Esther grabbed her opponent's arm and broke it effortlessly.
Galaph, witnessing his defensive barrier shatter, was left stunned. Pain coursed through his nerves a mont later.
"Guh..."
That was the end.
The battle of mages often unfolded in the domain of spells, but their physical forms were not immune to damage. Simply put, pain disrupts concentration.
Despite Galaph's overwhelming ability to draw mana in the spell realm, the fight was proceeding on an even keel. The only explanation was that his opponent wielded magic far more efficiently.
Galaph endured the agony, cold sweat dripping from his brow. The attack monts ago had been truly shocking.
He had invoked a defensive spell, but Esther, the "Witch of War," had conjured flas in her hand and simply tore through the barrier.
Her sheer physical strength was palpable in that motion.
Whoosh!
A burst of steam filled the air as her fiery touch clashed with his water magic.
Galaph tried to retaliate with spells of his own but found his arm captured and broken before he could act.
"What's with her strength?!"
His thoughts swirled in disbelief. Had she always been this formidable?
The nickna "Witch of War" wasn't just due to her temperant—it ca from her exceptional combat prowess.
Galaph had dismissed it as re hearsay, assuming it was part of so elaborate ploy to mislead others about her true capabilities.
But now, faced with the expressionless witch before him, he realized one thing for certain: her title was genuine.
"You won't escape unscathed."
The witch, her hair like black silk, spoke without a hint of emotion.
His two apprentices had been subdued by summoned creatures, leaving only their grotesque, patchwork golem, a marvel of craftsmanship, standing idly nearby.
"Damn it!"
Galaph lashed out, desperation laced in his actions.
Escape had crossed his mind, but the gap in their abilities was evident from the start.
Esther had gained her reputation through relentless battles, while Galaph had built his through scholarly pursuits and ntoring disciples.
The difference was glaring.
Esther had sensed it from the beginning: this wasn't a fair fight.
Galaph's spell density and complexity? Superior, yes.
But effective combat demanded precision—spells used at the right ti and place. Esther excelled in this, while Galaph faltered.
The result was inevitable.
"Goodbye."
Her tone was eerily bright as she delivered her farewell.
Thud.
Esther plunged a knife into the mage's heart, then withdrew it.
Galaph staggered, blood gushing from his mouth. His knees buckled, and he collapsed with a dull thud.
"S-Son... of a..."
He muttered curses with trembling lips, but Esther silenced him by pressing a boot firmly on his mouth.
A mage's mouth was a dangerous weapon.
She crouched, gripped his hand, and drove the knife through the back of it, pinning it to the ground.
A mage's hands were equally perilous.
Galaph convulsed once before going still.
One of Abnaier's trusted cards had fallen unexpectedly.
Esther briefly inspected the corpse, checking for traps or lingering magic. Finding none, she stood.
Her long black hair was matted with blood, as were her velvet coat and the pale skin it concealed.
A droplet of blood traced a path down her chest, but she ignored the discomfort.
Instead, a different thought crossed her mind.
"I wonder what Enkrid's doing."
She muttered to herself, curious if he was still out there sowhere, likely getting himself beaten up.
Galaph had been a prominent mage, even one Esther had vaguely heard of. If soone of his caliber had been stationed here, there were likely others of note elsewhere.
After scavenging Galraf's belongings, she dismissed her summoned creatures, storing them in her spell domain, and walked on.
The stitched golem, Bonehead, could still operate, but its usage was limited due to her current physical state.
Though the fight had seed effortless, maintaining a human form had drained her mana reserves.
"I'll have to live as a leopard for a while."
Esther abandoned her human form without hesitation, transforming into a sleek leopard and disappearing into the shadows.
***
The Aspen troops watched in shock as a lone figure charged recklessly into their formation.
"What the hell is that?"
"Is he insane?"
"Should we stab him?"
The figure broke through their ranks, positioning himself at their rear. So soldiers cautiously readied their spears.
The intruder who had broken through their formation looked undeniably dangerous.
Three soldiers exchanged glances.
"Let's kill him quickly and return," one of them suggested, and the squad leader gave a silent nod of approval.
They were just about to charge when—
"Hold."
A nearby platoon leader intervened, taking a closer look at the stranger's face.
More specifically, a distinct set of features caught his attention:
'Blond hair, pale skin, red eyes.'
It was a description Abnaier had personally emphasized to all commanding officers.
"Leave him."
The three soldiers reluctantly backed down, deferring to the superior's command.
The platoon leader's gaze lingered on the enemy soldier.
Heltless and striding confidently through their ranks, the intruder moved with no hesitation, as though his destination were already decided.
His pace wasn't quite a run but faster than a walk. With his sword in hand, he advanced steadily, each step covering the ground of two.
Ahead of him stood a soldier clad in hardened leather armor, distinct from the standard Aspen uniform.
The leather-clad figure scratched his head through his helt and spoke.
"You really followed all the way here."
Ragna didn't reply. Instead, he took another step forward.
Ping!
The leather-armored soldier flicked a dagger at him.
Ragna tilted his head slightly, evading the blade. It buried itself into the ground behind him.
Without so much as glancing back, Ragna continued walking. The thrown dagger hadn't even slowed his stride.
If you've greeted , you might as well see it through, Ragna thought as he pursued his target relentlessly.
His opponent wasn't trying to escape but instead seed to maintain a precise distance, neither too close nor too far.
The notion of cutting through enemy ranks didn't even register in Ragna's mind.
Enkrid had once said that the so-called "madn" of the independent unit could surpass even Rem in their reckless behavior depending on the situation.
Ragna himself had once slaughtered hundreds of enemy soldiers and returned unhard, simply because he'd lost his way.
This was nothing new for him.
No one expected strategy or tactics from Ragna anyway.
"All you need to do is fight," Krais had often remarked.
Even Enkrid had said, "Just fight however you see fit."
And so, Ragna had fought. Always.
But today was different.
Sothing stirred within him—a desire beyond re duty.
"Are you really going to keep following ?" the leather-armored soldier asked, scratching his head again.
His steps, however, didn't falter.
Ragna didn't need long to realize this was no ordinary soldier.
'I'll catch him.'
Why? Ragna wasn't entirely sure.
But he had a feeling that chasing this man would lead to sothing worth seeing.
That vague intuition alone was enough to fuel his determination. His crimson eyes burned with singular focus.
The soldier deliberately led Ragna further away, distancing them from both the Naurilia and Aspen lines of sight. He ran hard, just enough to make his breathing labored.
He's keeping up well, the soldier thought, glancing back.
Running was sothing he excelled at, and yet his pursuer remained close, breathing steadily, showing little sign of exhaustion.
Damn, this is humiliating.
The soldier wasn't just anyone; he was a squire of the Royal Knights of Kong. Among his peers, his agility was unmatched.
Yet here was soone who appeared less winded and less fatigued than him.
"Who the hell are you?" the squire demanded, bewildered.
Ragna stared at him for a mont before speaking.
"You're not alone, are you?"
The squire didn't respond. What difference would it make if he did?
Ragna felt his motivation sharpen into sothing fierce—a combination of desire, drive, and raw instinct.
Was it the urge to fight? Yes, but not solely because of the man before him.
It was sothing deeper, primal.
Ragna raised his sword.
The squire took a cautious step back, retreating into the tall grass.
And from the shadows erged a figure who made Ragna's pulse quicken.
"I warned you, didn't I? And now you're surprised?"
The newcor addressed the squire.
His skin was dark, his tall fra exuding an intimidating presence. His long hair was tied back, and he wore a custom-fitted helt with a raised visor, its design peculiar and distinct.
The back of her helt was open to let her hair flow through, and on top of it, two pointed protrusions jutted out like the ears of a predator.
Her speech pattern was peculiar—clearly, she wasn't from this continent.
Her dark skin and features confird it.
She seed to be from the East.
And she was a woman.
"You're truly fearless, aren't you?" she remarked, extending her long arm, which was roughly the sa length as Ragna's.
Ragna stood still, gripping his sword and regulating his breathing. His breaths had already steadied.
The squire frowned deeply at the sight.
How is he still in such good condition?
It was no mystery, really. Ragna often lost his way.
Getting lost had beco so habitual for him that what might take soone else a month to traverse could stretch into a year-long journey for him.
Without a detailed map or a guide, his travels were chaotic. But Ragna didn't feel the need for a guide—he had no specific destination. For soone like him, the concept of being "lost" didn't even exist.
He thought of himself as never having been lost, rely wandering.
There were tis when he didn't see a village for months, walking endlessly. His stamina and endurance had developed to the extre through sheer necessity.
"If he's supposed to be squire-level, shouldn't he be about my equal?" the squire muttered, idly touching the hilt of his sword.
"He's above your level," the woman imdiately retorted, her eyes never leaving Ragna.
"Are you sure?"
"Are you questioning my judgnt? Or is that your pride talking?Neither is a good look."
"...My mistake. It's just irritating, having soone like him outpace ."
"He's not just squire-level; he might as well be a full-fledged knight."
Ragna listened to their exchange, instinctively searching for openings in the woman's stance.
Not out of strategy, but because it ca naturally to him.
In his mind, he had already made four hypothetical attacks:
A sweeping slash from left to right.
A downward strike with precision.
A direct thrust aid to pierce through.
And an upward diagonal slash from the lower right.
Each imaginary attempt ended the sa way—the woman effortlessly deflected the blows before counterattacking, her blade landing on either his shoulder or his abdon.
Could I dodge it?
Yes, if he moved his feet skillfully. But doing so would put him on the defensive, and once he was on the defensive, it would be hard to regain montum.
Victory seed unlikely no matter the approach.
Ragna's sharp intuition painted the potential flow of the battle, though it could all be just idle speculation.
After all, no one could predict the outco of a fight before it began.
Without changing his expression, Ragna wiped the sweat from his palm on his thigh.
"You're not a true knight, though," the woman said, taking a few steps forward. "You seem to have a little grasp of Will, but still. I was told to kill you, though it feels like a waste."
She paused before adding, "I'm Ayada, a knight of the Aspen Royal Knights. Have you ever considered defecting?"
A knight of the Royal Knights—and the squire standing beside her.
Ayada's confidence was palpable.
She had been a knight for four years now and knew better than anyone that not all knights were created equal.
The Royal Knights were composed of individuals with extraordinary skill and talent, refined through countless duels and training.
The gap between a knight trained in a prestigious order and a rogue knight wandering the continent was vast.
Ayada didn't even entertain the idea of losing, which was why she extended her proposal.
Ragna, however, wiped the sweat from his other hand, gripping his sword in both hands and raising it in front of his face.
The honed blade caught the crisp winter breeze and the glint of sunlight.
The weather was fine.
His heart pounded in his chest.
The feeling that sotis surged within him when he looked at Enkrid now struck him even harder.
Why?
Why was this surge of determination so overwhelming?
Was it a desire to cut her down?
A murderous impulse?
No, it wasn't that.
It was because his opponent was strong.
Not only was her movent extraordinary, but her affiliation also spoke volus.
The Aspen Royal Knights.
A symbol of power. A significant factor in Aspen's decision to start this war despite the presence of the Red Cloak Knights in Naurilia.
And now, such an opponent had appeared before him?
But it wasn't just that.
Ragna's drive had been simring for so ti, stoked by the influence of Enkrid.
It gave him a thirst—a desire that occasional training sessions could not quench.
He realized he needed sothing more.
A catalyst to push him forward, to reach the next level.
He couldn't show his full potential against Enkrid or the other halfwits around him; killing them wasn't an option.
But this knight?
She was an opponent he could face with everything he had.
The offer to defect didn't even register in his ears.
All he wanted now was to fight.
Provoking her would help.
Ragna had learned that much from Enkrid, and he applied the lesson now.
"What are you even saying, you walking pile of brown dung?" he spat.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Thank you for reading!
For so extra Chapters or if you want to show your support head here:
sko-fi/samowek
.gg/eXsm6WsQE6
Reviews
All reviews (0)