Chapter 22
WITH EACH SWING of his halberd, the Ironclad Imperial created rampaging storms. Cyril wove past with his superb agility and sharply swung his sword. The sounds of two, three, four strikes were lost in the buffeting winds, but each time, his strikes grew sharper. Finally, there was an intense crashing sound: Cyril had gradually strengthened his blows until finally unleashing a full-power strike.
“Nrgh!”
Cyril’s blow sent the Ironclad Imperial flying. Nevertheless, he landed safely on his two feet and grinned at the shallow scar on his shoulder plate. “That’s not bad, wounding my armor. You’re even stronger than I expected… But I’m afraid my victory is secure.”
The reason for the Ironclad Imperial’s confidence became clear at once: as he spoke, the scratch on his armor disappeared.
“Automatic recovery? Now that’s outright unbalanced,” Cyril complained.
On top of all-powerful defenses, the armor was self-healing. If this was still a video game, this item certainly would’ve warped the combat meta.
“Do you now understand this overwhelming power? Our ability to harness unimaginable power will pull the reins of the new world!” Chimera Clausen’s technology, which allowed them to use the power of spirits, did indeed harbor the potential to turn the world on its head. But that was something that Cyril couldn’t allow to happen.
“No, I don’t think I do. We will never need technology that requires such sacrifice.” Cyril dismissed the man’s words and pointed the tip of his sword at the armor’s shoulder. As he did, there was a metallic clang as the Ironclad Imperial went flying again.
“Nrrrgh!”
The armored man managed to land upright despite his broken stance. He gazed at his shoulder in astonishment. The gash this time was much deeper than the last. However, it had already begun healing; before long, the shoulder piece returned to its original shine.
“Oh ho ho, how interesting. So this is the legendary Blade’s Pursuit, the namesake of Cyril of the Blade’s Pursuit. I see, I see. Now that I’ve experienced it, I understand. It certainly exceeds expectations—but what a shame.”
Cyril’s ultimate technique, Blade’s Pursuit, was known all through the world. Yet he had come out with only a scratch—this made the Ironclad Imperial laugh boisterously.
The common name for the warrior-only ability to hone and use one’s fighting spirit was manifestation. Among the many possible manifestations was one known as Blade’s Pursuit, which allowed the user to unleash a second, invisible attack as a follow-up to a regular strike.
Blade’s Pursuit was a beginner’s manifestation, but as it allowed the user to essentially deal double damage with every attack, almost every warrior had used it at some point. However, because it struck the same location at a later point in time, it was difficult to hit swift enemies with it. Moreover, most veterans had stronger manifestations, so they generally stopped using it over time.
Yet in this vast world, there was one who continued to use Blade’s Pursuit. That would be Cyril himself.
He had trained himself thoroughly in the art of Blade’s Pursuit, succeeding in researching and refining it until it was in the realm of an ultimate move. It had grown in power and even accuracy, allowing it to strike again in the exact location where Cyril’s sword had touched the target.
Cyril’s Blade’s Pursuit was nothing like that of beginners now; it was a master’s tool, all thanks to decades upon decades of refinement.
The Ironclad Imperial had easily fended off an ultimate attack from such a master. The spirit gear he wore far outstripped what Gregorius had wielded during his battle with Mira, to the point that one might call it the pinnacle of pure defense. Its toughness had been proven in this battle with the great Cyril. How could one not expect him to boast?
“Now, how long can you hold out?” The Ironclad Imperial, certain of his victory, pierced through part of the ceiling as he swung his halberd once more with finality. The wind roared and blew madly, sending the ceiling’s rubble raining down on Cyril like bullets.
“Well, this is a problem.” Even with his movements suppressed by the wind, Cyril cut down the approaching debris and weaved through the storm coolly.
“Oh ho! Can you survive this?!” The Ironclad Imperial struck the ceiling twice more to meet his charge.
Even Cyril was unable to take the spirit-generated storm head-on by this point. He ran perpendicular to the wind’s current and only stepped forward when there were openings. Once he’d escaped the tornado’s range and slipped past halberd-striking distance, Cyril swung his sword like a flash of lightning. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Nrrrgh! You are a fast one. It’s hard to even keep sight of you.”
Diagonally, horizontally, vertically—Cyril slashed furiously in all directions. Each strike against the Ironclad Imperial’s armor shrieked and sent sparks flying, gouging out dozens of scratches.
The Ironclad Imperial swung his halberd wildly, unable to keep up with Cyril’s speed. But he didn’t panic; he had no fear whatsoever of having his overwhelming defenses cut through—let alone feeling any amount of pain. That meant that he paid no mind to defending himself, allowing him to devote all of his strength to attacking.
“But can you escape this?!” Unbothered by the myriad slashing attacks he received, the Ironclad Imperial swung his halberd in a wide arc. The winds swirled in a circle around him instead of flying in one direction.
A true tornado had formed inside the cramped room. The wind spiraled into a cruel vortex of debris with the two men at the center, blocking off all paths of escape.
“You’ve made a real cage of wind here, haven’t you?” Cyril shot a glance around himself as he struck head, arms, torso, waist, and legs. The vortex was beginning to shrink around them, and the shards of debris within would surely be fatal if it were to envelop him.
“That I have. I devised this perfect technique to guarantee my victory against a spry youth such as yourself.” The cage of wind enveloped even the wielder, destroying all others within. The Ironclad Imperial smirked proudly, swinging his halberd round and round through the air. None could withstand the winds created by spiritual power. But as he was clad in armor like an iron wall, it felt like nothing more than a breeze to him. That was what allowed him to use this technique.
“I get that. Such power to go with your defenses… It wouldn’t be easy to bring this down.” In the raging storm, Cyril’s sword strikes came faster. The sounds of blows beneath the roar of wind grew in intensity. Little by little, the scratches on the Ironclad Imperial’s armor became deeper.
He finally furrowed his brow in annoyance at the impacts he felt all over. “How stubborn!” the Ironclad Imperial roared. He accelerated his halberd-swinging. Its tip moved at double the speed now and aimed precisely for Cyril. The narrowing tornado grew even stronger.
Cyril pulled his sword back and parried the approaching blade, knocking it to the side. The impact sent sparks flying, though they were quickly smothered by the wind.
The Ironclad Imperial readied his halberd again and smiled. “Your swordplay is to be feared. I’m once again surprised at how well you’ve done.” His strikes were like rampaging waves. The rate at which Cyril’s sword dug into the Ironclad Imperial’s armor was enough to make him a little worried. Still, in the short time that Cyril spent using his sword to defend himself, the armor had once again recovered until it was like new. “But I’m afraid it was all for naught.”
As long as the man could stop Cyril for a moment, his armor would never be broken through. The tornado would finish the job; all he had to do was wait. Realizing that he now had everything prepared for his victory, the Ironclad Imperial’s voice was tinged with triumph.
Cyril smirked back at him. “Purely based on my experience, a warrior becomes most open to attack when they’ve become certain of their victory.” His tone was calm—not the attitude of someone in a life-or-death situation.
“What kind of joke is this?” It would usually be silly to listen to such a warning at this point, but the man was up against the Cyril. The Ironclad Imperial resumed his wary stance to cover up any openings and faced Cyril head-on. Did the guild leader still have another ace up his sleeve? But Cyril didn’t seem any different before. His aura, spirit, attitude, breathing—none of it had changed.
“I don’t know what you’re hiding, but the moment this tornado closes in, you’re done for. That’s a guarantee.”
The wall of wind only had a radius of three meters now, and it was shrinking still. In under a minute, there would be no safe space left. The swirling winds around them roared tauntingly, but Cyril’s expression remained unruffled; he grinned coldly and pointed the tip of his sword at the Ironclad Imperial. “When this tornado closes in, hm? I think the fight will be over by then—with you defeated, of course,” Cyril said blandly.
“You’re quite confident. But at this point, there’s nothing you can do to me, is there?” the Ironclad Imperial demanded, as if searching for an answer. “My armor can handle your Blade’s Pursuit with ease. You can’t use your agility to the fullest in this storm either.” The swordsman might be able to dent his armor somewhat, but such perfect armor would never lose to a single blade.
“Is there nothing I can do? I believe it’s more accurate to say that I no longer need to. It is done.”
“What…?!” The Ironclad Imperial couldn’t tell whether or not it was true yet, but he was becoming alarmed by Cyril’s claims. This spirit gear had felled countless strong foes. Wearing it gave him confidence that he could win every time; even now, the armor’s capabilities put him at an overwhelming advantage.
However, even with his victory seemingly set in stone, his foe showed no sign of fear. In fact, Cyril himself seemed convinced of his own impending triumph. This was the Ironclad Imperial’s first time confronting such an adversary. He wavered.
His smugness faded. Suddenly, he realized what Cyril had meant. “You don’t mean…you haven’t…”
The Ironclad Imperial stuttered vaguely; one could hardly tell what he was getting at. But he had indeed hit upon Cyril’s intent.
The gleam in Cyril’s eyes turned sharper. He took advantage of the Ironclad Imperial’s momentary shock and thrust out his sword. “That’s right. I haven’t activated a single Blade’s Pursuit yet.” The tip dug into the Ironclad Imperial’s shoulder, but his perfect armor stopped its advance. Yet right after, the arc traced by Cyril’s sword began to glow.
[Final Pursuit: White Night’s Silver Specter]
In the blink of an eye, hundreds of invisible slashes manifested and assailed the Ironclad Imperial all at once.
Cyril’s attack left wound after wound on his impenetrable foe, becoming countless Blade’s Pursuits that dug into the armor. The enormous power of these concentrated attacks overlapped, even crossing with each other to create flashes of white light. There was the sound of metal smashing, and the heavy armor, with its absolute defense, creaked for one last second before bursting apart.
“Gnnngh!” The Ironclad Imperial groaned in agony and dropped his halberd. Cyril’s sword stabbed deep into his shoulder; that arm was all but useless.
“I’d say it’s settled now,” said Cyril, looking down on him and picking up the halberd before swinging it once.
When he did, the wind stopped, and all of the debris clattered to the floor. The Imperial still lived thanks to his armor taking the vast majority of blows, but he lay crumpled on the ground, in no state to fight.
“Nobody told me…you had an ability like that…” the Ironclad Imperial muttered hatefully. He tried to lift himself with quaking arms, but fell powerlessly back down. Due to Cyril’s fame, his fighting style was known widely—along with the fact that he was a master of the manifestation known as Blade’s Pursuit.
Cyril of the Blade’s Pursuit. All who saw his swordplay testified that he was as swift as the wind, and his single strikes were as powerful as lightning, tearing his enemies in two.
Indeed, single strikes. For when Cyril swung his sword with all his strength, the resulting Blade’s Pursuit was powerful enough to finish them off in one blow. That was why all accounts of his swordplay focused on that single strike. But in truth, the stories only told a portion of the truth of Cyril’s swordplay.
“I don’t usually reveal this in front of people,” he said. “If I’m using it, it’s because I’m in a life-or-death situation or I need firepower.”
“No wonder…I didn’t know. Perhaps this is…power that can’t be overcome through superior gear…” The man grinned breathlessly and collapsed onto his back.
“Okay. We’ll be counting on you to testify, so I’m going to restrain you now.” Cyril stood the halberd up against the wall and operated his User’s Bangle to open his Item Box to retrieve a binding cloth from within.
“Nrrrgh!”
But before he could, the man swung his good arm in a wide arc, throwing a black, stake-like object at Cyril. The moment it left his hand, it changed shape and spread out like a net.
The black net was big enough to cover everything from ceiling to floor. This was the Ironclad Imperial’s final gambit: a cage of black that could deflect even the finest swords and block even the greatest spell.
“This is…”
“‘When you’ve become certain of your victory,’ was it? It’s time for you to eat your words!”
Cyril jumped away from it, but the net was truly devious; once it had been thrown toward someone, it continued to pursue its target until it caught them.
“Black, is it…? You’ve even used the ore on this?” Cyril moved again—one slash of Cyril’s sword and the net fell feebly to the floor.
With both his perfect armor and final play so thoroughly trounced, the Ironclad Imperial stared in astonishment at Cyril. “My word…”
“Worked like a charm. Lovely.”
Cyril had seen at once that this black net had an odious air about it—this was a special weapon made from black mist ore. The Alabaster Oni-Slayer series that Kagura had ordered as a countermeasure had clearly worked just as designed, draining the weapon of its eeriness in a moment. Cyril watched the remains of the net disappear, then gazed at the long sword in his hand, murmuring in amazement.
From there, he knocked the Ironclad Imperial out and restrained him as planned. He also recovered the halberd—just in case—and strode toward the far door.
“Even after smashing it against his armor so much, it doesn’t have a scratch on it.” Cyril had swung the snow-white long sword hundreds of times, yet it was as smooth as if newly forged. Cyril sheathed it…then took it out once more and muttered, “I hope I get to keep this…”
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