“I’m a coward who would rather die than spill my own blood.”
That was the end of their exchange.
Ta-at!
In the darkness, Sien kicked off the ground and charged. Immediately, he swung ‘Kingslayer’ at the hulking figure clad in armor, easily over two meters tall. The pitch-black blade, imbued with a curse and aura, could cut through steel like paper.
Ka-ang!
The attack was blocked.
At that moment, Sien had concealed his presence with all his might, suppressing his life force, breaking through with Pose of the Wraith as if it was nothing.
The Orc’s massive two-handed claymore met Sien’s Kingslayer dead-on.
“Strong!”
The force was terrifying. The blade in Sien’s hand vibrated so fiercely that he couldn’t quickly follow up with another attack.
The Orc’s body was strong. But the power he’d just shown was not just from brute strength.
It was the will to break through the limits of the flesh in the midst of pain and trial, the indomitable resolve to overcome one’s own blood, flesh, and bone—a true Aura.
Only humans could wield Aura. Neither the undead like vampires or Liches, nor even the Elves who lived for centuries, could use Aura. Because they were not human.
But Orcs were different. They, too, were not monsters but humans.
They only differed in skin color, build, and bone structure; their strength was merely a variation among humans. It was other humans who, pointing fingers and calling them monsters, coined the slur ‘Orc’.
That’s why the Orc warrior before him… this man known as Biorn Hringr could wield the power of Aura.
He didn’t just wield it.
“By the standards of knights, he’s at least High Expert level, maybe just shy of Master.”
Besides, the distinction between High Expert and Master is never absolute.
In real battle, even a Master can die at the hands of a mere Expert, and an overconfident Expert who relies too much on Aura can die from a stiletto in the carotid by a knight who doesn’t even use Aura. It’s hardly uncommon.
A knight raised like a hothouse flower, no matter how high his rank, can’t compare to those who’ve gained experience rolling through real battlefields.
In that regard, the opponent before him was strong.
Ka-ang!
Biorn’s claymore swung in a heavy, oppressive arc, the weight of the sword, the might of his body, and the explosive force of Aura pressing the attack—a massive sword style.
The “Stance of the Snowy Mountain,” pride of the Skaadi Island Orc tribes.
Ka-ang!
The sound echoed.
“There’s no opening to exploit.”
Even Sien, maintaining his Pose of the Wraith at full force, couldn’t completely conceal his presence.
But then he realized.
“No, it’s not that he’s reading Pose of the Wraith.”
On the contrary, Sien’s stance was erasing his presence with remarkable effectiveness. The opponent wasn’t swinging by reading Sien’s movements.
It was like an avalanche sweeping through the snowy mountains.
A relentless barrage of sword strikes, like a blizzard.
“So that’s it. Not using a dueling sword style, but one for facing armies…”
A technique meant for fighting not a single opponent, but many—an area-of-effect swordsmanship.
From the very start, the Orc warrior didn’t try to sense Sien’s presence. He merely swept through the terrain like a storm, crushing everything in his path.
“If that’s how it is…”
Within the blizzard that threatened to swallow him whole, Sien steeled himself.
Ka-ang!
The next moment, the massive claymore, filled with icy cold, shattered Sien’s stance. Only then did Biorn, who had been intent on suppressing all space around him, recognize Sien’s existence and charge.
“Now!”
Kwajik!
At the same time, something erupted from Sien’s side—a blade-bone replacing a rib.
Thorn Stance.
And it wasn’t just a bone. The blade-bone, true to its name, was made of metal alloy and carried the power of Aura, able to pierce even steel armor.
That’s exactly what happened. The blade-bone that shot from Sien’s abdomen skewered the Orc’s breastplate like a skewer. Yet he couldn’t seal the match.
“…….!”
“Not a hint of hesitation in shedding your own blood, I see.”
Biorn spoke calmly, even in that state.
Kwajik!
“So close, but you missed the vital spot.”
Thorn Stance is, in the end, a technique of giving up flesh to take bone. Using it means ejecting a blade from one’s own body—a suicidal move.
Biorn hadn’t anticipated the attack, either. But he dodged it—by mere centimeters from the heart beneath his breastplate.
His warrior’s intuition had whispered of danger.
“Strong.”
Only now did he understand why Mother had agonized so much. The opponent before him was a veteran warrior who could not be defined by ‘Sword Expert’ or ‘Master’ or any label.
Neither Pose of the Wraith nor Thorn Stance worked. Even using the Ninth Form against such a foe would be suicide.
“Fate’s Spear…”
For a moment, Sien considered another power he held. But he shook his head.
“The opponent’s not unscathed, either. He won’t try to drag this out into a long fight.”
He had to risk it all here.
Kwajik!
He snapped off the blade-bone that protruded grotesquely from his abdomen. Blood gushed from his mouth. Even so, Sien gripped the blade-bone he’d pulled from his own body.
Kingslayer in one hand and the bone sword in the other, Sien took his stance.
“Dual-wielding?”
At the sight, Biorn’s eyes narrowed.
“Sawblade Stance.”
Sien announced quietly.
“Such a sword style exists?”
At the same time, upon hearing the name of the stance, a strange sense of unease crept over him.
“I see. That last attack ejecting the blade from your body was the Fifth Form, and if this is dual-wielding, is it the Second Form—the Sawblade Stance? I feel like I’ve heard of it before.”
The swordsmanship of the Nightwalker Family was not hidden because it was unknown.
It was, in fact, too famous.
So famous that aristocrats across the continent spun rumors and exaggerated stories about it, piling on layers and layers of fanciful tales—so that the real secrets were concealed within those gaudy veils.
With such an overflow of information, it was paradoxically impossible to distinguish truth from fiction.
Thorn Stance, just displayed by Sien, was no different.
He had heard of it—a sword technique where the bones of the body shot out like blades! It was so outlandish that he’d assumed it was just nobles’ idle boasting.
But it wasn’t. The brief moment of suspicion that flashed through his mind had saved his life.
The form Sien was now using was no different.
“So those weren’t all lies after all…”
He hadn’t heard that Sawblade Stance was a dual-wielding style. But he knew its principle.
The most honest and precise sword style in the world, cold as a machine, permitting not a hint of error.
“Given that sawblades mesh together, I suppose dual-wielding does make sense…”
Having thought this, Biorn reset his stance.
Ta-at!
In that state, he closed the distance like a flash.
But Sien’s two swords, which should have moved with cold, mechanical precision, told a lie.
They were not cold as a machine. They were wild with emotion. Nor were they precise. Like a drunkard swinging a sword, they moved erratically. Yet, like a trickster, they struck at the gaps with uncanny precision and evaded real danger with cunning subtlety.
“I made a mistake.”
It was the complete opposite of his expectations.
From the start, he’d chosen the wrong stance. He’d misjudged and anticipated the opponent’s form incorrectly.
And among skilled swordsmen, a misjudgment meant only one thing.
Jwaaaak!
The sword flashed and blood splattered.
In the pouring blood, realization dawned. It wasn’t a mistake. The moment he’d named the sword style, he’d already fallen into a trap.
When he heard of Sawblade Stance, he remembered another name for that style.
“Liar’s Stance…”
Kneeling weakly, Biorn muttered.
“And you thought it was all lies?”
Sien answered, looking down at him.
Believing he was using Liar’s Stance, Sien adjusted his sword once more. The duel was over, and there would be no more swinging of blades. But seeing that, Biorn realized immediately.
A stance as precise as a sawblade, not permitting a single mistake.
Seeing that, Biorn gave a hollow laugh.
“So it was true after all…”
“That’s right.”
If he’d thought of it as a Liar’s Sword and responded that way, he would have been stabbed with a stance as precise as a real sawblade.
A style that exploited the opponent’s expectations and struck at their weak points from the start.
He could fight with machine-like precision, or use the Liar’s stratagem of truth and illusion. Depending on how the opponent reacted, he would reveal either truth or deception.
“If you use both truth and lies, then you’re not really a liar…”
Kneeling, Biorn muttered, gazing down at his own body, armor and all, sliced clean through.
“Then again, telling the truth isn’t quite right either… Can I ask the name of the sword that finally brought me down?”
“Shepherd Boy’s Stance.”
Sien answered. At that, Biorn laughed loudly, as if hearing an old joke.
Kuuung!
With that laugh, Biorn’s body collapsed. Sien gazed down in silence.
Shepherd Boy’s Stance.
That, too, was a lie.
***
“Shepherd Boy’s Stance.”
The black-clad assassin, who had been watching the duel from the start, rejoiced inwardly at Sien’s words.
With this, the Nightwalker Family’s eldest son had revealed all his secrets. The blow that felled the Orc warrior had not been without cost for Sien, either.
It was the most cowardly moment for a knight, but the most opportune for an assassin.
The loyal knight of House Grandel, Lord Meyer, adjusted his grip on his sword. He no longer hid in the shadows.
Even so, Sien showed no sign of agitation. Nor was there any need for unnecessary words. There was no time for it.
He would simply kill quickly and efficiently.
“I’ll end it in a single blow.”
This was not an assassin’s strike. This was the sword of the continent’s mightiest knight—the very one upon whom Duke of Grandel had personally bestowed the title ‘Sword Master’. No matter who Sien was, there was no way to block this attack in such a situation. This was beyond the realm where talent or skill could make a difference.
For the Nightwalker Family’s eldest son to survive here was physically impossible.
Today, Sien Nightwalker would die by his hand. There was no way to survive.
With that certainty, Lord Meyer, the Grandel Family’s knight and assassin, prepared to leap.
“!”
From the ceiling, a massive crystal chandelier plummeted toward his head.
Lord Meyer, about to finish Sien in a single blow, twisted his body away. His stance collapsed as he abruptly stopped, and as the chandelier shattered, shards of glass rained down through the manor’s darkness.
In the whirling storm of glass shards, Sien hit the ground running in reverse. The black blade in his hand flashed with dark light.
Ka-ang!
Blades clashed. A shriek rang out.
“The air… has changed.”
The flow of energy in the area was strangely cold and unfamiliar. Something was different. Yet he couldn’t tell what.
“What trick are you playing?”
Even the famed Sword Master, holder of the Empire’s title of Meister des langen Schwerts, felt a sense of wrongness he couldn’t explain.
That’s when it happened.
Whoosh!
Shards of shattered glass, like autumn leaves in the wind, rode the currents of magic in a swirling vortex.
“Psychic magic!”
Invisible hands—telekinesis—hurled the razor-sharp glass at him. They struck precisely at vital points: the carotid at the neck, the aorta in the chest, a deadly rain of blades from every direction.
Normally, he wouldn’t even bother defending against such an attack. He wore trusty steel armor, after all.
But now… he had no armor.
There was only an assassin, clad in black, lurking in the shadows.
Dodging the onslaught of blades from all sides, Lord Meyer retreated desperately. The Sword Master of legend, forced into a pathetic retreat by nothing but a single psychic spell.
Yet, it was ‘luck’—if you could call it that.
What were the odds that the chandelier would fall right on his head? That it would be made of glass, scattering shards to form a perfect 360-degree encirclement for a psychic mage? That he’d be without armor at that very moment?
“If only I’d at least been wearing leather armor!”
It was calamity upon calamity, each stacking up with unbelievable timing.
“Ah.”
Then, realization struck.
This wasn’t just bad luck or poor fortune.
It was as if the whole world was conspiring to save Sien—while, at the same time, wishing for his own death.