The Battle of Astrea (Part 2)
Standing in the middle of the avenue, Cecilus waited for the Sword Saint's arrival.
Perhaps it was because, deep in his heart, he felt this would be the end of his life — his mind couldn't help but drift through memories of his past.
When he was a child, he became the Emperor's sword.
As a teenager, he defeated entire armies alone.
In his youth, he believed he was the protagonist of the world.
Then, last year, he encountered the Sword Saint — and was knocked unconscious within a few punches, while she wore a slave collar.
Afterward, he repeatedly snuck into the Kingdom in search of her, but failed every time. And then, a few days ago, that clown came to find him.
"One who fears death can never reach the realm of the Heavenly Sword."
That single sentence sent Cecilus deep into thought.
He had heard about the Sword Saint's character — if he committed massacres in the Dragon Kingdom, she would undoubtedly come to stop him. So why didn't he do it?
Was it loyalty to Emperor Vincent? He was indeed loyal, but not more than his desire to reach the realm of the Heavenly Sword.
Then perhaps it was the so-called pride of a swordsman?
Cecilus chuckled at that thought.
His twin blades were cursed swords that craved blood, and he was arguably the most prolific killer among swordsmen.
Would someone like that hesitate to kill?
"Hahaha... So that's it. Deep down, I had already yielded."
He finally understood what had been bothering him — he had surrendered back when he was first defeated.
A surrendered heart could never reach the realm of the Heavenly Sword.
"Well, the Sword Saint is invincible. Her Divine Protection are too overpowered.
But I have a way to temporarily strip her of them.
That way, you can fight her on equal terms as fellow swordsmen.
The Mathers family has practiced magic for 400 years... I can also force her into a duel with you."
The clown, with a knife to his neck, spoke calmly.
Realizing the man wasn't afraid to die, Cecilus sheathed his blade and quietly listened.
It was a viable plan — a plan that would allow him to fight the Sword Saint without her divine Divine Protection.
The legends of the God of War and the Sword Demon were still told in the Empire — two warriors one step from becoming Heavenly Sword fought to the death, and the Sword Demon succeeded.
Cecilus was moved.
He understood that he, too, needed a life-or-death duel to break through his limits.
"Why?" Cecilus asked the clown why he was helping him.
"A drowning man will grab even a blade of grass.
Those of us who desperately seek something — all of us — are struggling in waters we've never seen, trying to survive in the 'ocean.' So I help you in hopes of grabbing onto my own lifeline."
.
.
.
Footsteps interrupted Cecilus's memories — the steps of a warrior.
But they did not belong to the girl he expected.
With a wave of his sword, he was surprised when it was caught barehanded.
A heavy punch followed — a steel-hard blow born of ultimate training.
If it landed, it wouldn't just break bones — even internal organs would be destroyed.
Cecilus hastily defended with his blade, but the force passed through and rocked his body.
"A technique of the Western Shinobi — striking from a distance."
Despite being a sword fanatic, Cecilus recognized the technique.
"You are...?"
The person before him looked like Reinhild, but Cecilus could tell he wasn't the Sword Saint.
The martial artist seemed to confirm something with his partner, then transformed into an old man.
Cecilus didn't care about the one who left — that brief exchange had already told him everything.
This man, like him, was a martial artist only one step away from the absolute pinnacle.
"Winston."
The old man hesitated, then gave his martial name: Winston.
The western land of Kararagi was a country of merchants and slaves.
Winston had been a slave too — but with the Divine Protections of the Earth Spirit and Unarmed Combat, he became a gladiator.
Victory brought him feasts, and defeat meant death.
This extreme environment cultivated a burning desire for strength.
After earning his freedom, he constantly challenged martial schools.
If he lost, he bowed down and became a student.
If he won, he learned everything he could from the battle.
With the support of two Divine Protection and over ten years in blood-soaked arenas, he became unbeatable.
His first loss in life came against the strongest celebrant of the west — though perhaps it was just a bad matchup.
The opponent was a ninja, and Winston was a martial artist.
He might have been stronger in a direct clash, but he couldn't win.
Driven by the pursuit of strength, he followed that celebrant for a time.
During one mission in the Dragon Kingdom, he saw something divine.
An eight-year-old Sword Saint showed strength beyond imagination.
Though the world didn't know, Winston personally witnessed her defeat the strongest of the west.
At that moment, he was conquered by her strength.
From then on, he followed the girl, challenging her day after day.
Ping! Ping! Pang!
Sword clashed with fist.
Cecilus wielded two of the ten legendary blades.
Winston's gauntlets were also capable of blocking even the Dragon Sword.
Their top-tier weapons collided, producing sharp, musical impacts.
Sword and fist struck again and again.
The flamboyant, energetic young man gradually revealed the full strength of the greatest swordsman.
The calm, dignified butler showed the ultimate strength of a gladiator.
The sword grew faster.
The sword aura sharper.
The fists heavier.
The killing intent stronger.
Cecilus smelled a thick scent of blood; Winston saw a flash of azure lightning.
Clash after clash.
Finally, the two drew apart for the first time in their prolonged duel.
Cecilus's wrists trembled uncontrollably.
Blood dripped from Winston's body.
Cecilus kicked off his shoes.
The Earth Spirit's blessing gradually healed Winston's wounds.
—Next time we move, it will decide life or death.
They both had that thought — and smiled.
They knew — the victor would climb a higher path, to challenge that invincible Sword Saint.
[——]
They didn't announce their names.
After countless exchanges, they didn't need superficial rituals.
The sword fanatic and the martial maniac acknowledged one another.
Both were willing to become the other's stepping stone.
A sword swung.
A fist flew.
In the next moment — only one of them would remain standing.
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