Chapter 388

Swish!

The net covered his head. Ragna casually swung his sword straight down. It wasn’t particularly fast or slow, but the blade suddenly seemed to narrow into a single line—and that line cleanly severed the net.

“What!”

The man who’d thrown it shouted. Yon realized something was wrong, but there was no time to speak.

He shot his left hand forward, gripped the glaive near the blade, and snapped out a short sequence of thrusts and swings.

Clang, clang!

He had to. The sword that had cut the net was already dropping from above.

Even as he laid the glaive’s blade across to block, the enemy’s blade stubbornly followed, trying to bite into the shaft. Yon yanked the glaive back, blocked again, then forced the blade up with raw strength.

After only three brief movements, his hands were numb.

‘My hands are numb?’

Yon was an excellent warrior. He knew how to handle [Will] as well.

[Will] was will. He couldn’t manifest it naturally, but he knew how to wield it through technique.

He did what a Junior Knight could do. He could.

But in a single exchange, he felt the gap.

He could never win.

Helplessness flooded him. Like being sealed inside a coffin. Like something had grabbed his limbs and was crushing them.

‘Is he a monster?’

The first time they fought, the man had been playing around.

But after sheathing his sword and drawing it again, he became someone else.

Ragna sprang back as quickly as he had closed in, then swung horizontally.

Fast. Heavy.

It was too late to dodge. The mercenary with the bow raised a round shield.

That alone deserved praise. He at least tried to block.

Crack! Thud!

Ragna’s sword cut through shield and man together.

The man who’d leapt back and swung was already running in a wide arc to the side. Yon’s gaze followed too late.

He saw the head of the man who’d thrown the net spin through the air. Blood sprayed in a trailing fan.

The opponent didn’t stop.

He slipped past the spear aimed at his back, then swung again as if nothing had happened—no strain, no fatigue.

“Guh!”

One of the spearmen who had been showing off his skill tried to evade, and a thin line appeared beneath his Adam’s apple.

Blood erupted. The gaping cut opened, and he collapsed.

Only then did Yon force his numb arms outward.

He saw the sword falling for his head.

He also saw the opponent’s face.

Not impatient. Not strained.

Just a nonchalant look, as if he were going through a tedious chore.

“Ugh!”

[Will] flared inside Yon. He sent his will through the glaive’s blade.

A technique called “Striking Away.”

A [Will]-imbued blow meant to knock the opponent’s weapon aside so violently they would lose their grip.

Ragna answered with [Severance].

The will to cut cleaved through and passed straight through the will to strike away.

Ragna brushed past Yon.

Yon froze.

A diagonal line appeared across his head, and blood seeped from the split.

Crack.

His head split along that line—skull and all—from above the right eyebrow to below the left cheekbone. His mouth remained intact.

Yon’s dying mouth opened.

“Clack-clack-clack.”

It was only the sound of his teeth chattering. No meaning. And even if it had, the man before him would not have cared.

Ragna, who had cut down six in an instant, turned.

He didn’t look hurried, but his pace was fast.

On the way to the gate, he saw Andrew and five trainees fighting and panting.

A mace-wielding enemy lay on the ground, two swords lodged in his stomach, his ankle bent backward.

Beside him, another man still held a sword—one more sword buried in his heart.

Ragna glanced once and passed by.

Far away, Dunbakel was still fighting, but that Beastkin wouldn’t die easily.

In the first place, staying alive was the greatest skill.

Ragna wasn’t moving with calculations or layered thoughts.

He had simply found his motivation.

He was heading where he needed to be.

He went back through the gate and climbed onto the ramparts.

And wherever Ragna had been fighting, the battle stilled, spreading like spilled paint.

An enemy soldier nearby stopped moving his hands. The defenders had been holding position unless they charged, so the standoff formed naturally.

In that strange lull, Ragna stepped up onto the gate.

“Is the Royal Palace really in danger?”

Squire Roford had been trying to rein in his excitement, but after watching Ragna fight, his jaw had dropped. He’d only just managed to close it again.

“Ah, well.”

Roford’s thoughts had shifted in the meantime. Naturally.

He had lived his whole life swayed by others’ opinions. It was personality, separate from talent.

So he said,

“It might not be, and I might be wrong…”

To Ragna, it sounded like it could be true.

“I’m going first.”

That was enough.

“Where are you going?”

For a moment, Roford remembered that the man in front of him was catastrophically bad at finding his way.

Not just bad—bad enough that if you left him alone in the city, no one could guess where he’d end up.

“Royal Palace.”

“Alone, you’ll—”

“I know a shortcut.”

Ragna understood what Roford was trying to say.

Was Encrid in danger? Maybe not.

There might be no unexpected threats.

Or it could be the opposite.

So he would go and see.

The enemies beyond the gate had become ghouls with their limbs torn off.

So it was fine to leave. Dunbakel and Andrew would be enough.

Even if something unexpected happened here, they could stop it.

“…Yes?”

Roford didn’t know what was right.

But he knew he couldn’t stop the man from leaving.

His will was clear and distinct.

“I’m going.”

Ragna turned.

If Andrew had been here, he would have slapped his forehead and shaken his head.

Wasn’t Ragna the absolute worst at directions?

But Andrew was below the gate, catching his breath, still replaying Ragna’s fight.

It had been shocking.

There was no one to stop him.

Ragna faced the Royal Palace.

A city where people gathered was naturally vast. The Royal Palace was only faintly visible.

Even riding hard, it would take time—long enough for a long thatched roof to burn down.

Not half a day, but not close, either.

And the road to the Royal Palace wasn’t kind.

The outer route ran along the walls, not in a straight line.

If you didn’t know it, it was easy to get lost.

For Ragna, it might as well have been a labyrinth.

Even so, the Royal Palace was visible.

So Ragna truly did have a shortcut.

No matter how hopeless he was, he wasn’t so hopeless that he couldn’t run straight toward something he could see.

He jumped onto the rooftops.

He ran above the city, keeping the Royal Palace in sight.

As he ran, he saw Jaxson moving in a similar direction.

He also saw that barbarian bastard—back and drenched in blood, who knew what he’d been doing.

And in the distance, he saw a panther running the rooftops.

He only registered them in passing. Ragna ignored everything and ran, and ran.

He was used to walking and running because he got lost so often.

He used all of that to move faster.

Bang! Crack! Thud!

A roof he used as a floor collapsed. He ran without caring what was beneath his feet.

“Ugh!”

“Did lightning strike or something?”

“Ah! What is it!”

Citizens shouted below as he tore across overhead, unconcerned with what broke and fell.

Eaves and roof tiles crashed down behind him.

Ragna kept running.

It really was a shortcut.

He cut through the city, passed soldiers who should have been guarding the Palace front but were already collapsed, and went by.

“Oh!”

Someone saw him and shouted, but he ignored it.

He ran straight into the Royal Palace.

Ragna wasn’t a hunter. He couldn’t track blood or follow traces.

But a sword wielder’s instinct was sharper than anything else.

He felt momentum, murderous intent, and an overwhelming force.

Ragna followed that instinct.

Once inside, finding the destination was easy.

Where the noise was loudest. Where the presence was densest. Where something was happening.

It was too clear.

Ragna ran there.

Before he knew it, the sun was behind him. Sunset pressed against his back.

He leapt up.

Through a shattered window, through a half-broken frame, he saw Encrid.

And he saw the back of the person blocking him.

Ragna kicked off roof and branches and hurled himself forward.

He didn’t know who had done it, but the window had already been neatly broken into shards and cleared away.

Ragna dove through.

Thud.

His sword caught on the frame. It was too long and thick.

He ignored it and yanked.

Bang!

The frame broke. Wood splintered and scattered.

Ragna drew his sword fully and advanced.

He gathered force from above and slammed it down in a vertical chop.

A brutal slash. An unpredictable strike.

Even so, the opponent forced a gap and thrust.

A sword that cut off flow.

Ragna pulled his descending blade back.

He was faithful to heavy and fast.

He added speed.

If the thrust landed, his stomach would be pierced.

But then the opponent’s body would be split straight down.

Whoosh.

The descending sword cut air and stopped.

The opponent withdrew his thrust and stepped back.

“…Who?”

The man who retreated held his sword vertically in both hands and spoke.

Ragna didn’t answer.

There was no need.

The Captain had nearly been killed. So the priority was killing him—or beating him to just before killing him.

Everyone had their own hell.

Ragna’s hell had been a life of wandering, lost.

No one could touch the boredom that had piled up in his heart.

There had been one man who became a signpost for that wandering.

And there was a man trying to make that signpost die.

Words were unnecessary.

Ragna stepped forward and started swinging.

A Heavy Sword’s specialty was weight. You needed a full preparatory motion to load it.

A swift sword prioritized speed over preparation—extending faster than the opponent could react.

There was a reason thrusting wasn’t the symbol of a Swift Sword.

But Ragna mixed both.

How?

Reduce the preparatory motion, and the rest would take care of itself.

“It will take care of itself.”

Ragna had said that when he taught Encrid.

Nothing else to say. If you set mind and will, it happened.

Talent.

That was why those words came so easily.

His blade brushed the wall.

Skrrrch!

Stone split. Shards flew.

Before the fragments hit the floor, the blade reached the opponent’s nose.

The opponent judged he couldn’t block.

Cut off the flow here and go in?

No.

He had remained a Junior Knight his whole life, but he was one of the most promising talents in the royal guard.

His talent was real. That was why he had come this far.

He saw one and understood three. He saw three and acted on ten.

Even so, he was second among the Junior Knights.

He parried several times, increasing the number of swings to cut off the flow of attacks.

As the flow broke with repeated clangs, the momentum died quickly.

In the end, he parried the incoming sword and shoved it away.

Clang!

Metal rang between them.

‘Heavy Sword.’

A heavy sword had to carry momentum and strike continuously.

Since the opponent couldn’t maintain that, he was being pushed back.

That meant advantage.

He had been briefly shaken by the sudden attack, but nothing had changed.

‘My talent is superior.’

His conclusion came fast.

It had taken only ten exchanges.

“…What are you doing?”

The man’s mouth opened.

Ragna still didn’t answer.

Instead, he watched the opponent’s sword and understood.

It was a good technique.

A genius with unprecedented motivation dissected swordsmanship in real time.

“Unbelievable.”

The Junior Knight denied it.

Even a knight couldn’t do this.

“You shouldn’t dismiss what you can’t understand. Then there’s no next time.”

Why did the words of the knight who once taught him come to mind now?

He swung, splitting the sunset.

He revealed his secret technique.

He used [Will]—a power born from will.

Beyond cutting off flow, his arm and leg strength, reaction speed, everything surged past its limit for a moment.

All techniques became faster and stronger.

He thrust, cut, twisted—swinging from outside the opponent’s field of view.

Ragna parried the thrust, deflected the cut with his blade, and shoved aside the suddenly accelerated sword with a simple parry.

In other words, he cut off every flow.

And he didn’t stop.

He flicked, pulled, and stirred his long, heavy sword as if it were a thin branch.

The opponent had to step in to gain speed, but Ragna’s blade passed through that space first.

The opponent had to raise his sword from below to force a retreat, but Ragna’s sword thrust forward before it.

It wasn’t overwhelming power.

But the flow kept being cut, again and again.

After forcing the opponent back like that—

“So that’s how you do it.”

Ragna finally spoke.

“You.”

The man who had lived believing in his talent came undone.

It wasn’t just power.

A blood vessel burst in his eye.

There was someone above him in the royal guard.

If it had been a knight, he could accept it.

But this was another Junior Knight.

At first, he always won.

A hundred out of a hundred.

So it shouldn’t change even in a thousand.

But it did.

The other man advanced little by little.

Soon, he started losing one out of ten.

Soon after, even winning five out of ten became difficult.

“Why!”

He shouted.

Anger that such a man stood in front of him.

The sky was not fair. Fortune was biased.

He had felt the limit of his talent.

But why him?

Ragna’s sword and the Junior Knight’s sword crossed.

One blade severed a neck.

The other thrust uselessly into empty air.

That was all.

(T/N : The suspense from chapter 384 finally paid off. Damn! Its insane, to think that all of them has the same thoughts of rushing to Encrid. That rooftop scene is jusy sooooo sooooo gooood. I thought it would be Rem who was running in the rooftop but it was RAGNAAAAA. It’s so out of character of him to do that but he still did because of Encrid. I cant wait for this to be in the manhwa. And Ragna going straight and not getting lost? Sheesh)