Chapter 61

John would have to slash twice with his chakram to sever the minotaur’s neck completely. Its thick neck was nearly twice the size of the weapon’s curve.
Just as I expected, John swung the chakram twice and finished the cut. Blood sprayed in all directions, and John ducked away from it as he strode toward me. Off in the distance, the last surviving minotaur howled with both arms raised, as if celebrating its own victory, but the deep gashes on its shoulder and waist betrayed just how close to death it already was.

“Graaaaah!”

“Now! Let’s go!”

Before the beast’s roar even ended, a familiar voice reached my ears. The horse-faced Altari. “Now,” he said? How laughable.
He shouted again, rushing forward, and the twenty-odd people behind him answered with something like a cheer as they followed him into the charge.

Altari reached the front first, bellowing as he swung his sword. The others piled on, weapons striking down on the already-crippled minotaur.

Amusingly enough, three of them managed to get injured in the process. The minotaur fell within moments, its life extinguished.

“Hahaha! We did it!”

Altari roared with laughter as if he had performed some great feat. What was that clown even doing?

“Thank you! Truly, thank you. Please wait here just a little longer—the wagons will arrive soon!”

One of the witnesses, practically serving as an overseer, ran over in excitement, his voice trembling with relief.

“How many among them are knights?”

I asked in a flat tone. The overseer flinched but quickly answered.

“Yes, those who have reached the level of Sword Expert are all knights. And of the Paladin-level fighters, five are knights as well. The rest are mercenaries.”

Those are supposed to be knights? A man like that being called a Sword Expert was ridiculous. What good was skill when the mind and spirit didn’t match?

“Prrr!”

The sound of horses snorting came closer, and soon seven wagons rolled into view. John, the black mage, and I boarded the first. The black mage hadn’t bothered to reanimate the other minotaurs. From the way he struggled just raising one as an undead, he must have been at his limit.

I turned my gaze to the wagon’s window. The sun was dipping behind the mountains. The overseer’s voice carried from outside, the same one who had thanked me earlier.

“Those weapons are too heavy to move now. Load them later and depart for now.”

Even just collecting thirteen of those battle axes would be a hefty profit.

“Hyah!”

With the coachman’s cry, the wagons lurched forward. As they rolled on, a thought nagged at me: how was I supposed to make enough money from here on? I closed my eyes, pondering the question.

On the vast plain stretching all the way to the horizon, a boy swung a pair of short swords with desperate effort. Each blade was barely thirty centimeters long, gripped tightly in both hands.
Beside him, a one-armed man sat in the grass, watching in silence.

‘Heh… he’s absorbing it well. At this rate, he’ll surpass even a Sword Master in just a few days. Hah.’

Dumaine chuckled to himself, then picked up a stone from the ground. With a sudden flick, he hurled it at Nardi, who was slashing away with wild vigor.

Sweeek—

The small stone cut through the air with a sharp whistle.

Kang!

Nardi, who had been lost in the rhythm of swinging his short swords, shifted his left hand just slightly. He deflected the flying stone and, as if nothing had happened, went right back to slashing with ferocious speed.

“Heh. Good. Now all that’s left is teaching you how to control the power of Ruin.”

Dumaine chuckled under his breath. The boy who had absorbed the destructive power flowing through Dumaine’s body took in every combat technique his master shared with unnatural ease.

Though Nardi now lived consumed by that power, reaching Sword Master hadn’t been easy. Dumaine himself had only attained that height after relentless, crushing effort. With a lifetime spent holding a sword, he had nearly mastered every combat art known to man. Even now, though his new strength put him far beyond a Sword Master, he had never once neglected his daily training.

“Stop.”

At his command, Nardi froze mid-motion, sweat dripping in single beads down his temple. Dumaine rose slowly to his feet. This would be their final spar before he shifted focus to teaching Nardi how to restrain the Sword of Ruin’s might.

“Come at me with everything you have.”

“Yes.”

Nardi gave a clipped reply and launched forward at blistering speed. His left hand flicked, hurling one of his short swords like a dart.

Chang!

The blade cut through the air, but Dumaine’s sword knocked it off course, sending it spinning upward. Even as he deflected it, Dumaine swung his own sword in a wide arc, aiming to slice Nardi clean across the waist.

But Nardi sprang up from his charge, narrowly evading the deadly cut. His left hand reached upward, snatching the tumbling short sword out of the air. With both weapons now in hand, he rotated them half a turn in his palms, the blades reversing to point downward.

“Heh. Excellent.”

Dumaine tilted his head back, watching as Nardi twisted his body, both blades angled down at his master’s head as he plummeted from above.

Dumaine shifted backward a step and swung to intercept.

Cha-chang!

Metal screamed as Nardi crossed his short swords to block the strike. The impact rattled his arms and sent his crouched body staggering off balance. In that unstable posture, he couldn’t fully absorb the shock.

Dumaine didn’t miss the opening. He brought his sword crashing down from above.

Thud—

Dumaine’s sword struck the ground. Nardi had dropped low and rolled aside just in time to avoid the blow. Before he even finished recovering, his right hand whipped forward, hurling a short sword.

Clang!

Dumaine lifted his blade, catching the thrown weapon against the flat of his sword. The short sword clattered uselessly to the earth.

Nardi straightened and charged again, expression blank, hurling the second sword in his left hand.

Clang!

Once more, Dumaine deflected it with the broad face of his weapon, sending it spinning away. Nardi ducked down, snatched up the first sword from where it had fallen, and reset his stance just as Dumaine swung his great blade in wide arcs.

Nardi braced, gripping the short sword with both hands. He blocked the strike, but the force blasted him nearly three meters backward. The last remaining short sword glittered where it landed in the space behind him. Using the recoil to his advantage, Nardi rolled into it, picked it up, and rose back into guard.

His breathing never faltered. No ripple of emotion showed on his face. Only those dull, gray eyes, lifeless and chilling, betrayed a sense of something inhuman.

He burst forward again, wind whipping through his hair, yet his body remained steady as stone.

Reaching Dumaine, Nardi pivoted on his left foot, spinning hard. In the turn, Dumaine’s unguarded back came into his line of sight. Both blades flashed as Nardi raised them high for a killing strike at his master’s neck.

“Stop.”

Dumaine’s calm voice rang out.

The short swords froze mid-swing, hanging just a hair’s breadth from his throat. Nardi’s recall of his blades was flawless.

“Stand before me. Don’t move.”

Nardi obeyed instantly, stepping close and halting in place. A heavy silence fell over the field. Even the wind that brushed past failed to break it.

Sweeek—!

Suddenly Dumaine’s sword slashed upward, cutting the air on a direct line for Nardi’s neck.

Yet Nardi did not flinch. Not a finger, not an eyelid moved.

The blade halted just at his throat, hovering there, motionless.

The strange gray weapon loomed against Nardi’s bare neck, and behind it stood Dumaine, perfectly still. The sight of them locked in that eerie tableau carried a bone-deep sense of dread.

Then Dumaine pulled the blade back and his shoulders trembled. It was laughter. A deep, unrestrained laughter.

“Keh-keh-keh… Kahahahaha!”

His voice thundered as though to shake the heavens. Nardi, still expressionless, stood silently, his empty eyes fixed forward.

His combat technique was remarkable. Without emotion, he would never waver—no matter the foe, his skills would never falter from fear or passion.

Dumaine hadn’t used the full depth of the Sword of Ruin, nor had he fought at his utmost, but in terms of fundamentals, Nardi’s skill mirrored his own, honed through a lifetime of training.

“Kahahahaha!”

Dumaine’s laughter went on, unending.

Now, only one lesson remained: teaching Nardi how to wield the power of Ruin itself.