Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 153

The ten meters that had separated them vanished in a single beat. The speed was impressive, yes—but far more threatening than the speed itself was the footwork, so elusive that no one could read her path.

—Eyes first, legs second, then heart, then force.

Rodrick had repeated those words many times: after learning how to see, the next most important art was how to walk. And Elahan’s footwork had already reached the level of mastery.

Without bending her knees or ankles, she shifted her axis and center of gravity, sliding across bare earth as though it were ice. To move like that on dirt, not slick ice—it was unthinkable.

Totuga faltered at her approach, then chose the only option he could. If her path could not be read, then he would sweep the entire space.

“Hrrrraaaah!”

Both hands swung the warhammer in a great sideways arc. The gale it whipped up raised a cloud of dust—a testament to his brute force. However...

“That’s too high. You should mind the difference in our heights,” Elahan said as she slipped low under the hammer and thrust out her fist.

It was tiny. Compared to Totuga, laughably so. A fist too small to be called a weapon. Eyes wide, Totuga poured every ounce of strength into bracing his abdominal muscles.

And then, with a thunderous blast, his massive body was hurled back. Had it not been for his desperately tensed abs, for the renowned toughness of the Ursus, for his tribe’s ability Harden that reinforced parts of the physique, he would have been finished then and there.

“Ghhhk!”

Blood welled up in his throat and spilled from his lips. Even a battering ram would not have hit so hard.

Is this female truly human...?!

Humans were weak. They hid behind tricks and techniques, but their strength and stamina were feeble. Totuga had fought scores, hundreds of humans who had trespassed into his lands.

Some had been famed knights. Others, adventurers turned smugglers.

Secret sword styles? Aura attributes? Before overwhelming force, all of it was mere parlour tricks. Pretty names to dress up weakness. That was what Totuga had always believed of human martial arts.

“Here comes one more.”

Elahan’s fists, however, shattered everything.

This time, he was not late. He yanked his warhammer back in time, meeting her strike head-on. The impact drove him backward three steps.

He had learned. If he met her straight-on, he would only be knocked flying, so he received the blow defensively, stretching out the point of contact to stop himself from being hurled.

“A fine response,” Elahan offered the brief praise as her left fist shot forward.

Totuga swung again. Their weapons met in midair, and another explosion, another shockwave tore through the arena.

One strike. Dust roiled thick around them.

Two strikes. The second shockwave shredded the dust into tatters.

Three strikes. Dust billowed again, louder than before.

Explosions sounded one after another as if a fireworks festival was taking place.

Karen, sticking to Leon, grimaced.

“Ugh, that’s insane. Where’s the strategy in that? She could’ve flattened him already, so why’s she matching his swings? Leon, she’s got a screw loose, too, you know.”

And indeed, she was right. The difference in their skill was so vast that if Elahan had wanted, Totuga would have been broken and rolling across the dirt at the very start.

Even without her Holy Barrier or Holy Iron Breaker, her physical strength alone surpassed Totuga’s. And that wasn’t all she had.

—Bare Knuckle, huh? She’s learned it well.

Bare Knuckle? Leon asked instinctively at El Cid’s words.

—A primitive form of fist fighting. Pure pugilism with nothing but two fists to smash the opponent’s body. Forms and techniques as simple as they come. Well, at her level, she could found her own school.

Not even refined enough to be called an art, but honed, brutal fists. Block, parry, evade. Strike, smash, drive through.

Less than twenty techniques in total, polished to perfection, all focused on crushing foes with bare fists. If Elahan’s target had been Totuga’s face or gut, he would already be sprawled out, choking on blood, but she did not aim there. Her fists had chosen a different target.

Another clash—he had lost count—sent his arms, still clutching the warhammer, shooting upward. Strike after strike, and still he could not overwhelm those tiny fists. Sweat dampened every hair on his body as Totuga struggled to steady his breath.

This was a mistake.

Judging this female by her frail appearance and picking her? No. Avoiding facing the man who seemed to be the leader of their side? No.

Totuga understood. He realized it now. The duel itself had been a pitfall, a cliff dragging the war faction to defeat.

This is my loss.

He let go of his pride and admitted it. It was a total defeat.

Fight her a hundred times, he would lose a hundred. A thousand times, a thousand losses. Even with heaven’s favor and a hundred strokes of luck, the gulf between them would remain impassable.

And still, his grip on the warhammer did not slacken.

“Here... I come,” he muttered as he shifted his stance from defense to offense.

Lowering his stance, Totuga hefted the warhammer over his right shoulder. He glanced at the weapon, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.

Forgive me, old friend.

The warhammer was already a wreck. Its once-straight head had been battered and crushed dozens of times, until its original shape was long lost, nothing left but a crumpled husk.

Totuga said to his weapon and dear companion, Just hold on one more time. This will be the last.

“Come, then.”

Answering Elahan’s call, Totuga kicked off the ground. The earth screamed as though chunks of its flesh had been torn away, and before that cry had even faded, Totuga’s hammer turned into a storm. His limbs, thickened many times over by Harden, launched a crushing strike.

Interestingly, the scene was identical to the first exchange. Totuga unleashed the strongest blow a blunt weapon could deliver and brought his hammer crashing down from above.

Reciting a low prayer, Elahan thrust forward the fist she had drawn back to her waist.

“O Goddess, grant mercy to these hands.”

A straight punch. The foundation and the pinnacle of the fist. Toward the warhammer descending with dreadful force, a flash of pure white light shot forth.

And then, starting with low, subtle cracks, the already ruined hammer, mangled inside and out, fractured in an instant, spiderweb cracks racing across its surface. Finally, with a deafening blow, it exploded, scattering shards in every direction.

“Graaaah!”

Unable to withstand the backlash, several of Totuga’s fingers twisted grotesquely, both arms flung upward as if in surrender. There was no question who had won the clash.

Smashing through the warhammer, Elahan closed in on her defenseless foe. Reaching out, she drove in her final blow to finish the fight against a foe who would never concede.

Her fist pierced through abdominal muscles harder than steel plates as though through paper. The massive bear, weighing over half a ton, was lifted as if he had forgotten gravity and hurled into the outer wall of the arena.

It was a dreadful sight, but in truth, he was fortunate. Had Elahan struck a sharper angle, her fist would have punched through him and shredded his innards.

Seeing Totuga unconscious, Varg immediately declared it.

“That’s it! This duel also goes to Hati’s side. The victor is the adventurer, Ella!”

In her guise as a Holy Iron Inquisitor rather than a saintess, Elahan bowed politely to the spectators, having secured their second victory. In some ways, her display had an even greater impact than Karen’s.

The war faction now stood at two losses. One more defeat, and they would be forced out of the council without even reaching the final duel.

Skoll’s face had gone pale. He had not imagined Totuga would lose as well. Yet hope still remained. His gaze turned naturally toward Urakan.

“Kahaha! At last, it is my turn!”

He paid no heed to the ruined state of the arena, leaping in a single bound more than sixty meters to land in its center. The landing was graceful, raising no dust, making not the slightest sound.

Leon watched with a heavy look and thought, There’s no wasted motion. He’s not just brute strength.

—Hm. No wonder he’s called second only to the king.

At El Cid’s reply, Leon rose to his feet. His instincts told him clearly that this tiger-man was a foe.

He would struggle to handle him. His level could not be measured precisely, lacking systemized form, but at the very least, he was on par with Karen, perhaps beyond her. In this kind of direct clash, he might even be the more dangerous opponent.

“Hah...”

Leon steadied himself with a single deep breath.

From the sword in his hand, warmth rose, loosening the tension that had seized his body. Whether he could win or not no longer mattered. All he had to do was give everything.

Seeing Leon step into the arena, Urakan roared with laughter.

“Kehaha! Better than I hoped! I’m glad I waited for you! You’ve been through your share of battlefields for one so young, huh? Those babied brats don’t carry the face you do.”

Leon, intrigued, shot the question back.

“You can tell all that from just looking at my face?”

Urakan was infamous for hating backtalk, but those he approved of, he treated in his own way.

“Not the face, the bearing. The air around a man tells his story. Extraordinary experiences shape life itself—for good or for ill.”

“...”

As if he were peering right into Leon, Urakan added, “You feel it too, don’t you? This won’t be easy. One mistake, and it will be a duel of life and death. If you can lay your life on the blade without flinching, it means you’ve danced at death’s door more than once. That’s not something the pampered brats chasing easy victories could ever do.”

“Indeed...”

Leon found himself reevaluating Urakan. If he were only strong, he would be no better than a beast. However, behind the rude, rough words and actions, Urakan’s reason was sharp. His savagery was only his nature—not for lack of wit.

That was the end of their exchange of words. As soon as Varg saw that the arena had been cleared, he gave the word.

“Then, let the duel resume!” 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Leon and Urakan turned their backs on each other without hesitation. Their footsteps receded—measured, deliberate. When the distance was exact, they pivoted almost at the same instant.

The Holy Sword flashed in the noon sun as it left its sheath. Urakan, at the same time, lowered his body, long claws extending from all ten fingers, like a beast preparing to pounce on its prey.

The pressure unleashed by the two warriors swallowed the dueling grounds and spilled into the stands, silencing the once-boisterous square.

“Begin!” Varg shouted.

The third duel, if Leon won, would mark the turning point that could hand the peace faction victory in the council. Leon and Urakan, both locked in battle stance, faced each other, neither moving, each sharpening their focus. What they carried within, what their opponent might carry—their minds spun ten, twenty times faster than usual, searching for the answer.

Grand Chariot would be overkill—I might bring the entire arena down. His physical ability surpasses mine, so I’ll have to burn more Aura to close that gap and bet everything on Eclipse and my martial arts.

The beastkin were strong. However, their strength was rooted in the flesh. Movements without enlightenment in the ways of martial arts always had a lower ceiling. Even if they turned their overflowing vitality into Aura, they could not reach the secret techniques humans have refined over centuries.

“Hehe... good. Let’s start with a little probing, shall we?”

Just like Leon, Urakan had already sized him up. Hunched forward as if to leap on all fours, his eyes gleamed with killing intent as he advanced.

The distance shrank from fifty meters to forty, then forty to twenty. When it narrowed to fifteen, Urakan moved first. He raised his long arms, claws extended, and swung them like pendulums from side to side.

Wait... what is this...?

Leon had barely begun to think when a sudden gust, sharp as blades, slammed into the Holy Sword.

“Guh?!”

And it wasn’t just one strike. The blow he deflected instinctively was followed by another, then another. Curved arcs of cutting wind streaked toward him; Leon slashed and severed them one after another.

Although Leon had parried away all the strikes, each carried such force that his wrists tingled, nearly going numb. Without the recovery from his Stigmata, he might have already lost a third of his grip strength.

“What is this technique...?”

There was no mistaking it—the source of the winds was Urakan himself. By whipping his arms like whips, he could lash at foes even some distance away.

The speed and the ever-shifting trajectories backed by his overwhelming physique were enough to threaten even Leon. One sword against ten claws; to deflect or parry them all was impossible.

That wasn’t why Leon was surprised, though.

This is actual martial arts!

Not mere tricks built on brute strength. It was thought-out, principle-driven—martial skill, a step beyond simple beastly techniques, a step into the next realm. Crude in form, perhaps, but without doubt, true martial arts.

Urakan read the shock on Leon’s face and chuckled.

“Hah! Surprised? That I know how to fight like you humans do? Since the day I lost to the king, I’ve thought about it without cease. We are a race balanced on the boundary between beast and man. To reach the pinnacle of strength, one must choose one of those paths.”

To choose the beast’s path was to rely only on savagery, abandoning reason. To choose the human’s path was to forsake savagery for martial arts. Neither was wrong, but Urakan had chosen the path of martial arts. The reason was simple.

“The beast’s path, in the end, leads only to madness—abandoning reason, rampaging like an animal. Some may want strength that way, but I only want to fight with my wits intact. To savor battle in full.” A born berserker, baring his fangs, growled, “With my own martial arts, my own battle! What greater satisfaction can there be?!”

Spreading his arms wide, Urakan dropped into a strange stance—part pugilist, part predator.

The pressure swelling around him multiplied, heavier than when they first faced, and he grumbled, “Tiger King Style. Here I come!”

The tiger who had forged his own path into martial arts lunged forward.