Chapter 388 - Heaven Is Not Fair

RATTLE! A net descended over his head. Ragna swung his sword lightly in a vertical arc. Neither particularly fast nor slow, the blade suddenly seemed to narrow into a line—and that line sliced clean through the net. “What the!”

The companion who had thrown the net cried out. Yon realized something was wrong, but there was no time to speak. He had to reach forward with his left hand, grip the glaive close to its blade, and make short parries, thrusts, and swings. CLANG! CLANG-CLANG! The sword that had cut the net was already upon him, descending from above. Even after he turned the glaive’s blade flat and knocked it aside, the sword doggedly followed, trying to sever the shaft. Yon pulled his glaive back to block again, then heaved the blade upward. Those three brief movements left both his hands tingling. 'My hands are tingling?'

Yon, too, was an excellent warrior. He even knew how to wield Will. Will was determination. He could not manifest it naturally, but he could command it through techniques. What a proto knight could do, he could do as well. He was capable of it. Yet a single clash told him how vast the gap was. He could never win. It was hopeless. He felt trapped inside a coffin sealed on every side, as though someone had seized his limbs and was squeezing them. 'This monstrous bastard!'

The man had been playing with them at first. Ever since sheathing his sword and drawing it again, he had become someone else. He leaped backward as quickly as he had approached, swinging horizontally. Fast, yet heavy. It was too late to dodge. The mercenary who had discarded his bow raised a round shield. That alone deserved praise. At least he had made a show of blocking. CRACK! THUD!

Ragna’s sword cut through shield and man alike. After that backward leap and swing, he was already racing sideways in an arc. Yon’s gaze followed too late. He saw the head of the companion who had thrown the net flying through the air, trailing a spray of blood. His opponent did not stop. He evaded a spear aimed at his back and swung again without a care, as though his muscles knew no fatigue. “Ghurk!”

One of the more skillful spearmen tried to dodge, only for a long line to appear below his Adam’s apple. Blood spurted upward, exposing the gaping wound. Only then did Yon force his tingling arms into a sideways swing. Already, he could see a sword descending over his head. He could see his opponent’s face as well. It showed neither impatience nor strain. Only indifference, as though he were going about some tedious chore. “Aaargh!”

Will stirred within Yon’s body. He transmitted his willpower through the glaive’s blade. The technique was called Knock Aside—a Will-infused art that repelled an opposing weapon so violently on contact that its wielder would momentarily lose their grip. Against it, Ragna brought forth the Will of Scission. The determination to cut sliced through the determination to knock aside. He brushed past Yon, who went still. Soon a diagonal line appeared across Yon’s head, and blood began seeping through it. CRACK.

His head split along the line, skull and all, from above his right eyebrow to beneath his left cheekbone. That left his mouth intact. The dying Yon opened it. “G-g-g-g.”

The noise came from his front teeth knocking together. It carried no meaning. Of course, even if he had managed to convey something meaningful, the man before him would not have listened. Having cut down and killed six men in a single rush, Ragna turned. He did not look hurried, but his steps were quick. On his way back through the gate, he saw Andrew and the five trainees panting over their defeated opponents. One enemy, a mace wielder, lay with two swords in his belly and an ankle bent backward. Beside him lay another, still holding his sword, with a blade through his heart. Ragna saw them and passed by. Dunbachel was still fighting in the distance, but that Beastman would not die easily. Wasn’t keeping herself alive her greatest talent? Not that Ragna was acting on any such thoughts or calculations. He had simply found his motivation. He was merely heading where he needed to be. He went straight back through the gate and climbed the wall. Starting where Ragna had fought, the battle fell still, the silence spreading like paint. Enemy soldiers who had witnessed his fighting up close had stopped moving. Naturally, the defenders held their ground unless attacked. Amid that strange standoff, Ragna appeared atop the gate. “The palace is in danger, right?”

Squire Roford had calmed his excitement, only to gape again at Ragna’s fighting. He had just managed to close his mouth.

“Ah, well.” In the meantime, Roford’s thinking had changed a little. Of course it had. All his life, he had been swayed by other people’s opinions. Talent aside, it was a matter of personality. Hence his answer.

“It might not be. I could be wrong...” To Ragna, that sounded like “It might be” and “I could be right.”

“I’m going ahead.”

That was enough. “Where are you going?”

Even in their brief acquaintance, Roford had learned that the man before him had an atrocious sense of direction. Not merely atrocious—leave him alone in a city, and there was no telling where he might end up. “The palace.”

“Finding your way alone...”

“I know a shortcut.” Ragna understood what Roford had said. Was Encrid in danger? Perhaps not. There might be no unforeseen threat at all. Or the opposite might be true. He only had to go and see. The enemy that had threatened the gate was now a Ghoul with its limbs torn off. He could leave his post. Dunbachel and Andrew would be enough. That was why he would go alone. Even if unforeseen danger came here, those two would hold it off. “... Pardon?”

Roford did not know which possibility was true. But he knew he could not stop the man before him from leaving. His determination was clear and unmistakable.

“I’m off.”

Ragna turned as he spoke. Had Andrew been there, he would have slapped his forehead and shaken his head. The man’s sense of direction was truly the worst. But Andrew was below the gate, catching his breath and going over the fight he had just witnessed. It had been shocking. So there was no one to stop Ragna. Ragna turned his gaze toward the palace. With people routinely gathering to live within cities, naturally this one was large. The palace was only faintly visible. Even riding hard, it would take the time a long candle needed to burn. Not half a day, certainly, but hardly a short journey. Nor were the streets neatly laid out for his convenience. Even the outer road to the palace followed the city wall rather than a simple straight line. In other words, getting anywhere was difficult without knowing the way. To Ragna, such a route was practically a maze. Yet the palace was visible. And so Ragna really did know a shortcut. Even he could hardly fail to run straight toward something he could see, however faintly. He leaped onto the rooftops and ran above the city, keeping the palace in sight. As he ran, he saw Jaxon moving in roughly the same direction. He also saw the barbarian bastard returning drenched from head to toe in blood, whatever he had been doing. Finally, far away, a leopard was also running across the rooftops. He only caught passing glimpses. Ignoring everything, Ragna leaped and ran. Forever losing his way, he was well accustomed to walking and running. He put all that ability into running fast. BANG! BANG! CRUNCH! CRASH!

The roofs beneath his feet broke apart. He was running without the slightest restraint. “Whoa!”

“Was that a thunderbolt?”

“Aah! What was that!” He ran without caring what came underfoot or whether it broke, drawing startled cries from citizens below. Pieces of roof and eaves broke off and fell. Ragna kept running. His route was indeed a shortcut. He cut across the city and passed the soldiers slumped on the ground before the palace, ignoring them when they should have been standing guard.

“Hey!”

Someone called out at the sight of him, but he ignored that too and ran straight into the palace. Ragna was no hunter and possessed none of a hunter’s skills. He could not track the scent of blood or follow a trail. But his instincts as a swordsman were sharper and keener than anyone’s. He felt presence, killing intent, the existence of overwhelming martial power. He followed his instincts. In a sense, it was only natural that he found his destination as soon as he arrived. The place where trouble had erupted in the palace, where the noise came from, where the fighting was fiercest—it was all too clear. Ragna ran toward it. The sinking sunlight was now behind him. With the sunset at his back, he leaped upward. Through a broken window and its half-ruined frame, he saw Encrid. He also saw the back of someone standing in front of him. Kicking off roofs and trees, Ragna hurled himself forward. Whoever had broken the window had already reduced the glass to fragments and cleared it away with meticulous thoroughness. Ragna threw himself through the opening. TAP.

His sword caught on the frame. It was long and thick, after all. He ignored it and pulled. CRASH!

The wooden frame shattered, scattering fragments. Ragna drew his sword as he advanced, gathering his strength into a vertical downward blow. It was a savage slash, a strike no one could have anticipated. Even so, his opponent forced his way into a gap and thrust. It was a sword that severed the flow. Ragna hauled his descending blade farther down. True to a heavy, swift sword, he added speed. If the man before him thrust home, Ragna would have a hole in his belly—but his opponent would be split vertically in two. WHOOSH.

His descending sword cut empty air and stopped. His opponent had withdrawn his thrust and retreated. “... Who are you?”

The man spoke after stepping back and raising his sword at a slight angle, gripping it with both hands. Ragna did not answer. There was no need. His captain had nearly fucking died. Killing the bastard—or beating him within an inch of his life—came first. Everyone had a hell of their own. Ragna’s was the very life of wandering lost. No one could touch the ennui that had accumulated inside his heart. Yet one man had become a signpost in those wanderings. And here stood the bastard who had tried to kill that man. Words were unnecessary. Ragna stepped forward and began swinging. Heavy Sword naturally specialized in weighty blows. Proper preparation was necessary to put force behind them. Swift Sword, by contrast, prioritized extending the blade faster than an opponent could react, not the preparatory movement. The stab was its emblem for a reason. Yet Ragna combined the characteristics of both. How was that possible? Shorten the preparatory movements, then just work out the rest.

[“Just work it out.”]

That was what Ragna had told Encrid while teaching him. There was nothing else to say. Once he set his mind and intention to it, it happened. Talent. That was where those words came from. His sword scraped along the wall.

CRRRUNCH!

Stone split and fragments flew. Before the chips hit the floor, the blade that had swept the wall was right before his opponent’s nose. His opponent judged it impossible to block. Step into that to break its rhythm? Not a chance. Though he had remained a proto knight his entire life, the man was one of the knight order’s finest talents. His gift was real. It was what had brought him this far. Show him one thing, and he could do three. Show him three, and he would accomplish more than ten. Even so, he ranked second among the order’s proto knights. The proto knight struck out several times. Increasing the number of his swings, he broke the rhythm of his opponent’s slash. As he interrupted its flow with a series of taps, its momentum quickly died. At last, he knocked the approaching sword aside and pushed it away. CLANG!

Steel rang between them. 'Heavy Sword.'

A heavy sword needed to carry its momentum into successive blows. Denied that, it lost ground. Which meant he held the advantage. The sudden attack had startled him briefly, but nothing had changed.

'My talent is superior.' His thinking changed quickly. They had exchanged a mere ten blows.

“... What are you doing?”

The man spoke. Ragna still did not answer. Instead, he studied and grasped his opponent’s swordwork. It was a rather good technique, wasn’t it? Armed with unprecedented motivation, the genius dissected an entire sword style with his eyes. “Impossible.”

The proto knight denied it. Even a knight could not do such a thing.

[“Do not dismiss something because you cannot understand it. Otherwise, you will never advance.”]

Why, of all times, did the words of the knight who had taught him come back now? He swung his sword, shattering the sunset light, and revealed his secret technique. He used Will, that unknown power founded on determination. Beyond merely breaking the rhythm, the strength in his arms and legs, his reaction speed, and more momentarily shattered their limits. Every technique grew faster and stronger. Acceleration brought force. He thrust, slashed, and curved his blade, swinging from outside his opponent’s field of vision. Ragna deflected the thrust, caught and shed the slash along his blade, then countered and drove back the sword that had suddenly accelerated. In other words, he broke the rhythm of every attack. Ragna’s sword did not stop there. He struck, withdrew, and swept that long, massive blade as though wielding a slender twig. The proto knight needed to step forward to gain speed, but Ragna’s sword passed through the very place his foot needed to go. He needed an upward cut to force his opponent back, but instead his opponent’s sword thrust forward first. The blows were not especially powerful, but they broke his rhythm again and again. After driving his opponent back, Ragna spoke.

“So that’s how you do it.” “You.”

Why had a man who had lived trusting in his talent come this far? For mere power? No. Tiny blood vessels burst in his eyes. There had been someone above him in the knight order. Had it been a knight, fine—he could accept that there was nothing to be done. But the man was a fellow proto knight. At first, he himself had always won their bouts. A hundred fights, a hundred victories. So a thousand fights should have changed nothing. But that was not how it went. The other man had climbed, one small step at a time. Eventually, he began losing one bout in ten. Before long, even winning five out of ten became difficult. “Why!”

He cried out, raging at why such a man had been placed before him. Heaven was not fair. The goddess of luck played favorites. His own talent had reached its limits, so why had that bastard’s—! Ragna’s sword and the proto knight’s crossed. One blade cut a throat. The other thrust futilely into empty air.

That was all.