The broadsword ca down again. Lumberling raised his spear to et it, too late. The impact knocked the shaft aside, the blade grazing past his shoulder. Hot pain split across his skin. He hissed, snapping the spear in a desperate jab at Anderson’s ribs.
But Anderson was already gone, slipping past with frightening speed. He laughed, boots pounding the torn earth as he turned the broadsword in a blur and hamred it down again.
The clash rattled through Lumberling’s bones. His knuckles split on the spear haft, palms stung with every deflection. Sweat and blood stung his eyes. He gritted his teeth, lungs burning, and shoved back with raw force.
’Stronger than a Knight Two... how?’ Confusion burned in the back of Lumberling’s mind, but he had no ti to think. The broadsword blurred toward his ribs, and he twisted, spear lashing up to deflect the edge by inches.
"You’re still able to keep up?" Anderson taunted, a grin spreading as he sidestepped a thrust.
But Lumberling’s spear wasn’t done. Mid-thrust, the weapon twisted unnaturally, redirecting with sudden precision. The point sliced across Anderson’s leg, drawing blood.
Anderson hissed, eyes flashing.
"You’re still able to keep talking?" Lumberling shot back with a smirk of his own, voice calm despite the pounding in his chest.
Anderson’s playful tone was gone, replaced with a cold edge. His aura flared like a blade unsheathed.
"You’re dead," Anderson said flatly.
Then he moved.
Gone was the lazy swagger, the mocking grin. His broadsword howled through the air with murderous intent, each swing tearing gouges from the earth, forcing Lumberling to et raw power with every breath.
But Lumberling shifted.
His stance lowered, his movents no longer rigid or predictable. His spear flowed like water, then snapped like a viper, each strike a strange blend of rhythms that clashed and harmonized all at once.
The Low-Level Spearheart Doctrine ca alive, a style born from monsters, Knights, and his own trials. Every thrust cut through an opening no normal fighter should have seen, every feint bled into a strike that seed to ignore logic.
Anderson found himself bleeding, thin cuts on his arm, a sting across his ribs, a graze near his thigh. None deep, but enough to humiliate.
"Tch..." Anderson’s jaw clenched. ’He’s weaker than . Slower. So why... why can’t I pin him down?’
Lumberling’s spear snapped forward again, the tip grazing his cheek. The wound stung more than it hurt, but the insult boiled his blood.
With a roar, Anderson planted his foot hard enough to crack stone. His aura burst outward, suffocating in its intensity.
’Executioner’s Gale!’
The world blurred. His massive broadsword vanished into streaks of steel and wind, striking with impossible speed. Each swing was faster than Lumberling could track, the weight behind them enough to shatter shields and bone alike. Sparks showered as the spear barely deflected one strike, only for two more to crash into him from different angles.
Lumberling’s chest burned as one slash broke past his guard, carving across his armor, blood spraying.
But he didn’t retreat.
His eyes sharpened, spear trembling with mana as he invoked everything at once.
’Spearheart Thrust,’ the world slowed, weaknesses blooming across Anderson’s form like stars in the night.
’Thundering Lunge,’ lightning cracked along his fra, speed surging, his charge unstoppable.
’Triple Fang,; his spear split into three shadows, three killing strikes unleashed in a single breath.
The ground split beneath his feet as he shot forward.
When the two collided, the battlefield erupted.
Steel and spear blurred, sparks bursting like fireworks, thunder roaring as both unleashed their deadliest blows. Lumberling felt his chest cave with pain as Anderson’s broadsword slamd into him, the strike knocking the wind from his lungs and tearing blood from his mouth.
But at the sa ti, his spear tore through Anderson’s guard, one thrust biting deep into his side, another ripping across his leg. Flesh split, blood poured, and the Knight staggered under the weight of wounds far heavier than the one he had given.
Both n pulled back, breath ragged, eyes locked with murder blazing between them. The storm of steel had left its mark, blood streaked their armor, cuts burned across their flesh, and the ground between them was a battlefield of shattered stone and scorched dirt.
When the smoke finally cleared, their wounds were laid bare. Lumberling stood taller, chest heaving but steadier. Anderson, however, swayed slightly, blood seeping from the deep cuts on his side and leg.
Anderson’s eyes widened, humiliation twisting into rage. His grip on the broadsword trembled, not from weakness, but from fury.
"Damn you..." he spat, blood dripping from his lip. "I’ll kill you."
His voice cracked like a whip, raw and hateful.
"I’m a Knight of General Lafuentem," he snarled, his face contorted with anger. "You? You’re nothing. A naless dog playing soldier!"
His roar shook everyone as his aura surged. His figure blurred, like smoke on the wind, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished.
Lumberling’s eyes narrowed.
’So... he had two True Knight skills. No wonder he’s stronger than a Knight Two.’
The broadsword ca from his left. Lumberling’s spear shot up, sparks flying as steel clashed against steel. Then, Anderson disappeared again, only to reappear at his back. Another block, another shower of sparks.
Again and again.
Each ti Anderson flashed into view, his strikes were ruthless, ant to kill with one blow. Yet, no matter where he appeared, Lumberling’s spear was already there, intercepting the attack with deadly precision.
Anderson’s thoughts twisted in disbelief. ’How?! How is he following ?’
A thrust nearly clipped his throat, forcing him back into the shadows with a snarl.
Lumberling’s lips curled into the faintest grin. Skitz. He rembered the goblin’s sly smirk, his relentless ambushes, the countless tis he had been caught off guard in training. Compared to that master of shadows, Anderson’s vanishing act felt clumsy.
And Lumberling himself was no stranger to stealth. The whispers of his own concealnt skill sharpened his senses, letting him track even the faintest ripple of Anderson’s movents.
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