefully.

…Rather, it’s more effective to extend the striking distance and radius.

It’s more effective to aim precisely for vital points—to pierce or to slice, even if only shallow.

There’s no need to uselessly tense my back or clench my abdomen.

No need to strain my chest or forcibly brace my lower body.

Even the shock transmitted through the sword—use it as momentum.

A single step forward, every small stride, wide gait, or forceful stomp,

The subtle shock rising from each, even the harsh scraping of feet across the ground—all become momentum.

Every internal jolt, slight strain, and friction occurring as the body moves, halts, and rotates,

I utilize them all.

Even rising and falling becomes part of the cycle.

It all begins from sand. From dust.

From specks.

Like water flowing downward.

Flowing, gathering, and pooling, until it surges upward toward the sky.

“Persistent bastard!”

Though I wield my sword with one hand,

That doesn’t mean it’s only half as effective.

Even my empty left hand moves with natural purpose.

When my right arm holding the sword moves forward, the left naturally pulls back.

If the right arm rises, the left descends.

Of course, that’s not all.

Leg movement. Posture. Height. Angles. Left-right balance. Direction of power. Connection strength. Fluidity. Eye control. Breath regulation. Harmonious control of the reactive body and senses.

And still, I think.

And still, I move.

Observing the opponent while reflecting on myself.

Everything functions organically.

Without a single misstep.

I move.

I cycle.

I intertwine.

I overturn.

A straight line can be encircled.

A point can extend into a line.

Emptiness can be filled with a single dot.

When struck, I turn inward, and when turning, I flow again.

Flow onward.

Like this,

What rises must fall, and what falls must rise again.

What is filled will eventually empty.

What overflows must recede.

What is emptied will surely be filled.

What is full will ultimately be drained completely.

We

Are born to die.

We own only to eventually lose.

And like this, in order to part ways,

We met.

“Let’s stop.”

Those words snapped me back to my senses.

“……”

What was that?

Just now…?

“Even a phantom wouldn’t be so devoid of emotion. I’m not fighting some animated scarecrow. What the hell are you doing? What is that style?”

No killing intent, absorbing whatever I throw at him.

“…Did you really learn Grandeus’s sword technique?”

“……”

Why should I care?

Whatever works is all that matters.

The three things the Demon King taught me were:

First, precision. Second, efficiency. Third, sincerity.

Precision means exactness.

Efficiency means maximizing results.

And sincerity… is complete devotion.

The Demon King once said:

[Even the smallest task should never be neglected. Always give your utmost. That effort must remain consistent.

That devotion becomes sincerity, and only when unwavering does it manifest through the heart and body.

Only when it manifests outwardly can transformation occur. And only those who transform can realize dreams and ideals.

Only such individuals can resist fate.

Yet even that, isn’t even the beginning of true confrontation. It’s merely resistance.

But even that resistance… most cannot achieve.

Innate character, habits, temperament, disposition,

They fail to overcome even talent, and crushed by their circumstances, they barely breathe before dying.

Blinded by desire, they waste time, burning it away.

Living their entire lives swayed by such things, they eventually die. That is the way of living beings. Sentient creatures. Mere organic matter.

Will you become one who wields the sword, or one who is wielded by it?

True sincerity means never losing sight of yourself, even for a moment.

Being aware that you stand in your place. Knowing what you’re doing in each moment, before and after. Knowing where you’re headed. Walking the path with eyes wide open.

Only then will you not wander.

Only then will you not lose your way.

Walking the precise path, seeking efficiency to shorten the journey to your destination.

That is why, because of this, you must never lose sight of where you stand.

The moment you lose it, neither you nor your path will remain.]

“……”

Is Grandeus’s core principle or sword form or sword technique the priority?

No, those are secondary.

For me, what matters most is this.

Based on this, I advance and retreat.

…It’s how I properly maintain my ground.

“You’re certainly talkative.”

“Ha!”

He looked like he had plenty to say but didn’t know where to begin.

Who cares?

“So it really takes a fight to the death to get some answers, huh?”

“…Then come at me with that resolve.”

“Tch.”

He glanced around, assessing his surroundings.

“……”

More eyes were watching us now.

…Yet,

Did he truly care about something so trivial?

In a life-or-death struggle?

“The most infuriating thing,” he said, “is that I hate learning something from you.”

“……”

“I’d rather die an inglorious death… than become fodder for your growth.”

Then, as if his motivation had truly evaporated, he lowered his sword.

“We’ll meet again soon. If that damned prophecy is to be believed. Like it or not, next time you’ll see what lies beneath the shell.”

“……”

“Venus. Remember it or don’t.”

With a sharp exhale, he turned away toward the alley.

I too climbed the building wall and departed immediately.

***

“You crazy bastard.”

Similar, yet different.

Venus spat repeatedly, claiming Cariel had spoiled his appetite.

“You can actually do that with one hand?”

What he occasionally glimpsed was undeniably the same technique they had learned.

But something was different.

…It wasn’t just Cariel who gained insight from their encounter.

Venus himself, amid that frenzied clash… had experienced something profoundly disturbing.

“What’s different? How can he possibly… to that degree…”

Neither had revealed their true specialties.

But such things aren’t displayed simply because one wishes to.

…They can only emerge when the opponent creates the right opening.

Whether manipulating mana, hostility, killing intent, or malice,

Their secret techniques were all about turning even emotions against the opponent.

But this… what was it?

There was nothing.

Like encountering a storm within dense fog—an eerie, unsettling sensation.

Like being submerged in a vast lake while trying to swing a sword—utterly irrational.

You cannot cut the wind.

And if you could… it would require an extremely specialized, extraordinary technique.

No, if even technique proves insufficient, then something far more exceptional might be needed.

“……”

Yet none among them had ever dared to recreate it.

A star of darkness that cleaves through and devours brilliance.

A trajectory imbued with the radiant light of shadow.

Consuming space, light, phenomena, and objects with perfect equality,

The Black Star of Light.

“……”

The young man—Venus—remembered.

Even though it happened when he was very young,

That massive arc of darkness that sliced through the lawless in a single strike.

The moment that streak of black light appeared,

All the overwhelming forces of magic, miracles, and catastrophes that had seemed poised to swallow the world,

Were drowned, vanished like bubbles, erased without a trace.

He—Venus—had never forgotten that sight.

No, he likely could never forget.

…He had lived solely to recreate that moment.

So why…

Why did that same aura emanate from someone he had never even seen before?

Why, of all people,

Not him, but that cursed bastard?!

Why him specifically?!

From the son of his sworn enemy!