Draco didn't waste time. The moment Gettan lunged in with his wild, aggressive swings, Draco met him head-on.
Steel clashed in rapid succession, CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! His blade parried each strike with tight precision. Not a single cut broke through his defence, not even enough to draw a drop of blood.
Gettan suddenly feinted left, shifting direction mid-step. Draco ducked under the horizontal slash, his counterattack flickering upward like lightning. But Gettan twisted his wrist and deflected it with casual ease, the rebound forcing Draco a step back.
"You're holding back," Gettan said coldly, advancing without pause. "Are you looking down on me TOO?"
In the next instant, his mana flared. Speed surged through his body, and before Draco could breathe, Gettan was in front of him, blade raised high. A vertical cut came crashing down like an executioner's strike. Draco barely had time to snap his own slime-forged sword up horizontally.
CLANG!
A shockwave burst out. Floor beneath Draco's boots cracked and splintered under the weight of the blow.
Behind the mask, Draco's face twisted. What the hell? Was he really just some side villain character?
He had dismissed Gettan at first, thinking the beastman would be little more than a stepping stone. But every clash proved him wrong. The sheer mana-enhanced force behind Gettan's strikes… in his current state, Draco couldn't match it. Even with Total Concentration Breathing, he might push the odds higher but nowhere near guaranteed. And if this beastman had other tricks hidden, it would be worse.
To be fair, it wasn't entirely Draco's fault. He had never fought a mana user before, let alone a beastman, so he had no grasp of their raw physicality. But at the same time, it was his mistake. He should have known better than to underestimate Gettan so carelessly.
He thought this would be like the anime, that he could play the protagonist role, crush a villain, and move on. He hadn't accounted for reality being far harsher. Even when Cid, who had trained since birth, fought Dekkan, the beast was still alive afterwards, though at the cost of his eyes. If someone like Cid struggled, how could Draco expect an easy win here?
The debate about why Cid didn't kill Dekkan outright remained controversial. Was Dekkan simply out of Cid's level at the time? Or was it Cid's inner chūnibyō, that delusional flair, that saw him as a quest worth saving for later? Whatever the case, the fact remained: Dekkan survived that encounter.
He looked down on others, convinced that with his templates he was destined to be undefeated. But he forgot one crucial thing, their experience was never truly his own. The opponents he had fought so far were ordinary men, one-sided massacres at best. None of it had forged real understanding of battle.
Draco inhaled deeply, every muscle tightening. Thump-thump. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, blood surging like fire through his veins. His posture shifted, centred, honed. Total concentration.
Gettan narrowed his eyes. He could feel it, the change in Draco's aura. A low grunt escaped him. "Hmph. Why bother struggling? You'll die anyway."
The fact no allies had appeared so far only confirmed his assumption. Draco was alone. Good. That made him the perfect sacrifice to vent his anger.
"Fourth Form: Striking Tide, Turbulent!"
Draco exploded forward, blade cutting through the air with merciless precision. He chose offence, because in his current state, he knew it wouldn't last long.
Steel clashed, sparks flared. Draco's strikes came in relentless succession, each slash deliberate, each blow aimed to wound. His blade bit deep into Gettan's left shoulder, spraying blood across the floor.
But instead of fear or pain, Gettan's eyes lit up with wild exhilaration.
"Hahaha… I wasn't wrong. You really weren't using your full strength before."
Draco remained silent, eyes narrowed, movements sharp and unyielding. Gettan caught that silence, and a dangerous glint flashed in his gaze. His lips curled into a mocking grin.
"But you aren't the only one."
Draco's eyes flicked and froze. Between Gettan's teeth, a crimson pill gleamed menacingly. In that instant, memory snapped into place. The very first time Draco struck, Gettan had retreated just far enough to pull out a glass vial filled with identical pills.
Realisation settled cold and heavy. Getten hadn't been reckless at all. He had been prepared from the very start.
A surge of unnatural strength coursed through Gettan's veins as the pill took effect. His muscles bulged, veins flaring red, and with a guttural roar he abandoned his sword entirely.
"Just die!" he bellowed, lunging forward with bare hands, claws ready to rip Draco apart.
Draco didn't retreat. His blade spun in a controlled storm.
Third Form: Flowing Dance.
The steel wove through the air in winding arcs, his body moving with it like water in motion. Every slash curved seamlessly into the next, creating a flowing barrier of steel. Where the original form demanded graceful advance, Draco adapted, anchoring his feet, letting the blade dance around him as a shield.
Getten's kicks and lunges crashed against it again and again, sparks flying. But Draco's instincts were screaming like the wind itself. He felt each shift in pressure, each twitch of muscle, warning him of where the next strike would land.
Like now.
He tilted his blade thirty degrees to the right, steel catching Getten's clawed hand an instant before it reached his throat. With a sharp twist, he let the motion carry through.
Slash.
Blood sprayed across the dirt once more.
***************
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