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Book 6: Chapter 22 - A Contest of Blades (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-07-08 14:11:16 +0000 UTCThe heartbeat of risk is where true growth lives.
- The Manifold Paths Of Wisdom from the Land of Streams.
It did not take long to find a suitable place—after all, we were surrounded by nothing but desert. Time and again, the old fool tried to dissuade me, spouting the usual drivel about youthful recklessness. The elves flanking him merely nodded along, like little idiots eager to agree with their master. If he were truly as wise as he claimed, he’d have realized by now that trying to persuade someone while calling them a fool was, in itself, a fool’s gambit.
Rather than draw my sword, I borrowed a long spear from a nearby soldier—one who seemed all too eager to lend it, no doubt flattered by the chance to assist. I simply wanted to see whether this old warrior had what it took to face the so-called “king” of weapons.
As far as I was concerned, my “opponent” was nothing more than a walking cliché—and, at best, a sack of experience points.
“Shall we end this farce already?” I called out with a jovial grin. “None of us are getting any younger, and you're holding back the entire company.”
Rather than meet the impending duel with solemn silence, the mercenary train had taken to it with something approaching revelry. Grim men, used to long stretches of boredom and monotony, welcomed bloodsport as one might a bard or a whore. Laughter echoed, and camp followers moved like carrion birds around a fresh kill, hawking skewers of spiced meat, flatbread crisped over open flame, and lukewarm beer passed off as cold. Already, a large ring had formed around us, men jostling for a good view, wagers changing hands like coin in a brothel.
He, the blind one, stood at the center of it all in silence. His face was carved from granite, expressionless and still, as if he did not know that his imminent death was upon him. That calm was a kind of arrogance, and it nettled me.
“You do know what will happen to the girls beside you should you fall?” I asked, loud enough for those gathered to hear. “I’d wager half the camp will be rutting them like dogs before your body cools.”
That stirred him. A flicker, no more, but enough to reveal a flash of fury behind the veil of calm. It was not outrage, nor fear. It was something older. Possessive, perhaps. Protective.
Good, I thought, lips curling into a smile. Now I can work with this.
Larynda, I noticed, had gone still. Her face was a stormcloud, lips pressed tight, eyes sharp with disapproval. The girl had never been able to take a jest, especially when the edge of it cut too close to the bone.
I spun the spear in one hand with a lazy flourish, the weapon slicing the dry air with a low, humming whisper. It was no king’s weapon, nothing kissed by dwarven forges or drenched in legend—just a common soldier’s spear, scuffed and seasoned by long marches. The shaft was of dark-stained wood, banded with rings of iron to keep the grain from splitting, and the head was a wedge of dull steel, triangular and brutal. It would not gleam in song or story—but it would do for this little engagement.
“You’d best put on a good show,” I called out to the blind man, voice high with mocking cheer. “If nothing else, try to delay the inevitable. We’ll all appreciate the entertainment.”
At my words, the men erupted—hooting, hollering, the fever of spectacle already rising like steam from their sun-baked skins. It was always easier to laugh before the blood began to flow.
Estaza stood at the fringes of the crowd, her smile soft and secretive, meant for me alone. In her eyes—those dark, liquid jewels—I could do no wrong. It was a comforting balm, that gaze, and a welcome contrast to the storm brewing in Larynda. My ward was glowering at me, the emeralds of her eyes hardening.
There were times I questioned her loyalty—not her affection, but her trust, which mattered far more. I needed it whole, unquestioning, or not at all. Especially now. I had given her explicit orders: if I uttered the phrase, if I shouted the words we had agreed upon, she was to act without hesitation.
No man—blind or hale, armed with sharp steel or slinging spells—could weather what Larynda could unleash. Her sorcery, raw and violent, was a thing of battlefield-ending potency. I had come to understand that. Powerful as my magic was, her Chaos was tenfold more ruinous.
And, recently, she did not always flinch from her gifts.
I rested the spear across my armored shoulders with an air of indolent ease, halting just outside the measure—a calculated pause, should Khalid attempt a lunging strike. He knew it too. I saw it in the slight tightening of his jaw, the tilt of his head. I had gauged the reach of our circles with precision. His blade could not touch me from where he stood, but mine—mine could reach him with a step and a breath to spare.
At last, he drew his sword, settling into a middle guard, the point aimed squarely at my throat. Classic form. Predictable. The fool had not realized that he had been within range of death from the moment he took his stance.
I lunged.
He stepped back, just a hair, raising his blade for what must have seemed a perfect counterstroke. But he had misjudged me. I released the spear mid-thrust, letting its momentum carry it forward like a thrown javelin. The head of it tore through his robes, struck with force enough to spark a runic flare as it scraped across the hidden armor beneath.
Khalid did not falter. I saw he was too well-drilled for that. His sword came down in a clean arc, its edge singing, a deadly whisper in the dry air.
I raised my arm—and the Mimic within responded.
The shield bloomed forth, bark and sinew and ironwood twining in unnatural harmony, a living barricade of flesh and metal. His sword struck it with a shriek—no, the Mimic screamed, a sound sharp enough to curdle marrow, as Khalid’s blade bit deep. A chunk of its health vanished, nearly a fifth carved away with a single blow. Khalid winced at the raw power of the sound.
The technique was unmistakable.
Hummingbird.
Fen had tried to teach it to me once. I had failed again and again, unable to capture its essence. Not for lack of trying, I knew now, but because Fen had purposefully taught me a flawed version of her style. For if that was not the case, how could this cur have learned such a difficult technique?
I had inherited a crippled song.
And, his form, I had to admit, was impeccable.
I drew my own sword, Cutting Leaf, its polished edge catching the light with a whisper of steel. Elegant, narrow, deceptively light. I stepped in and offered a testing stroke—quick, precise, more a question than a threat.
Khalid answered with Willow Weeps, his curved blade turning mine aside with effortless grace. For a moment, we danced—strike, parry, faint, recover. The rhythm was familiar. Too familiar. He fought like her. Like my treacherous old master, all fluid lines and deceptive stillness. A storm hidden in the rustle of leaves.
Hummingbird. The name was soft, almost laughable for what it truly was.
It was no ordinary technique. It required the wielder to resonate their inner energy, their Kai, into the blade until it could slice through steel and spellwork alike. A beautiful fiction, one that defied logic and reason. Yet it worked. I’d felt it bite.
But for all its elegance, it bore a fatal flaw: it demanded perfect focus. The kind of stillness found in meditation, not the melee. Holding that clarity while fighting a resisting, thinking opponent was like trying to still a pond in a storm.
These thoughts flickered through me as I deflected a cut aimed at my center line. Khalid flowed forward, using the curve of his sword to sweep around my guard and feint toward the slits of my helm—an old trick, meant to make me blink.
I did not blink.
With a flick, I turned the blade aside. My laughter rang out across the field.
“Is this all?” I jeered, light on my feet. “Is this it, old man? You are not even worth the trouble of my second blade.” I twirled Cutting Leaf lazily. “You must find a better rhythm if you want this dance to last.”
For a moment, as our swords rang again, I realized I had taken this too seriously. I had forgotten that this was meant to be sport. Khalid was no rival. He was a diversion—an amusement dressed in the tired forms of an ancient martial art.
“You seek to distract me,” he said then, voice flat, almost bored, like a man commenting on the coming of rain. “But only manage to distract yourself. You have potential, yes... but little more. You are a disgrace to the Mantis.”
His words struck deep, and I snarled before I knew it, my free hand reaching for my second blade. But I stopped myself. No—not yet. It would be far too easy if I met him with everything. There were long nights ahead beyond Narilmu, and moments like this were to be savored, not squandered.
There is a kind of recklessness that every master dreads—the fearlessness of the novice. That bright, burning ignorance that sees no danger in the edge of a blade. That does not know that mistakes mean blood, or worse. I could afford to fight that way. My armor was thick, my Health high. I could take the punishment and keep going.
So I chose to lean into it. It was the ultimate irony that my defensive attributes would allow me to unleash such full frontal aggression.
With a breath and a whisper, I triggered Improved Dash, lunging from a new angle, heedless of riposte or retaliation. Let him do his worst. I moved with a single-minded fury, not as a warrior but as a storm given form—one strike flowing into the next, offense without thought for defense. I wielded Cutting Leaf in both hands now, the delicate sword transformed into a force of nature. No parries. No guards. Just relentless motion, blade swinging with the weight of a mountain.
It became a game of chicken.
And I was winning.
I laughed as I pressed him, and the laughter carried something darker with it as I triggered Frenzied Strikes. The haze descended then—not madness, but its cold cousin. Rage gave way to calculation. My world narrowed to a single point: the blind man before me.
I used Cutting Leaf like a hammer, a brutal rhythm pounding out from my arms with each blow. Khalid, to my chagrin, met every strike. He deflected them with careful, almost elegant economy, Willow Weeps weaving arcs of steel that channeled my fury away.
But even a flowing river can only redirect so much before it floods.
His technique demanded wide, sweeping motions—beautiful, yes, but costly. I saw the beads of sweat glistening on his brow now, the stiffness creeping into his shoulders. He was beginning to feel it. He had to be. Panic would follow soon, as surely as night follows day.
I kicked sand toward his face—an old, dirty trick. A desperate one. And then I remembered: he was blind.
It did nothing.
But it did something else—I hesitated, and in that instant, he rallied. His footing shifted. The beat of my onslaught stuttered. And with a single, graceful step, he pulled away.
The dance was not over yet.
Khalid slid his sword back into its sheath, the motion deliberate, almost reverent. But I knew better than to mistake it for surrender. This was no yielding, no silent plea for quarter. No—he was preparing Cutting the Trees, a draw technique meant to end a man with lightning’s swiftness.
I would not let him.
Again, I called on Improved Dash, seemingly vanishing and reappearing before him in the span of a breath. Before he could so much as twitch, I pressed one hand against the small guard of his blade—and then gently, almost tenderly, headbutted him.
He staggered back, dazed, like a man reeling from an unbearable truth.
The crowd behind me erupted into cheers and laughter, a rough applause that filled the desert air. The spectacle pleased them.
“You only distract yourself,” I said, cruelly echoing his earlier words. “You’re a disgrace to the Mantis. Shall I show you how it’s done?”
With a flourish, I sheathed Cutting Leaf and drew Zariyah, my Vessel dagger, before hurling it at him in a shining arc. He scoffed—scoffed—and flicked his blade to intercept, as if batting away a gnat. But Zariyah was no ordinary dagger. The moment it was turned, it curved through the air unnaturally and struck again, this time from the other side.
Even then, the bastard parried it. Blind as he was, he still deflected the strike. But that—that—was all I needed.
The energies had built up enough within my scabbard. I unleashed the stored energy of Vorpal Slash. The Saint’s Silver of my blade gleamed for a heartbeat—and behind it came the void. A black cut, thinner than a shadow, deeper than night. I aimed it low, not at his heart, but at his hand.
There is no parry for a thing like that.
The strike cleaved through flesh and bone like paper. His hand flew free, spinning away in an arc that left a crimson trail in the dust. A moment later, blood spurted from the stump.
Khalid the Sightless screamed—not like a warrior, but like a widow wailing.
And I knew then, in that breathless, echoing moment, that I had not merely maimed the man. I had slain his legend before I had taken his life.
But I would not let him bleed out on the desert floor. No, that would be far too merciful. There was something else, something far more delicious, I could do.
The two dark elves stared at me, hands drifting to the hilts at their waists, tension knotting their shoulders. But their eyes weren’t fixed on me in hate. No, there was fear, not for themselves, but for him.
“I can save him,” I said, voice light as silk and sharp as a razor. “Here and now. All it takes is a little oath. Swear yourselves to my cause, and I shall mend him.” I laughed then—a laugh drunk on joy known only to the mad. “A simple choice, really. Choose to save him... and perhaps you will be spared the attentions of the men behind me.”
I tilted my head and grinned. “Tell me, how long do you think you’d last, once he dies?”
Behind me, Khalid still shrieked like a dying girl-child, high and raw. From the sound of it, you’d think the sky was falling.
“I’d say he’s about to go into shock,” I mused, flashing my best, most radiant smile. “You really ought to hurry.”
“You’re a monster,” one of the elves hissed, her voice trembling despite herself.
“And you, my dear, are utterly unoriginal,” I said with a sigh. “What say you?”
“We accept, you Dayspawn filth,” the other spat, but there was a crack in her voice. I could hear it. I could almost smell it.
With Improved Dash, I was upon them before they had a chance to blink.
Their minds must have reeled—how could something clad in so much steel move with such speed? But I was no mere man. I was the Herald of the Endtimes, and I had done far more impossible things than this.
“That is not how one begs for a favor,” I said, my voice low and venomous. “Try again. And this time, make it convincing.”
Their heads lowered. One of them whispered, almost too soft to hear, “We accept... please save him.”
That was better.
I turned my back on them without fear. They were no threat anymore. They were broken now. Zariyah still hovered above the writhing swordsman like a watchful sentinel. With a thought, I summoned her back, and she slid obediently into her scabbard with a whisper of steel.
Khalid's screams were growing faint. He was near the edge now, teetering at the lip of death. I cast Identify, watching his Health tick downward, watching him shiver as the cold breath of the endless night drew closer to him.
Only when he hovered at the brink, just before the single digits, did I act.
I summoned Greater Heal, and the divine glow swelled within me, rich and golden. I pressed it into him, and his ruined wrist began to mend—bone knitting with wet cracks, sinew wrapping like vines, flesh rippling and sealing as though it had never been lost. A miracle. A gift.
The act filled me with joy.
I was restoring the balance. Setting the world right in my own small, exquisite way.
Khalid shrieked, not in pain this time but in horror, tearing the veil from his face.
“The light!” he cried. “I can see—I can see! What have you done?”
A grin spread across my face, slow and wicked. “Well,” I said, tilting my head, “it wouldn’t have been very sporting of me to fight a blind man, now would it?”
He fumbled for his sword, fingers brushing sand—too slow. I kicked it aside with a clang.
“Come now,” I said, stepping closer, the weight of my armor heavy with promise. “You lost the contest of blades. Let’s continue this another way. Make it entertaining for me, at least. We’ve an audience.”
I cracked my armored fists together with a sound like thunder.
“Now get up... or I’ll put you down like the dog you are.”
And as I looked at him, I could not help but feel the dull ache of disappointment. He had been so easy. Too easy. Worst of all, I had gained nothing from the entire debacle. No attribute points and no skills. It made me almost regret the insurance I had arranged with Larynda.
Almost. Ah well. You live, you learn. And sometimes, you laugh.
Comments
Mesa
need it for the allusions to the "scales fallen from my eyes" thing.
Joao Lua Candido e Sarmento
Gilgamesh, my man, will you please stop fixing people's eyes. It has a 100% chance of missfiring so far
Mesa
because having an OP mc at the beginning cheapens the experience. The journey is just as important as the destination.
miracle sanford
lol I love overpowered Mc I don’t know why most readers like the mc to struggle most of the whole book
