Chapter 717 - Danger, Ferocity, Awkwardness
"I won't let something like poison get to you. Got it? And if you have something to say, just say it straight."
Just before Ragna stepped forward, Anne handed him a few vials of medicine from behind.
Ragna almost told her that he, too, was showing symptoms of the sickness, but he stopped himself.
Now wasn't the time.
He knew exactly what he needed right now.
As always, once he gripped his sword, the path became clear.
'Poison.'
Rhinox had said that Hescal had coated his engraved weapon with poison.
Yet Will wasn't reacting.
The only thing left on his shoulder was a mark from an unexpected blow.
The blood that flowed from the puncture was quickly washed away by the rain, leaving no trace.
The heavy rain played a part, but the real reason was that Ragna had tightened his muscles the moment he was stabbed, sealing off the wound.
'Body reinforcement techniques... not bad, religious freak.'
He had picked up a few tricks just by watching Enkrid train.
There were even a few methods he had learned directly from that madman.
"Ha ha, Brother, that's right! That's the way! Add more weight! More, more, more, more!"
Hmm, almost had a nightmare while standing there for a second.
He really wasn't called a lunatic for nothing.
He wasn't trying to pick a fight; he just kept saying "good, good," while chasing after him with a giant lump of iron.
When Ragna swung his sword to drive him off, it turned into a sparring match.
In truth, it was half a real fight back then.
Both of them mixed in a spoonful of seriousness and ended up truly clashing.
'A fanatic so monstrous that you can't easily overpower him in one blow.'
That was how Ragna had judged Audin that day.
And once again, he swung his sword.
He had learned ferocity through Enkrid, but that didn't mean it always surfaced automatically.
Still, when you sparred with the beasts clinging to the captain, wagering half your life each time, it was enough to ignite both body and mind.
When you took risks, motivation often reared its head.
Like when a wild cat suddenly silenced its footsteps and approached.
Or when a barbarian would suddenly pick a fight.
It was all the same.
If nothing like that happened, Ragna would sometimes deliberately pick a fight himself.
When he needed stimulation, that's how he got it.
Especially when there were battles without the captain around—then the air grew just a little more bloodthirsty as hands were exchanged.
One wrong move and death would lick at your cheek.
Lose focus, and this time, your neck would truly be torn out.
He had to face countless moments where he had to take another step forward off a cliff's edge.
He had to dance inside a raging fire.
He had to walk barefoot along a blade's edge.
Otherwise—
'I'd be the youngest.'
That was absolutely unacceptable.
Ragna let his sword hang low and stared ahead.
'I'll never be the youngest.'
Determination turned into will and shone.
Just as Enkrid sometimes let that will blaze mid-battle, the same light now surged within Ragna.
If it meant not becoming the youngest, he would endure any danger.
If ferocity was needed, he would drag it out and forge it into a weapon.
That was why his motivation flared brighter than ever.
Ragna was serious.
Hescal shrank his sword, Camouflage, back to its original size and returned to his initial stance.
Facing Ragna, he half-turned his body sideways, hiding his left hand behind him.
Then he simply stood there, calmly watching.
Showing this kind of composure would instill pressure in the opponent.
It would force Ragna to focus on recalling the sword's expanding transformation.
It cluttered the opponent's mind, capitalized on the fatigue from the wound, and secured a psychological edge.
Everything was deliberate.
Of course, if he had seen a chance to kill Ragna with that last strike, ending it immediately would have been simpler.
But he couldn't.
Hescal had struck once and instinctively pulled back.
He pressured with orthodox techniques and pierced through with trickier ones.
There had been no change in tactics, and he had definitely landed a valid hit, but—
'His eyes.'
There was no gulping, no outward display of tension.
Outwardly, he remained calm.
Even with a hole in his shoulder, Ragna's posture hadn't changed from just a moment ago.
He had dodged sideways and remained perfectly still.
Other than the brief flinch when he was stabbed, he hadn't moved at all.
Ssssshhhhh.
The pouring rain pounded on his eyelids.
Medusa's curse would not work on him.
Even as he kept his head held high, Ragna did not.
His head was lowered at a slant, his gaze cast downward.
His eyes could not be seen.
When one opponent restricted their own vision and the other did not, naturally the one who could see freely held the advantage.
And yet—why did it feel so chilling?
Hescal felt his muscles tighten sharply, his body stiffening like a venomous snake ready to strike.
Why?
Instinct perceived the situation before reason could.
Ragna hadn't done anything, yet Hescal, with his endless experience in real battle, felt a jolt of terror.
It was dangerous.
Threatening.
A chill ran down his spine.
In short, it was the sense of impending danger.
When was the last time I felt something like this?
He couldn't even remember.
Hescal pursed his lips into a small circle and let out a long breath.
Starting from his internal organs, his abdominal muscles relaxed slightly, and the tension coiled throughout his body feigned calmness.
Long and slow breathing kneaded away the stiffness.
Meanwhile, his eyes swept over Ragna's entire body again.
Both hands gripped the weapon, his arms lowered, with his left arm crossing his abdomen.
Ragna had swung the greatsword once, but now Hescal understood.
Ragna hadn't truly moved yet.
That massive sword was the real threat.
A two-handed sword.
There were no other visible weapons.
It was safe to assume his attack style would center everything on a single, decisive strike.
It felt similar to what he had taught Riley.
What I taught Riley came from the patriarch's sword style.
Ragna must have learned something similar when he was young.
It would, naturally, resemble the sword style of Tempest Yohan.
Should I be grateful that I'm sensing the danger now?
There was no need to ask.
Of course he should.
By recognizing the situation, he could start to predict the techniques or methods Ragna might use.
This raised his chances of winning.
And now, he understood why he had felt that chill.
You've trained quite a bit, Ragna.
The strike Ragna was about to unleash would be no simple thing.
But, Ragna…
The rain slashed sideways, forcing Hescal to narrow his eyes.
Fine wrinkles formed at the corners.
Hescal had survived as a swordsman for a long, long time, having brushed death countless times to get to where he was now.
The instinct that triggered this sense of dread had been honed through all those years.
It was the small fruit reaped after facing endless perils—and it would save him once more.
Not everyone fights fair, you know.
If Ragna didn't understand that, he would die here.
KWA-RUMMMMM!
A bolt of lightning tore a long gash through the sky above the ritual serpent.
The light, hidden until now behind thick clouds, burst forth with the lightning.
The white blaze momentarily expanded everyone's field of vision.
Hescal waited for the afterimages left by the lightning to fade before he spoke.
Even then, Ragna stood silently in the exact same posture.
"You're going to hurt."
The words he muttered were meant to shake his opponent's psyche.
When fighting, one had to use everything available to win.
The children trapped in the well called Yohan didn't understand that.
Neither did the so-called geniuses.
They believed they had to win through sheer skill and merit alone.
Fair and clean means?
In a real fight, no such thing existed.
Ragna Yohan—
Would he understand such a truth?
Probably not.
To gain that understanding, one needed to experience fighting desperately against someone better.
One had to crash headlong against the walls blocking their path.
Sometimes, that kind of experience was more crucial than talent itself.
Breaking through those limits—
Such experiences would become the force that pushed one forward when sinking into the swamp of despair.
They would forge an unshakable will, the kind that could withstand anything.
Expecting that from you might be asking too much.
If anything, the only impressive things about him were the crude eloquence he had developed and the concentration he showed now.
There was no sign that Ragna was shaken by Hescal's words.
He simply stood there, calm and composed.
It reminded Hescal of Enkrid, the Knight Commander of the Border Guard.
Even in Hescal's eyes, Enkrid was no ordinary man.
Regardless of his current skill level, the scars from the path he had walked were deeply etched into him.
And he didn't mean literal scars.
It was the habits ingrained in his body, the choices he made during training duels that revealed it all.
That one might have been a little different.
Hescal spoke as he thought.
"Be careful."
He thrust his sword in the same posture as before.
Ragna reacted even faster than he had earlier.
If he moved at the same speed, he would be stabbed by the deformed sword, so it was only natural to move faster.
Hescal twisted his wrist mid-thrust.
The blade silently extended from the advancing sword.
The blade shifted its direction in the air and thrust even further.
Even if it was the same slash, when the blade grew longer, the reach naturally doubled.
What Hescal aimed for was an upward swing using the greatsword dangling low.
'Use what you prepared!'
At the moment of impact against the camouflage, a hidden blade would shoot out horizontally and sever the opponent's neck.
He calculated the angle, gauged the force Ragna's sword would exert, and drove him into a path with his own blade.
Everything was meticulously calculated, and when he swung, Ragna's cheek was grazed with a faint, sharp line.
Instead of swinging his greatsword, Ragna had instantaneously retreated, slipping just outside the attack range.
Immediately after, Ragna's foot slammed against the ground.
His step was faster than when retreating.
The ground cracked with a loud boom.
Rushing forward, Ragna raised his foot to shatter Hescal's knee.
If nothing else, Hescal's defensive skills were second to none within Yohan.
He bent his knees to lower his center of gravity and dropped his left hand to shield his abdomen.
With a clatter, the gauntlet covering his left hand expanded into a small shield to block the kick.
Thunk!
Hescal took the impact and lightly jumped backward, dispersing most of the shock.
He had split the force through his ankle, knee, and waist and, by leaping, further deflected the remaining force.
Ragna, who had kicked Hescal's shield, retracted his extended left foot and stomped the ground, adding the momentum of his kick into it.
Boom!
His foot sank into the ground up to his ankle.
It appeared to be an attacking posture, but the greatsword remained still.
It was a feint.
Hescal, well-seasoned in deception tactics, wasn't fooled.
The muscle movements, the shift in momentum, the grip tightening on the sword—
Moreover, if Ragna swung now, it would be easy to dodge.
No matter how foolish Ragna might seem, he wouldn't waste a reserved strike like that.
Hescal did not underestimate Ragna.
"Crude."
That was what he said.
Ragna did not reply.
Heskal immediately launched a flurry of attacks.
Sometimes Ragna dodged; sometimes shallow cuts appeared on his forearm or near his neck.
Where Alexandra's duel had been a single decisive bout, this battle tested endurance.
Hescal constantly calculated several moves ahead, pressing Ragna further and further.
Ragna barely avoided the attacks, as if walking a tightrope.
How much time had passed?
A short time, if you looked at it one way; a long time, if you looked at it another.
For a knight's duel, it was long; for an ordinary observer, it would have felt short.
Time was always relative.
It was the same for them.
For one, this moment was short; for the other, it was long.
Hescal stopped his swing mid-motion.
'A dead end.'
The refined sword techniques, forged from experience, intuition, and talent, served as his guide.
And now the path his sword should open was blocked.
Just three more swings, and he could have cornered Ragna.
It was frustrating.
Yet if he forced the fight to continue like this, he would have to allow Ragna a clean hit.
A knight could transcend human limits in movement, but that didn't make them omnipotent.
There were still limits.
'If you want the fight to drag on, I'll grant you that.'
As Hescal swung again, seeing through Ragna's occasional clumsy feints—
'Blocked again?'
Even the most precise blade work had flaws.
When there was an error, he only needed to correct it.
Hescal wasn't just seeing a step ahead; he was calculating several moves into the future.
In terms of pure sword technique, he was convinced Ragna couldn't surpass him.
But then, something strange began happening.
Dead ends kept blocking his way.
'The path isn't connecting?'
He was supposed to open a path with his sword and push the opponent.
But that simple tactic was being obstructed from the start.
Each swing of his sword, and the path ahead severed.
If he tried to strike here, he could already foresee the result: his sword would break or he would be forced into a compromised evasive posture.
What if he simply retreated far back?
Was Ragna fast enough to close the distance?
He was.
Hescal had already seen it during the earlier kick.
The physical capabilities and movements Ragna had shown naturally painted the next picture in Hescal's mind.
Finally, Ragna spoke.
"You're the one who's crude, Hescal."
***
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