Transcendent Odyssey [Coffeepen]-Chapter 47: Barlen’s Last Stand (and Leon’s Civilization)

PREVIOUSLY-

WHAM!

BOOM!

Leon stood up, brushing off the dirt from his shoulders.

"Hahaha... It's all self-defence now, okay?"

Before him stood four students. His age.

Four humans, no- four lambs waiting to be slaughtered.

-----x-----

DING!

A system window popped before Leon-

-[INBOX]-

◈Unique quest triggered!

Do you accept?

(Y/N)

----------

"Haha," Leon snickered.

TAP!

His finger pressed against- Y

DING!

-[UNIQUE QUEST]-

◈Stop pretending and act like your true self.

Progress: (0%)

Reward: User can pick any one sword style.

Penalty: none

-------------------

Leon blinked once—slow, feline.

"Sir Threxil," he muttered, voice low.

He tilted his head towards Threxil, eyes narrowing with something between amusement and suspicion.

"What in all the hells was that thing? How did it know I was pretending?"

Threxil flinched, caught off-guard.

"You were pretending?" he asked, incredulous. "About what?"

Leon exhaled through his nose, brushing strands of wind-mussed hair away from his brow.

With a practiced twist, he tied them into a short, uneven ponytail behind his head. It gave him a wild, almost feral look.

"It's just as you heard,"

he said, voice tinged with mischief. He lifted his claymore—battered and chipped along the edges like a fang dulled from too many kills.

"Me and Ralph had a wager. Wanted to see which one of us could act the most 'normal.'"

He said the word like it was a curse.

Threxil folded his arms across his chest, fingers tapping against his bicep.

"You lost, clearly."

Leon shrugged.

"What will I do with you, old man."

But then something changed—his grin returned, broader now, darker.

"You know I lost. I know I lost. But do they know I lost?"

Threxil's brow furrowed. "No."

Leon nodded once.

"Then all is well."

CRACK.

He twisted his neck sharply, vertebrae snapping with a noise like splitting bark. Then he strode toward the clearing, footsteps light, almost casual.

Ahead, four boys turned at the sound of his approach—postured, puffed, already armed. The leader, a broad-shouldered youth with a buzzcut and a polished greatsword, stepped forward, puffing out his chest like a crow in mating season.

"Stay where you are, heretic!"

He barked. "How dare you interrupt Young Master Richard's labyrinth trial?!"

Leon scratched at his ear with his pinky, eyes blank with apathy.

"Richard?" he echoed. "Who's that?"

Then his gaze sharpened. He jabbed a finger toward the group.

"Ah! I've figured it out," he said, voice rising.

"You bastards... you made up this 'Richard' nonsense to make me forget how you attacked me first, didn't you?!"

The boys glanced among each other, visibly unnerved.

"...Caw..." croaked a raven from a branch above, as if mocking them.

Leon sneered.

"What a clumsy deception. Did you truly think such a limp strategy could fool me?"

One of the others stepped forward—a lean, sharp-faced boy in a salmon-pink shirt neatly tucked into obsidian-black trousers. His sleeves were rolled just enough to expose leather-strapped bracers, more decorative than practical.

"This country hick doesn't even know where he's standing," the boy sneered.

"Did you fall and crack your skull on the stairs? Crawl back to your mudhole."

Leon vanished.

In a blink, he reappeared behind the boy, his shadow draped over the back of the pink shirt like a hawk looming over prey.

"Big city boy, huh?" he murmured near the boy's ear.

The boy recoiled as if stung by a wasp, spinning on his heel.

"Y-You—how did you—?!"

SHING.

A sleek rapier was drawn by a third—a wiry youth with long bangs veiling his eyes, trying too hard to look bored and lethal at the same time.

"What if we are?" he said coolly.

Leon's claymore rose in a lazy arc—massive, unwieldy, yet held with shocking ease.

"I thought city folk were refined. But the stench tells me otherwise." He tilted his head. "Tell me—are you pigs, by chance?"

Before the insult had time to settle, a fourth boy charged in from the flank—thick-necked, barrel-chested, a curved breastplate flashing under the sun. His eyes were wild with fury.

"You bastard!"

CLANG!

The boy's greatsword slammed into Leon's claymore, the impact ringing out like a bell across the stones. Sparks flew. Leon didn't flinch.

"You squeal well," Leon said, pressing forward. "High-quality livestock."

The muscled youth roared and swung again, this time overhead.

Leon slid to the side, boots skimming the gravel, and tilted his blade so the next strike glanced harmlessly off its edge.

He smiled—a predator's grin. Not wild, not bloodthirsty. Just... thrilled.

The muscled boy screamed again, swinging in a desperate horizontal arc. It was a reckless strike—too much shoulder, too much anger.

Leon ducked beneath the blade, low and fluid like a hunting cat, the greatsword hissing just above his tied hair.

WHUD.

Leon drove his forehead into the boy's ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of him with a wheeze, his breastplate crumpling faintly inward.

The boy staggered backward—gasping, choking.

But the others were already moving.

"Stick together!" barked the buzzcut leader, sweeping in with an overhead slash meant to cleave Leon's shoulder down to his hip.

Leon sidestepped—not a full dodge, just enough to let the blade shave past him, grazing the wind. He answered with a backhanded swing of his chipped claymore, not at the boy, but at the sword.

CLANG!

Steel met steel again—but the angle was wrong for defense. Leon's blade bit into the flat of the boy's greatsword, twisting it out of alignment.

Leon took a step in and slammed his forehead into the buzzcut boy's nose.

CRACK.

The sound was wet, immediate.

The boy screamed and reeled, blood spurting between his fingers.

"Two down," Leon murmured, licking the edge of his lip where a fleck of blood had landed.

He turned—and had to duck.

The rapier-wielding boy thrust in with sharp, fencer's precision. The first jab skimmed past Leon's cheek, the second narrowly missed his neck.

"Oh? You're fast," Leon said with a grin, eyes glittering.

Then he moved.

He stepped inside the boy's guard and chopped with his claymore—not aimed to kill, just to maim.

The rapier boy parried once, barely. The second strike knocked his weapon aside. The third smashed into his thigh with a dull, brutal sound.

THUNK.

The boy shrieked and collapsed, clutching his leg. Tendons half-severed. He wouldn't be standing any time soon.

Three.

That's when the fourth boy—the one in the salmon-pink shirt—lunged in with a dagger, aiming for Leon's flank. It was a coward's strike, the kind meant to catch someone busy.

But Leon wasn't busy. He was waiting.

He let the dagger come close. Felt the steel scrape leather.

Then twisted—hard—catching the boy's wrist and snapping it in one clean motion.

SNAP.

The pink-shirted boy screamed, the blade falling.

Leon kicked his shin. Then kneed his chin. Then, without a word, elbowed him across the mouth. Teeth scattered across the grass like white gravel.

He let the boy crumple.

The only one left standing was buzzcut—nose broken, eyes watering, sword trembling.

Leon turned to him.

Buzzcut raised his blade with both hands, arms shaking.

"I... I'll kill you!" he roared.

Leon cocked his head.

"No," he said, stepping in, "you won't."

This time, Leon used the flat of his blade. It struck the boy in the chest like a battering ram.

THOOM.

The boy was lifted off his feet and sent flying back, landing in a heap with the others.

A long silence followed, broken only by the distant calls of birds and the soft rustle of leaves.

Leon looked down at the four boys groaning on the ground—bent, bloodied, coughing in pain. He exhaled and rolled his shoulders.

Then he stretched, cracking his knuckles one by one.

"Is this how Ralph fights? Boring,"

he said to no one in particular.

A low chuckle escaped his lips—not manic, not bloodthirsty. Just... pleased. Like a beast who'd found a decent hunt, even if the meat wasn't quite tender.

He wiped the claymore clean against the back of the buzzcut's tunic.

Behind him, Threxil finally spoke, voice wary.

"You didn't kill them."

Leon glanced over his shoulder.

"Of course not," he replied. "I'm civilized."

Leon strode over to the crumpled boy in the pink shirt, whose knees were drawn up tight, eyes swimming in tears and panic.

"Hey, city boy."

Barlen Rusk looked up, his lips trembling. A thick thread of snot glistened down to his upper lip, tears drawing muddy streaks down his cheeks. He didn't answer.

WHAM!

Leon's fist connected with his jaw in a sharp, unforgiving arc.

"F*ck!" Leon shook out his knuckles. "That scared me."

He crouched and grabbed a fistful of Barlen's silky black hair, yanking his head up.

"Hey."

Barlen winced, trying not to meet Leon's gaze. His breath hitched.

"City boy," Leon repeated, leaning in until their noses nearly touched. "What's your name?"