Hugh, with the reflexes of a former A-rank swordsman and his inherent superhuman foresight, dodged and deflected them all with his sword. He hadn’t sustained any real damage yet, but...
I’m s’posed to be retired, dammit. Why the hell have I been fightin’ so many strong opponents lately? This whole thing is an infernal pain in the arse.
Battles between powerful people didn’t end easily. To win, you needed strength, speed, and skill at a high level, as well as the endurance to maintain all three for a long time. Skill could compensate for a lack of strength and speed, but nothing could make up for a lack of endurance. As you got older, you couldn’t train as much as you used to, so your endurance naturally declined.
Hugh rarely fought anymore, so he never had to confront his lack of stamina...
Until now.
She’s giving me a real run for my money...
Fiona wasn’t holding back. Her strikes were straightforward, so Hugh had been able to use his experience to keep her at bay—but that wouldn’t last forever. The attack magic she occasionally slipped in was unpredictable, and he suspected she had factored this into her strategy.
She’s only eighteen, ’n’ she’s already this talented? Bloody hell...
The master swordsman certainly lives up to his reputation, Fiona thought. It’s been years since he’s been on the front lines, but he shows no signs of decline. I feel like he’s able to read my movements, but that can’t be. My master helped me hone this fusion of sword and magic. You won’t be able to predict my moves that easily!
Fiona was certain. She took a short, but deep breath, and green light enveloped Raven’s jet-black blade.
Many legends abounded regarding the legendary weapon. Some said it increased the speed of any wielder it recognized as its master. It could supposedly unconsciously unleash fire attack magic.
And when the sword gained a green glow, its wielder became invincible.
Klang.
“What the hell?” Hugh blurted.
He was certain he’d just slashed Fiona’s arm. It shouldn’t have been a deep cut, but he knew he’d landed the attack. He was completely confident in his instincts as a swordsman, so something must have deflected his attack.
Then Hugh noticed Fiona’s faint smile and understood immediately that whatever had happened wasn’t accidental. Not at all.
Hugh began to question things. If his sword, a tool meant to slice, could no longer harm his opponent, then he would have to rethink his entire approach.
I need to know, one way or another.
But his opponent wasn’t an ordinary person. Though young, she was not only a fearsome swordsman but a fierce magician too. Not to mention the legendary sword she wielded.
I have to push myself!
Hugh clenched his teeth and thrust out his left arm. The edge of Fiona’s sword slid across his gauntlet, cutting through the flesh beneath and sending blood spraying into the air. Of course, there was no chance Raven would have left him unharmed.
But Hugh had known that from the start. He concentrated on Galahad, the holy sword he now wielded with only his right arm, and—
Klang.
—just like before, his blade struck Fiona and slipped, grazing harmlessly across the surface of her arm.
“A Wind Defense Membrane!” Hugh shouted, immediately understanding.
“Correct.” Fiona smiled sweetly.
Wyverns used Wind Defense Membranes to generate a continuous barrier over their bodies, protecting them from ranged attacks. Hugh could never have imagined that the legendary sword Raven possessed the same ability.
“I guess the legends do say somethin’ about invincibility... I suppose that green light means it’s protectin’ its master with an air barrier?”
“Yes.”
“Goddamn it, that’s cheatin’!” he yelled in indignation.
But then a thought struck him. Despite all the legends, he’d never heard of anyone being protected by a wind barrier. That meant Raven had acknowledged only a handful of masters capable of drawing out that power—and that the princess before him had honed her swordsmanship and magic to the point that she’d earned Raven’s recognition.
“’Course... This must be proof that you’ve worked harder than any o’ the emperors who wielded that blade before you. Proof ya actually mastered it.”
Then Hugh sprang backward, opening a gap between them. He did nothing more but take three deep breaths, but—
“Finally taking me seriously, hm?” she asked.
—his aura transformed.
“I s’pose I am. Challenge accepted.”
Hugh closed the distance between them in a second and brought his sword crashing down.
Regardless of place or era, there is this eternal truth: The challenger is the attacker. They strike recklessly, without forethought.
Even the concept of endurance vanished from Hugh’s mind. He would challenge her with all his might, with every last ounce of strength he could muster. He wouldn’t think about the future, only the fight before him.
Instead of relying on flashy techniques, Hugh emptied his mind and swung his blade—again and again and again...
During his long years away from the battlefield, a tiny fissure had opened in his memory. It had been widening little by little until it became a veritable chasm, but now Hugh filled it steadily, reviving what his body had forgotten. Every cell began remembering, bit by bit.
What he had to do was simple. What he had to remember was simple.
Swing the sword. That was all.
No matter who swings it, a sword only has nine paths: a downward strike from above; a diagonal slash from the upper right; a horizontal slash from the right; a reverse diagonal slash from the lower right; an upward cut from below; a reverse diagonal slash from the lower left; a horizontal slash from the left; a diagonal slash from the upper left; and a thrust. That was all. Every style was nothing more than a combination of these.
Hugh had practiced them hundreds of thousands—millions—of times since childhood. These were swings his body remembered. As he traced the familiar pathways, his body filled in what had been lost. No wasted thoughts. No excess motion.