A Villain's Will to Survive-Chapter 186: Southern Advance of the Demonic Beasts (3)

The training grounds were silent, filled with fragments of embers swaying in the night breeze and the crimson glow of the full moon painting the sky.

“... With the southern advance approaching, I believe it would be wise not to overexert ourselves," I said, my hand tightening around the hilt of the broadsword. Its weight and grip felt distinctly different from the familiar balance of a mage’s staff.

“This is a pure sparring match, without the use of mana,” Yulie said. “It won’t be overexerting if the skill matches the confidence being displayed, Professor.”

Yulie’s voice carried no trace of emotion, and I turned my eyes to her. Though I hadn’t intended to face her directly from the start, I felt certain I wouldn’t be defeated.

“Very well.”

The most effective way to apply Comprehension in battle was through analysis—thoroughly dissecting an opponent's strengths and weaknesses with precision and intensity, then countering with strategies designed to take advantage of those findings.

“However, I will ask one last time,” Yulie said.

I stood on the bare ground as Yulie accepted a steel sword from one of the knights.

Swoosh—

Yulie gripped the sword and continued, “Even now, if you would like to—"

"I won’t talk too much; let me get straight to the point—Knight Deya, your basic stance is completely garbage."

“What... no!” Yulie finally snapped, betraying a tempest of anger and frustration on her face.

At its core, a knight’s swordsmanship was a sequence of basic stances. These stances offered the most efficient way to connect the sword’s path from one movement to the next. Underpinning it all was a theory—elegantly crafted.

However, the swordsmanship, born from its founder, was crafted to suit the body and strength of its creator. As it was passed down through generations, it often failed to align with the unique abilities or preferences of each knight. To make it their own, they had to adjust the basic stances, reshaping them to better meet their individual needs.

But, most of those adjustments lacked any real efficiency, and it was clear that consideration for efficiency had been an afterthought, if it existed at all.

To craft swordsmanship perfectly tailored to an individual, one had to consider every detail of their physique—the balance between torso and limbs, the reach of their arms and legs, the size of their hands and feet, the texture of their muscles, the structure of their bones, and even the contours of their skull.

Beyond the physical basics, qualities such as overall strength, grip power, flexibility, agility, elasticity, and overall athleticism had to be considered. Adding to this, their reflex speed and combat intelligence—their ability to read and react to a battlefield in real time—are equally crucial.

However, achieving such refined self-awareness was nearly impossible without detailed analysis. Yet knights, weighed down by their pride, often rejected these discussions—too abstract, too detached from their instinctive way of life.

“Come,” I said.

Today, I intended to show Yulie the meaning of true efficiency.

***

Clink—

Yulie tightened her grip on the sword, refusing to let her guard down, and felt no trace of fear—no room for thoughts of defeat. To her, this sparring match of pure swordsmanship was an opportunity to silence Deculein’s arrogance and prove the worth of her skill.

Especially with her fellow knights—her comrades, seniors, and juniors—watching, retreating now, without proving herself, would mean accepting humiliation—a choice that was not an option.

However, Yulie refused to let her anger take control. Instead, she calmed both mind and body, silencing any emotions that might throw her off balance. In preparation for the sparring match, she approached with such seriousness, leaving no room for distractions.

Deculein, on the other hand, displayed little interest. His stance lacked precision and determination, and his sword hung limply in his grip, almost dragging against the ground, its tip nearly brushing the earth. Given that he had likely never received formal swordsmanship training, such an unrefined display was expected.

"Are you ready?" Yulie asked.

Yulie’s question was met with no response. Only the brittle, biting wind of the Northern Region brushed against her cheek before scattering away, as if the world itself were waiting in silence.

"Will you answer—"

"... You talk too much," Deculein said, gathering his fingers and flicking them slightly.

It was a challenge, a silent invitation to make the first move. Even then, he made no move to adopt a stance, his posture radiating only the refined elegance characteristic of nobility.

Yulie’s lips curled into a bitter twist.

I cannot understand what gives you the confidence to offer counsel on swordsmanship to a knight. Still, if you insist on granting me the first move, I will oblige with a strike of full strength and crush you... Yulie thought.

Yulie crouched low, launching herself forward in a burst of speed.

***

I allowed the first move, but instead, I began mapping out the flow of the sparring in my mind.

Yulie drove her broadsword—its blade just shy of a meter—straight toward me. My own weapon rose to meet hers, the steel gliding against her edge as I angled my sword upward, seeking to deflect the strike.

However, Yulie nimbly stepped back, retreating by the width of a needle. My sword followed, tracing an upward diagonal arc, but it met only empty space—she had already moved beyond its reach. Without hesitation, she closed in, exploiting the opening I had left behind.

Twisting my joints into an unnatural angle, I drove my sword downward with force, but Yulie had already read my move.

Shinnnng—

Our swordss screeched as they met, and Yulie thrust her sword upward, deflecting mine at an angle. She closed the distance in a quick leap, her approach bringing her within a step of my chest. Without hesitation, I countered by shoving her back with my shoulder, throwing her off balance.

Thud—!

“Ugh!”

Yulie, struck by the force of my shoulder infused with Iron Bone, was sent tumbling far into the distance. Watching her falter and fall, I could only shake my head.

Without mana, weight—particularly the difference in weight class—becomes a significant factor. Understanding this should have been instinctive for her, I thought.

“Hup!”

Yulie leaped to her feet and charged once more, this time precisely measuring the distance before swinging her sword. Each move was fluid, almost like a continuous stream of water. As our swords clashed, it became clear why she was regarded as a knight who had mastered the art of the fundamentals to perfection.

On the other hand, my own defense was less about technique and more about efficiency—how I handled her blows.

Clang—! Cling, clang, clang—!

Our blades clashed, spun, and scraped against each other in a heated exchange. My technique, far from the pristine precision of textbook forms, carried an almost crude simplicity. However, despite its unpolished nature, Yulie’s strikes failed to break through my defense.

It was because her swordsmanship was rigidly textbook, every strike bound by the rules she had perfected. Perhaps she thought herself clever, weaving feints into her movements, but each one was easy to anticipate, falling neatly within the limits of predictability. This was Yulie’s first flaw.

Clang—!

The blades met in a storm of strikes, scattering fiery embers that danced like fleeting sparks in the night. With every sharp clash of steel, the heat of the training grounds seemed to rise, an almost palpable intensity filling the air.

As the heat in the training grounds intensified, the knights on the sidelines fell into silence. Gwen, who had once observed with a mocking smirk, now regarded the scene with a hardened stare, her derision long gone.

Whoooooosh—!

Our swords collided, igniting a tempest of heat that rippled through the space between us.

Clang—!

Time seemed to crawl, the haze of heat shimmering from our blades as it mingled with the stagnant air. Across the meeting point of our swords, Yulie’s eyes were locked onto mine.

Clang—! Cling, clang, clang—!

As I parried her sword, I adjusted my breathing, awakening the essence of Iron Man and Iron Bone. This mastery of the heart’s essence was a refined breathing technique, designed to strengthen the body with each controlled breath.

A strange vibration echoed in my ears, and my vision burst into brilliance. The world seemed to transform, each element of nature brushing against my skin with a weight uniquely its own.

The crunch of dirt beneath my feet, the faint glow of dying embers, and the dry, cutting chill of the night wind—all came alive through my heightened senses. Every element of my surroundings sharpened, feeding my focus as I assessed the opponent before me and executed the winning formula.

"You should not have time to let your guard—"

I swung my sword at Yulie as she muttered something under her breath. The sudden burst of strength behind my strike sent her stumbling, causing her balance to slip. Caught off guard, Yulie retreated with a wide backflip, landing at a distance to assess the situation and reevaluate her next move.

An unnatural silence settled over the training grounds, and even the ringing clash of steel faded into quiet. The entire training field seemed to hold its breath, every eye rooted on us.

“... It seems your actions really reflect the weight of your words,” Yulie said.

“You are not Zeit, Deya, yet you are mimicking his swordsmanship completely,” I replied to Yulie’s praise, a faint sneer tugging at the corner of my lips.

This was Yulie’s second flaw. She was not Zeit—a man towering six-foot-seven giant, a force of nature weighing over three hundred pounds and exuding raw power. Rather than adhering to the basic stances she had learned from him, she needed to adapt them, reshaping each technique to align with her unique build and strengths.

“Zeit’s swordsmanship is not meant for you,” I said.

“... Please, close your mouth. It is Freyden’s swordsmanship,” Yulie muttered.

I released a steady breath, lowering my sword to hang loosely at my side, and Yulie responded with a frown crossing her face. My body felt weightless, and my blade hung so close to the earth it seemed to graze it.

Although the gaps in my stance were clear, Yulie held back, cautious of a trap, a feint, or perhaps an intentional display meant to mislead her.

“Of course, you lack faith in yourself. How could a knight without conviction ever develop a style of their own?” I said.

At that moment, Yulie tightened her grip on her sword.

One second.

My sword hung low, its tip carving a slow arc toward the ground, and Yulie's eyes followed its path. She bit her lip, her eyes glinting with restrained anger, as though silently accusing me of arrogance.

That was when she sprang into motion. The weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, pressing into the ground. The force that followed spoke of inevitability—a knight's charge in its purest form.

Two seconds.

Ruuumble—!

I moved my foot to the side ever so slightly, bringing my hanging sword into a natural adjustment. Like a comb gliding gently through hair, I deflected Yulie’s blade by the narrowest margin. My drooping sword, like a limp broom, caught the path of her sword and slipped into its trajectory.

Thump—

Our blades clashed and rebounded, throwing Yulie off balance for a moment. But she didn’t panic; instead, she twisted her body and swept her blade upward in one fluid motion.

Thud—!

I turned her strength against her. As her strike met the flat of my blade, the force pushed me backward, widening the space between us. In that moment, my longer reach became an advantage, giving me the opportunity to strike first while she remained just out of range.

However, a longer reach alone offered no guarantee of advantage. The solution was simple—raise the blade to parry. Nothing more needed to be done.

Three seconds.

My sword angled toward Yulie, and she raised her blade, predicting its path to defend. But she failed to see it—the blow that landed before the blade even reached her.

“Argh!”

I struck her shin with the ball of my foot, and Yulie’s eyes flared with pain. In that moment, her perfect stance crumbled, and I followed through with a kick, my heel slamming into her ribs.

Cruuunch!

The sound of bones cracking marked the end of the battle—or rather, it should have.

“... Ugh!”

Yulie had fallen to her knees, yet even in that moment, she forced her blade forward, determined to turn the tide of battle.

Fwoooosh—!

The blade swept upward, cutting through the air with a force that rippled like a rising gale—a desperate strike weighted with everything she had, a gamble on the edge of life and death. There was an irresistible pull, drawing me to meet it with all my strength.

Craaash—!

The blade fell with crushing force, and I met it with the strength of my Iron Man body. When our swords collided, the impact rang out, reverberating through the air.

Boom—!

The descending and ascending arcs collided, unleashing a whirlwind that howled across the training grounds. Sparks flared like lightning, briefly illuminating the surrounding darkness. The clash ended with a sharp, splintering sound, as the broadsword shattered into glittering fragments, leaving the knight’s sword broken.

Fluff, fluff, fluff...

Shards of steel scattered through the air, suspended for a heartbeat before falling like snowflakes and settling upon the ground.

"Ah..." Yulie murmured.

Yulie watched in a daze as the fragments scattered around her, their sharp edges grazing her skin and leaving traces of red.

Drip, drip, drip.

Drops of blood dripped from her clenched hands, seeping into the soil below. It was the cost she paid for refusing to release her grip on the sword, even until the very end.

“... Hmm.”

No matter the strength one possessed to overpower an opponent, breaking a weapon was far from simple. To fracture steel with steel demanded an extraordinary force, far beyond what ordinary strength could muster.

Nonetheless, the reason Yulie’s sword broke, despite appearances, was that while our swords seemed similar on the surface, their cores were entirely different.

Despite their outward resemblance, the reason Yulie’s sword broke was simple. Its core lacked the strength of mine; beneath their similar exteriors lay an unbridgeable divide, a world of difference that could not be ignored.

───────

[Broadsword]

......

[Midas Touch : Level 3]

───────

It wasn’t simply a matter of strength. The essence of my sword, its unique properties, was what caused Yulie’s blade to break apart.

I silently surveyed the scene, observing how every eye of the soldiers and knights was focused on the stage, where the lines between victor and defeated were drawn with painful clarity. The weight of it pressed heavily on my mind, a single thought resounding—no humiliation for a knight could strike deeper than this.

“A sword bereft of mana is but a blunt instrument,” I murmured, driving my blade into the ground.

The defeated knight remained silent, offering not even a whisper.

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freewebnσvel.cøm.

The campfire had long since faded, draping the world in a shroud of absolute darkness. The air, once stagnant, now grew heavy, sinking as if burdened by the weight of the moment. The knight's hand still gripped the broken sword, its hilt clutched tightly.

***

Wheeeeeee—!

In the territory of Yukline, the great siren atop the wall of Roharlak wailed its frantic warning, echoing through the air, while soldiers— their gleaming armor reflecting the dim light—rushed to man the battlements.

Wheeeeeee—!

“Report the situation!” Yeriel commanded as she rode in on horseback.

“A horde of demonic beasts is approaching us, their numbers estimated to exceed hundreds of thousands. Additionally, the Scarletborn have launched terror attacks within the confines of the concentration camp,” the supervisor of Roharlak reported.

"Scarletborn?"

“Yes, it seems they have come to rescue their people in Roharlak.”

Wheeeeeee—!

Yeriel clenched her teeth and said, “Those little bastards. We’ve been far too lenient with them, haven’t we? Fine... Prepare for battle—immediately!”

"Yes, ma'am!"

Booooom—!

From the wall, a thunderous volley of cannon fire erupted, hurling dozens of black iron spheres high into the sky. They traced ominous arcs before plummeting to the earth with crushing force.

Craaaaaash—!

Just as Yeriel prepared to cast her spell...

“Lady Yeriel! A grave matter has arisen!” exclaimed the Yukline butler as he rushed forward.

“What now? What’s the matter?” Yeriel asked.

"Rekordak has been severed from the rest! Master Deculein is stranded there as well!" the butler reported, his words tumbling out in a rush.

"... What?"

“The Scarletborn guerrilla forces have severed the main routes between Rekordak and the city, and because of that—”

Boom—! Boom—!

The explosions of cannon fire filled the air with thick smoke as fragments of sundered beasts scattered, blotting out the moon and stars.

“What? Those damned Scarletborn wretches...” Yeriel growled, her teeth clenched.

“We have troops ready for deployment. Reinforcements will be sent immediately!”

“... Alright.”

As Yeriel nodded, her eyes fell upon a woman standing in the heart of the battlefield, a sketchbook held tightly in her hands. She stood in silence, her eyes locked on Yeriel with an intensity that pierced through the din of war.

“... And who are you?” Yeriel muttered, her brow knitting into a frown.

The woman moved her hands in silent motions, as if speaking through sign language, but Yeriel couldn’t understand their meaning.

“What’s that? Sign language? I never learned anything like that.”

Without a word, the woman responded by scribbling a sentence on the page of her sketchbook and holding it up for Yeriel to see.

I’ve come to kidnap you.

“... What, who does this crazy bitch think she is—”

At that moment, before she could finish, darkness consumed the world around her.