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MT - 64 Strenght
🕑 Added 2024-12-18 06:28:12 +0000 UTCRoy never dreamed of saving the world. His focus was entirely on himself. Yet, even so, Rudeus often found himself lost. To be precise, he lacked a clear goal.
In his previous life, he had been an ordinary person—perhaps not even that by some standards.
He was weak, lacking courage or the resolve to bear any great responsibility.
That was just who he was, even back then.
The image of his former self—the reclusive otaku hunched over a computer screen—flashed before his eyes as if mocking him.
He shook the thought from his mind, dispelling the remnants of a past he couldn't quite leave behind. But now, when faced with someone telling him what he ought to do, he still felt utterly adrift.
Rudeus chuckled bitterly. "Ghyslaine, it's not that easy, you know."
Ghyslaine nodded in acknowledgment, her tone neutral but firm. "Of course, it's not. But right now, those things don't matter. Let's see what you're capable of."
Rudeus's swordsmanship, predictably, fell short. Not even at the level of an intermediate swordsman, he was defeated in just a few moves.
Watching from the sidelines, Roy clicked his tongue in amusement. "Rudeus, it looks like you're destined to be overshadowed by Eris."
Lying flat on the ground, Rudeus wore a blank expression, offering no retort.
Sparring was just one part of training. The real work lay in honing one's basics.
In this regard, there wasn't much difference between what Paul had taught and what Ghyslaine emphasized.
Sword training boiled down to the fundamentals: thrust, upward slash, vertical strike, and backward sweep.
Eris and Rudeus were repeatedly refining these basics, swinging their swords in accordance with Ghyslaine's strict instructions. Ghyslaine continuously corrected their stances, ensuring every movement was precise. Swinging a sword might have seemed tedious, but its true purpose lay in fostering familiarity with the weapon, building muscle memory through repetition.
By the time Ghyslaine had finished coaching the two, half an hour had passed. She instructed Rudeus and Eris to continue practicing on their own, then turned her attention to Roy.
Calling him over, she studied the refined young man before her with a hint of exasperation. After a moment of silence, she spoke. "Roy, come at me. Use only your swordsmanship."
Roy responded with a simple nod, stepping forward to engage.
Among the three sword styles, Roy excelled only in the Sword God Style. Water God and North God techniques were unfamiliar territory for him, as he had never invested much effort into learning them.
As a result, his attacks were bold and straightforward, marked by the signature ferocity of the Sword God Style.
Without hesitation or buildup, Roy gripped his sword with his right hand and swung directly at Ghyslaine.
His movement was flawless in form. The blade arced toward Ghyslaine, but she intercepted it effortlessly with a horizontal block. Roy shifted his weight, retreating with his right foot to reposition himself, then launched another attack. This time, his wooden sword swung upward from below in a diagonal slash. Ghyslaine pivoted, her movements almost casual, nullifying his strike with ease.
"Is that all you've got, Roy?" She asked coolly.
Roy remained calm, his strikes methodical and composed—horizontal slashes, diagonal cuts, thrusts. The most basic techniques flowed in a continuous sequence, each blending seamlessly into the next.
Yet, no matter how he attacked, Ghyslaine deflected each strike with ease, her movements fluid and unshaken.
Ghyslaine furrowed her brow ever so slightly. Deep within, she couldn't help but feel a trace of unease.
If this was truly all Roy was capable of, there was no way he could have executed that breathtaking strike she'd heard about.
It wasn't that his movements lacked precision, nor that his technique was inherently flawed. Rather, they were simply too ordinary—so ordinary, in fact, that it bordered on suspicious.
Could someone capable of unleashing such a stunning strike really be so unremarkable?
What was he playing at? Was he holding back?
Unconsciously, Ghyslaine adjusted her approach. No longer content to merely defend, she began counterattacking with each block, subtly increasing the pressure on Roy. Her intention was clear: to push him into revealing his true capabilities.
But the longer they sparred, the more Ghyslaine sensed something was off.
Roy's techniques didn't change—still the same few basic strikes. Yet Ghyslaine found herself expending noticeably more effort to deflect his attacks.
The dissonance gnawed at her. Was he adapting to her style?
Realizing this, Ghyslaine abandoned her defensive stance entirely. With a decisive thrust, she launched an attack of her own.
For all her brute strength and her preference for a massive greatsword, Ghyslaine's understanding of the art of thrusting was nothing short of sublime. Her thrust was precise, elegant, and masterful, delivered with the same physical limitations she'd imposed to match Roy's capabilities.
Even so, the pressure she exerted on him escalated instantly.
This thrust wasn't blindingly fast, but its angle was sharp and ruthless, aimed directly at Roy.
Roy's eyes narrowed, his instincts sharpening. In that moment, Ghyslaine seemed to split into three phantom figures, each striking from a different angle.
Her every movement—her breathing, her stance, even the subtlest shift of her muscles—was laid bare before him.
The three phantom figures represented the possible outcomes of her attack, each one showing how she might strike.
Her thrust was near perfect.
But near perfect wasn't enough.
Roy shifted slightly to his right, his wooden sword sweeping across in a horizontal slash toward Ghyslaine.
Ghyslaine smirked. To her, this was nothing short of suicidal.
A mere child attempting to counter a Sword King's thrust with a simple slash? Absurd. If her thrust were so easily intercepted, she wouldn't deserve the title of Sword King.
And yet, to her astonishment, Roy's slight sidestep created just enough space to neutralize her attack. With a small backward movement, he avoided her strike and brought his sword down in a swift arc, perfectly intercepting her thrust.
Roy's lips curled into a faint smile.
His brilliant eyes met Ghyslaine's feral gaze. The golden-red depths of his irises gleamed coldly, while his strikingly beautiful face bore a hint of mockery.
He's mocking me?
Ghyslaine's pupils contracted. By all rights, she should have been enraged, tearing this arrogant brat apart. But her instincts screamed a warning—something was amiss. She couldn't pinpoint the source of the threat, and that gnawed at her.
Unable to identify the problem, Ghyslaine decided not to overthink it. Her muscles tensed as she surged forward, her wooden sword striking out with even greater speed and force.
Her aura shifted, no longer restrained. The calm precision she'd shown earlier gave way to ferocity. Her attacks became relentless, each swing of her sword radiating unbridled power.
No matter your schemes, I'll crush them with brute strength!
This was the essence of Ghyslaine's swordsmanship.
Roy, however, remained calm. He stepped back slightly, parrying her strikes. As their swords clashed, he skillfully redirected the force of her blows, neutralizing much of her strength with a fluid, circular motion.
Still, her power wasn't entirely mitigated. The impact left Roy's right hand tingling, his grip trembling slightly from the strain.
Ghyslaine was holding back, that much was clear. Roy, too, refrained from using magic. But even so, the gulf between a Sword King and an advanced swordsman was as vast as ever—an insurmountable chasm that could not be bridged by skill alone.
