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Chapter 21: The Arithmetic of Steel
🕑 Added 2025-07-31 15:09:21 +0000 UTCGideon’s order—“Get them!”—had barely faded from the air when Hilda’s world contracted to a single point of focus: Paul’s face. The lazy smile, the tavern arrogance, it had all vanished. In its place was a terrifying calm, that of a cornered predator, which only makes it infinitely more dangerous.
“Hilda,” his voice was a whisper, a thread of steel in the tense silence that preceded the storm. “How many spells do you have left? Tell me the truth.”
“What?” she managed to articulate, her eyes darting from the dozen advancing knights to the figure of Ghislaine, whose single visible pupil had contracted into a vertical slit, a well of contained violence.
“The truth, Hilda. No frills. How much gas is left in the tank?”
Her mind raced, taking a quick and brutal inventory. The battle with the Cockatrice had been a massive drain.
“Not much,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “Two Earth Walls, maybe three if they’re small. Maybe a dozen Earth Bullets before I start seeing double. One Earth Spear, if I’m lucky. I’m almost empty, Paul.”
“Good. Good, that’s more than enough,” he said, and the confidence in his voice was so illogical, so insultingly solid, that for an instant, it steadied her. “Ghislaine.”
The beast-woman didn’t turn. Her ears, however, twitched a millimeter in his direction.
“Can you take care of six of them? Quickly.”
Ghislaine let out a dry laugh, a sound like cracking rocks.
“Only six? You’re underestimating me, Paul.”
“No,” he retorted, his voice sharp. “I’m using you efficiently. I don’t want you getting tired. I need you fresh for dessert.”
He was referring to Gideon. The captain was advancing with a lethal grace, his magnificent sword reflecting the canyon sun with a cold, merciless light.
“My plan was a victory dinner,” Paul continued, his voice now a conspiratorial murmur, weaving a plan in the air. “But we’ll have to settle for a tactical massacre. Hilda, your first Earth Wall, on my signal. Not in front, not to block. I want you to raise it right in the middle of their formation. Split them. Create chaos.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I’m going to remind them why the Sword God Style is for attacking, not defending.”
Gideon raised his own sword, the final gesture that broke the tension.
“Now!” Paul roared.
Hilda didn’t think. She acted. The ground beneath the advancing knights’ feet rumbled.
“Oh, earth, rise and divide, Earth Wall!”
A jagged wall of rock, two meters high, erupted from the ground with the speed of a whip, splitting the knights’ formation into two uneven groups. The men yelled in surprise, breaking ranks to avoid the unexpected barrier.
It was the only distraction they needed.
Paul moved. This was not the fluid, reactive defense of the Water God Style he had used against the bandits. This was different. This was pure speed, an economy of motion that turned his body into a weapon. He launched himself toward the smaller group of five knights, his sword a blur of light.
“Formation! Close ranks!” shouted one of them, a young man with more courage than experience.
Paul smiled.
“Too late.”
His first blow wasn’t a cut, it was an impact. He used the pommel of his sword to strike the nearest knight’s helmet, a dry blow that echoed with a metallic clank. The man staggered, his eyes rolling back in his head.
If Paul was a blur, Ghislaine was an absence. One moment she was beside Hilda, the next she was in the midst of the larger group of seven knights. Her katana, Hiramune, left its sheath without a sound, a flash of curved silver under the sun.
What followed wasn’t a fight. It was a harvest.
The Sword God Style, in Paul’s hands, was fast. In the hands of a Sword Saint like Ghislaine, it was an abstract concept. She didn’t move from one enemy to the next; she seemed to be everywhere at once.
“Back! Surround—!” a knight started to shout.
The rest of the word died in his throat as Ghislaine’s katana opened his neck with surgical precision. There was no brutal slash, only a thin red line that appeared on his skin. The man fell to his knees, a look of surprise on his face.
“Watch the sword!” another warned, raising his shield.
Ghislaine didn’t attack the shield. Her blade flowed around it, an upward arc that severed the tendons in the man’s wrist. The shield clattered to the ground, followed by its owner’s cry of pain.
Every movement was lethally efficient. A cut to the back of a knee, a thrust through the slit of a helmet, a feint that caused one knight to impale himself on his own comrade’s sword. She wasted no energy. There were no flourishes. It was the direct and brutal application of inhuman speed and precision.
Meanwhile, Paul’s fight was more of a cruel game. He was outnumbered five to one, but he was controlling the dance.
“Come on, boys!” he taunted, parrying two swords at once with a single spinning motion. “Don’t they pay you enough to hold a decent formation?”
He used his sword’s crossguard to hook a knight’s ankle and pulled, sending him sprawling into the dust. He spun, his blade clashing against another’s in a shower of sparks.
“Your form is terrible,” he told his opponent, before stomping on his foot and elbowing him in the face.
Hilda watched, her heart hammering in her chest, looking for her chance. She was exhausted, but Paul’s voice throbbed in her mind: Control the battlefield.
She saw two of Paul’s opponents trying to flank him.
“Paul, to your left!”
“I know!” he answered, out of breath. “I’m a little busy being incredible! A little help, if it’s not too much trouble, my love!”
The sarcasm in his voice spurred her on.
“Oh, earth, gather and strike, Earth Bullet!”
A rock the size of her head shot out and slammed into one of the knights’ chests. It didn’t knock him down, but the impact was enough to break his balance, giving Paul the second he needed to disarm him with a quick rap to the wrist.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he yelled. “Teamwork!”
Ghislaine’s battle was over in less than thirty seconds. Six bodies lay on the ground, groaning or silent. The seventh, young Marcus, Gideon’s second-in-command, stood pale and trembling, the tip of Ghislaine’s katana grazing his throat.
“Don’t move,” she growled. Her single visible eye glared at him with absolute contempt. “You’re not worth the effort of cleaning my blade.”
At that moment, only two opponents remained for Paul. Seeing the carnage Ghislaine had wrought, they hesitated. Fear is a poison in combat, and Paul smelled it.
“Surrender?” he asked with a genuine smile. “I can offer you an honorable retirement. It includes a mild concussion and the loss of your pride.”
The two knights looked at each other and made the wrong decision. They charged together.
Paul sighed.
“How disappointing.”
He feinted left, then used the canyon wall to push off, leaping over one of the knights and landing behind them. Before they could turn, two swift blows with the pommel of his sword to the base of their skulls sent them to the ground.
The main battle was over. Silence fell over the canyon once more, now filled with the groans of the wounded.
But the war was not over.
Gideon Fleurmont hadn’t moved. He had watched the slaughter of his men without blinking, his face a mask of cold evaluation. He wasn’t surprised. He was analyzing.
“Impressive,” he said, his calm voice cutting through the air. “The legendary speed of the Sword God Style. And a rather competent mixed style from you, Greyrat. Water for defense, Sword for attack. Versatile. But sloppy.”
Paul stood up, breathing heavily. The fight had been fast, but intense. He positioned himself between Gideon and Hilda, his stance protective and immovable.
“Run out of lapdogs, Captain?” Paul spat. “Now it’s your turn.”
“It was always my turn,” Gideon replied, taking a step forward. “I just wanted to see what the man who dared defile the honor of my house was capable of. I wanted to measure the insect before crushing it.”
His gaze fell on Hilda.
“Lady Hilda, this farce is over. You will return home.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Paul said.
“That is none of your concern, Greyrat. Your role in this story ends here.”
Gideon moved. His speed wasn’t the inhuman burst of Ghislaine, but the polished efficiency of years of disciplined training. It was the speed of a master, not a monster.
His sword met Paul’s. The sound wasn't a simple clash of steel; it was a pure, ringing note, like the tolling of a bell.
Paul was driven back a step. Surprise flashed across his face. The man was strong. Incredibly strong.
“What is that?” Paul muttered, feeling the vibration travel up his arm. “That’s not the Sword God Style.”
“The Water God Style is for defense and counters. The Sword God Style is for all-out attack. They are predictable philosophies,” Gideon said, pressing his assault. Each of his blows was precise, powerful, forcing Paul into a desperate defense. “I prefer a more… complete approach.”
Gideon’s sword shone with a pale light, an aura of Touki, manifested fighting spirit. He was a fighter of an entirely different caliber than the men they had just defeated.
“Hilda, get back! Ghislaine, don’t interfere!” Paul ordered, his voice strained with effort. “This one is mine!”
Ghislaine grunted but obeyed, keeping Marcus at swordpoint. She knew this was a matter of honor between swordsmen. To interfere would be the greatest insult.
Hilda, however, saw something more. She saw the sweat on Paul’s brow. She saw the way his feet slid in the dust, giving ground. Paul wasn’t playing. He was fighting for his life.
“Paul, his guard is too tight!” she yelled, her strategist’s mind analyzing the fight. “You can’t break it with brute force!”
Gideon smiled coldly without taking his eyes off Paul.
“The lady has a good eye.”
He deflected Paul’s sword with a circular motion that threw him off balance and drove a kick into his chest. Paul went flying, landing hard several meters away, coughing up dust.
“Paul!” Hilda’s cry was a raw tear in the air.
Gideon advanced on him, his sword aimed at Paul’s neck.
“It’s over, Greyrat. You’ve been a mediocre entertainment.”
Hilda acted. She didn’t have time for a chant. She didn’t have the mana for a wall. But she had one thing left: her will.
She focused on the ground beneath Gideon’s feet. She didn’t try to soften it. She remembered Lorne’s lesson, the principle of vibration in rock. She visualized a single, discordant jolt.
The ground under Gideon’s advancing foot trembled violently. It was an almost imperceptible movement—not an earthquake, but a forced stumble. For a fraction of a second, the captain’s perfect balance was broken.
It was all Paul needed.
He rolled across the ground and, instead of getting up, launched himself forward in a low sweep. He didn’t aim for Gideon’s legs, but for his sword. His own blade struck Gideon’s from an odd angle, sending the magnificent sword flying through the air.
Gideon froze in shock, disarmed.
Paul was on his feet in an instant, his sword now at the captain’s throat.
The silence was absolute.
“Never… underestimate… teamwork,” Paul said, panting, each word an effort.
He looked at Hilda, and in his eyes was an ocean of pride and gratitude. She met his gaze, her face pale but her eyes burning with a strength she had never possessed before.
Gideon looked at Hilda, and for the first time, true understanding dawned on his face. He hadn’t seen a victim. He had seen a weapon.
“You…” he whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. “You did that.”
“No,” Paul said, pressing the blade a little tighter against Gideon’s skin. “We did.”
Ghislaine approached, dragging Marcus with her.
“What do we do with them?” she growled, looking at the defeated knights. “Leaving them here is a nuisance.”
Paul looked at Gideon, the man who had hunted him, the man who represented everything he hated about the nobility. The temptation to end him right there was a siren song in his blood. But then he looked at Hilda. He saw the strength in her, but he also saw she was not a killer. Not yet. And he didn't want her to be.
“No,” he said finally. “We’re not going to kill them. That would make us just like them.”
He bent down and picked up Gideon’s sword. It was a masterpiece.
“We’ll take their weapons. And their armor. And their boots. And their money,” he said, a malicious grin starting to return to his face. “We’ll leave them here. Naked, dishonored, and defeated. Let them find their own way back to Creston. It’ll be a long, humiliating walk. A punishment far worse than death for men like them.”
Gideon looked at him, and in his eyes, for the first time, there was no hatred. There was a glimmer of grudging respect.
“You’re a demon, Greyrat.”
“No,” Paul said, helping Hilda to her feet. “I’m an adventurer. And I just got some excellent loot.”
The victory dinner would have to wait. The path opening before them promised an entirely different kind of feast.
