Swish!
A net fell over his head. Ragna lightly swung his sword vertically. It wasn't particularly fast or slow, but suddenly the blade seemed to narrow, transforming into a thin line that effortlessly sliced through the net.
"What the!"
The one who threw the net shouted in surprise. Yon sensed something had gone wrong, but there was no time to speak.
He extended his left hand forward, grabbing near the blade of his glaive, and struck short, thrusting and slashing.
Thud, thud!
The sword that had cut through the net was already upon him, falling from above.
He had no choice but to angle the blade of his glaive horizontally to block it, but the sword tenaciously followed, trying to slice through the shaft. Yon pulled back the glaive, blocking again, and exerted force, knocking the blade upward. Even with just three short movements, both of his hands went numb.
'My hands are numb?'
Yon was an exceptional warrior too. He could wield 'Will'.
Will was a form of intent. He couldn't manifest it naturally, but through technique, he could use it.
He could do what a Junior-Knight could do. He had done it.
But after just one clash, he could feel the overwhelming difference. There was no way he could win. He felt helpless. It was like being trapped in a coffin with all sides closed off. It was as if someone was gripping his limbs and constraining him.
'Is this bastard a monster?'
In their first bout, he had fought playfully. But once the sword had been sheathed and drawn again, the man had become a completely different person.
The man retreated as swiftly as he had approached and swung his sword horizontally. It was fast and heavy. Too late to dodge. A mercenary threw up a round shield.
Even that act alone was worthy of praise. At least he made an effort to block.
Slash! Thud!
Ragna's sword cleaved through both the shield and the man holding it.
After retreating and swinging his sword, the man leaped sideways, moving in a wide arc. Yon's gaze followed him belatedly. He saw the head of the companion who had thrown the net soar into the air. A spray of blood trailed behind it, scattering.
The opponent did not stop. He dodged a spear aimed at his back, and without a hint of exhaustion, as though his muscles felt no fatigue, swung his sword again.
"Gurk!"
One of the spear-wielders, trying to show off, dodged but ended up with a long slash beneath his throat. A fountain of blood erupted, and a gaping hole appeared.
Only then did Yon grip his numb arms and throw himself aside.
He saw the sword falling towards him.
He also saw the man's face. It wasn't a look of urgency or effort. Just a calm, indifferent expression, as if he was simply doing what needed to be done.
"Arrgh!"
Will surged from Yon's body. He channeled his intent through the blade of his glaive. It was a technique known as 'deflect'.
It was a skill imbued with Will, powerful enough to knock the opponent's weapon out of their hands momentarily.
In response, Ragna showed his own Will—'The Will of Severance'.
The intent to 'cut' sliced through the intent to 'deflect'.
Ragna's body brushed past Yon. Yon froze in place.
A slanted line appeared on Yon's head, and blood began to slowly trickle through the line.
Crack.
The line split open, cleaving through his skull—from above his right eyebrow to below his left cheekbone. Thanks to that, his mouth remained intact.
As Yon died, his mouth opened.
"Gr-gr-gr."
The sound was nothing more than his front teeth clicking together. There was no meaning behind it. Even if there had been, the man in front of him wouldn't have listened.
Having cut down and killed six in an instant, Ragna turned. His pace wasn't hurried, but his steps were swift.
On the path leading into the castle gates, Andrew and five trainees were panting, having just killed their opponents.
One of the enemies wielding a flail lay with two swords embedded in his stomach, his ankle twisted unnaturally.
Next to him was another man, still gripping his sword, though a blade had been thrust into his heart.
Ragna saw them and moved on.
Dunbachel was still fighting in the distance, but that fool would not die easily.
After all, wasn't saving her own skin her greatest talent?
Of course, Ragna wasn't moving with any particular thoughts or calculations.
He had simply regained his drive.
He was merely heading toward where he belonged.
He walked through the castle gates and climbed up the wall.
And from the battleground where Ragna had fought, the fighting stopped as if paint was spreading across a canvas.
The hands of the nearby enemy soldiers had stopped, so naturally, the allied soldiers, who were in a defensive position, ceased their attacks as well.
In the midst of this strange standoff, Ragna stood atop the castle gate.
"Is the Royal Palace in danger?"
Squire Lawford, who had calmed his excitement, watched Ragna's battle and stood agape once again, only now managing to close his mouth.
"Well, uh..."
Clatter!
In the meantime, Lawford's thoughts had slightly changed. It was only natural. He had been someone swayed by the opinions of others all his life. Despite his talents, it was a matter of character.
Thus, he spoke.
"It might not be, or it could be wrong..."
To Ragna, those words sounded more like "It could be right" or "It might happen".
"I'm going ahead."
That was enough for him.
"Where are you going?"
For a moment, Lawford realized just how terrible the man in front of him was at finding his way.
It wasn't just terrible—it was to the point that if left alone in the city, no one could predict where he might end up because of his lack of direction.
"The Royal Palace."
"You're going to find your way... alone?"
"I know a shortcut."
Ragna understood Lawford's words. Was Encrid in danger? Maybe not. There might not even be any unforeseen dangers. It could just as easily be the opposite.
So, he figured he'd go see for himself.
The enemies that had once been a threat beyond the city gates were now nothing more than ghouls with missing limbs.
So, leaving the area was fine. Leaving only Dunbachel and Andrew behind would suffice.
That was why he planned to go alone. Even if some unforeseen danger found its way here, they could handle it.
"Uh... what?"
Lawford didn't know what was right. But he knew one thing for sure—he couldn't stop the man in front of him from leaving.
It was an expression of clear, unwavering will.
"I'm going."
With that, Ragna turned.
If Andrew had been there, he would have smacked his forehead and shaken his head.
Wasn't this man truly the worst when it came to finding his way?
However, Andrew was still beneath the gates, catching his breath and replaying Ragna's recent battle in his mind.
It had been a shocking fight.
And so, there was no one to stop him.
Ragna turned and set his sights on the Royal Palace.
The city was large, naturally, as people gathered to live within it. The palace was only faintly visible in the distance.
Even if he rode diligently on horseback, he would need to ride through the time it took to burn a long candle.
Of course, it wasn't a journey that would take half a day, but it wasn't close enough to call it nearby either.
Furthermore, the roads weren't straightforward or particularly kind.
The outer road leading to the palace had been built alongside the city's walls, so it wasn't a simple straight line.
If you didn't know the way, it would be difficult to navigate.
For Ragna, that road was more like a maze.
Even so, the palace was visible. And so, Ragna knew a real shortcut.
After all, even Ragna couldn't fail at running in a straight line toward something he could faintly see.
He leaped onto the rooftops. He ran above the city, keeping the palace in his sight.
As he ran, he spotted Jaxon moving in a similar direction.
He also noticed a barbarian drenched in blood, returning from whatever he had been up to.
Lastly, in the distance, he caught sight of a panther-like figure sprinting across the rooftops.
He only glanced at them in passing. Ragna ignored everything and kept running.
Because he frequently got lost, he had become accustomed to walking and running.
He used all those skills to run as fast as possible.
Crash! Crack, thud!
The roof he ran across broke beneath him. It was because he ran without regard for anything.
"Ugh!"
"Is it a thunder strike or something?"
"Ah! What the—!"
As he ran, not caring what was beneath his feet, citizens below were startled and shouted. Parts of eaves and rooftops crumbled and fell to the ground. Ragna kept running. The path he took was indeed a shortcut.
He cut through the city, passing by some soldiers who had collapsed but were supposed to be guarding the front of the palace.
"Huh!"
Someone shouted as they saw Ragna, but he ignored it. He kept running and leaped into the Royal Palace. Ragna wasn't a hunter, nor did he possess such skills.
He couldn't track by the scent of blood or footprints.
But the instincts of someone who wields a sword were sharper and clearer than anyone else's.
He could sense the presence of momentum, killing intent, and overwhelming force.
Ragna moved purely by instinct.
It was natural that he would find his intended destination as soon as he arrived. The place where trouble had broken out in the palace, where the noise was loudest, and where the fighting was fiercest was too obvious.
Ragna sprinted toward that place. By now, the setting sun was at his back, casting a glowing light over him as he leaped. Through a shattered window and a half-destroyed window frame, he saw Encrid. He also saw the back of the person blocking his path.
Ragna kicked off the roof and a tree, launching his body forward.
Whoever had broken the window had already carefully cleaned away the shattered glass. Ragna hurled himself through the broken window.
Thud.
His sword caught on the window frame. The sword was long and thick, so it was expected. He ignored it and pulled.
Crash!
The window frame shattered, the wooden frame splintering into pieces. Ragna continued to draw his sword and moved forward.
He gathered his strength from above and swung downward with a vertical slash.
It was a brutally powerful strike. An unexpected blow.
Yet, the opponent forced an opening and thrust their sword forward.
It was a strike aimed to cut through the flow.
Ragna pulled his sword downward.
He stayed true to the principle of a heavy and fast sword.
He gained momentum.
If the man in front of him thrust his sword, Ragna would have a hole in his stomach, but the opponent's body would be split vertically in return.
Whoosh.
The descending sword cut through the air and halted.
The opponent had withdrawn his sword and stepped back.
"…Who are you?"
The man, retreating with his sword held vertically and slanted in both hands, opened his mouth.
Ragna didn't respond. There was no need.
The fact that their Captain had almost died was reason enough. Killing this man—or beating him to the brink of death—came first.
Every person has their own hell, and for Ragna, his hell was a life spent wandering lost.
No one could touch the deep, abiding sense of boredom that accumulated within him.
But there was one person who had become a guidepost in his aimless wandering.
And there was a man who had tried to kill that person.
Words weren't necessary.
He stepped forward and began to swing his sword.
The specialty of the Middle Sword Technique was in its heavy strikes. To put power behind the blow, one had to prepare with proper pre-movement.
Conversely, a fast sword relied not on pre-movement but on being quicker than the opponent's reaction.
That's why thrusting was often the hallmark of a swift sword.
But Ragna combined both features.
How was that possible?
By minimizing the pre-movement and letting the rest take care of itself.
"Just let it take care of itself."
That's what Ragna said when teaching Encrid.
There was nothing else to say. When you make up your mind and set your will, it just happens. It's a talent. That's why the words 'let it take care of itself' came so easily.
His sword scraped along the wall.
Shhk! Crack!
Stone was sliced, and debris scattered. Before the stone fragments hit the ground, the blade, which had been gliding along the wall, reached right in front of the opponent's face.
The opponent realized he couldn't block it.
Was he trying to break the momentum here?
Not a chance.
Though he had remained a Junior-Knight his whole life, this man was still one of the most talented in the Knightly order.
His talent was real. That's how he made it this far.
When he saw one thing, he knew how to do three. When he saw three, he could do over ten.
And yet, he was second among the Junior-Knights in the order.
The Junior-Knight swung his sword several times. He increased the number of swings, disrupting the momentum of the incoming strikes. As the flow of the blows was interrupted, the intensity quickly diminished.
Finally, he deflected the approaching sword and pushed it away.
Clang!
A metallic sound rang out between the two.
'Middle Sword Technique.'
A heavy sword must be able to carry its momentum and continue striking. If it can't do that, it's pushed back. This meant the advantage was his.
Though he was momentarily startled by the sudden attack, nothing had changed.
'My talent is superior.'
His thoughts shifted quickly.
It happened after a mere ten exchanges of their swords.
"...What are you doing?"
The man's mouth opened.
Ragna still didn't answer. Instead, he analyzed the man's sword technique.
It wasn't bad at all.
The eyes of a genius, now brimming with a renewed sense of purpose, scrutinized the swordsmanship.
"This is absurd."
The Junior-Knight denied it. Even a fully-fledged Knight couldn't do something like this.
"You shouldn't dismiss what you don't understand. If you do, there will be no next time."
Why, all of a sudden, did the words of the Knight who had once taught him come to mind?
He swung his sword, shattering the twilight. He unleashed his trump card.
He used 'Will', the mysterious power derived from intent.
It went beyond merely breaking the momentum, it shattered the limits of his arm and leg strength, his reaction speed—all of it, in an instant.
Every technique became faster, stronger. His movements accelerated, gaining power.
He thrust, slashed, and bent his strikes to attack from beyond Ragna's line of sight.
Ragna deflected the thrust, parried the slashes, and deflected the sword that came at him with increased speed. In short, he broke all the momentum.
Ragna's sword didn't stop there. That long, heavy sword was wielded as if it were a thin branch—thrusting, withdrawing, and flicking about.
In order to build speed, his opponent had to step forward, but Ragna's sword passed through that very spot.
To push his opponent back, he should have lifted his sword from below, but instead, Ragna's blade struck first.
Though not overwhelmingly powerful, the momentum was continuously disrupted.
After pushing his opponent back, Ragna spoke.
"So, that's how it's done."
"You..."
Why had this man, who had relied on his talent, come this far?
Was it just for power? No.
The blood vessels in his opponent's eyes burst.
There had been someone in the Knightly order who was always ahead of him.
If it had been a Knight, that could be understood—it was inevitable.
But that man had been another Junior-Knight. At first, the Junior-Knight had always won their fights.
A hundred battles, a hundred victories.
So, it should have been the same even after a thousand battles. But it wasn't.
That other man climbed little by little.
Eventually, after ten battles, he started losing one. Soon, he found it difficult to win even five out of ten.
"Why!"
He shouted.
Why had such a man been placed before him? He was furious.
The heavens are not fair. The Goddess of luck is biased.
He had reached the limits of his talent, but why hadn't that other man?
Ragna's sword and the Junior-Knight's sword crossed. One blade severed a neck, while the other stabbed futilely into the air.
That was all there was to it.