Translator: CinderTL
Clang! Crack!
Van Buren precisely blocked Roland's desperate counterattack.
The terrifying force contained within the bright silver longsword wasn't fully deflected; instead, it struck Roland's rusty iron sword like an invisible hammer.
The overloaded iron sword let out a pained cry as it snapped in two.
The broken blade spun through the air toward the gray sky.
The massive impact split Roland's hand open, blood gushing from the wound. The shock sent him staggering backward, leaving his chest completely exposed.
A crimson glint flashed in Van Buren's eyes. Without hesitation, the sword's blade, like a divine judgment, transformed into a cold silver lightning bolt, piercing toward Roland's defenseless chest.
But the moment his weapon was torn from his grasp, Roland's mind, operating at peak capacity thanks to [Focus], didn't panic. Instead, it entered a state of peculiar clarity.
A Knight Never Dies Empty-Handed!
Before his retreating foot could regain its balance, his body reacted in a way that defied conscious thought.
Instead of reaching for a new weapon, he embraced the imbalance caused by the sword's shattering. His left foot slammed backward diagonally, and his body twisted and sank downward as if pulled by invisible threads.
Martial Combat Step!
Whoosh!
Van Buren's determined sword, carrying a bone-chilling cold, grazed Roland's raised arm, tearing only the tattered sleeve.
Roland's sinking body acted like a coiled spring, landing precisely beside a massive warhammer half-buried in the scorched earth, its blood-stained head protruding.
His right hand formed a claw, gripping the cold hammer handle's end with an utterly natural, as if practiced countless times, precision.
The momentum from his descent hadn't fully dissipated. The instant he seized the handle, Roland's core, back, and legs erupted in a coordinated explosion of muscle, like perfectly meshing gears.
He wasn't merely lifting the heavy hammer; using the handle as an axis, he channeled the downward momentum and rotational force into a violent spiral, twisting the combined strength of his body and the very earth itself.
Whoosh!
A deep, terrifying roar tore through the air.
The massive, pockmarked warhammer, like a roaring meteor escaping the abyss of hell, arced upward in a deadly trajectory, smashing toward Van Buren's ribs as he leaned forward from his lunge.
Speed! Power! Angle!
This strike completely surpassed the limits Roland had previously displayed.
It was no longer mere brute force, but a deadly art that perfectly fused the environment, debris, his own movements, and the weapon's characteristics.
Guided by the Martial Combat Step, the heavy warhammer seemed to come alive, becoming an extension of Roland's limbs.
Van Buren's crimson pupils suddenly contracted.
For the first time, the cold indifference in his eyes was replaced by pure astonishment.
He had never witnessed such a bizarre and lethal combat style.
From a disheveled retreat after losing his weapon, to evading with a shift in balance, and then instantly wielding a massive battlefield weapon with incredible coordination to launch a decisive counterattack...
It flowed as smoothly as water, without the slightest hesitation!
The trajectory of his bright silver longsword had already passed, leaving him no time to defend.
Facing the mountain-shattering hammer blow, Van Buren's bright silver armor erupted in a blinding radiance.
A translucent shield of pure divine energy materialized at his waist at the last possible moment.
Boom!
The warhammer, wreathed in wind and thunder, crashed squarely into the Holy Shield.
An indescribable roar shook the entire territory of will.
A violent shockwave erupted in a ring, instantly clearing the ground of countless weapon fragments and dust.
The Holy Shield violently trembled, its light flickering erratically as it emitted the sound of cracking under unbearable strain.
The immense force surged through the shield, and even Van Buren's robust physique couldn't withstand it. He grunted involuntarily, stumbling back several steps as his silver boots gouged two deep furrows into the scorched earth.
Smoke and dust billowed.
Roland knelt on one knee, his right hand still gripping the massive warhammer's haft, its head buried deep in the cracked ground.
Boiling blood energy and icy psionic energy intertwined and steamed around him. The wound beneath his ribs bled profusely with his violent movements, and the flesh of his hand was mangled and bloody.
Yet he raised his head, his eyes burning with battle frenzy, locked onto the retreating holy knight.
Before the dust had settled, the battle resumed.
A broken sword?
A warhammer?
In this territory of will, constructed from countless weapon remnants, Roland, who had activated A Knight Never Dies Empty-Handed, saw every object as a potential weapon.
As the shockwave from the warhammer's impact still reverberated, Roland's figure darted like a ghost toward another pile of weapons.
His movements no longer constrained by the inherent forms of any weapon.
The rusted half of a cavalry spear became a javelin, thrown to disrupt vision.
Fragments of a heavy tower shield served as a bulwark for blocking and counterattacking.
Even a twisted metal rod transformed into a vicious, cunning stabbing weapon in his hands.
The essence of the Martial Combat Step was pushed to its absolute limit.
No longer did weapons guide his movements; instead, weapon and movement merged into a single, organic whole, all under the command of A Knight Never Dies Empty-Handed.
He leaped from the broken ridge of a sword, spun on the shaft of a fallen battle axe, each step precisely borrowing force from the scattered weapon debris. His form flickered unpredictably, yet his attacks clung like leeches, swarming Van Buren from every direction.
What chilled Van Buren most was the continuously rising berserk aura emanating from Roland.
The effects of Battle Frenzy grew more pronounced with each passing moment of combat.
Roland's skin turned as red as a branding iron, his muscles bulging so fiercely they threatened to tear through his clothes. Each swing produced a thunderous crack that tore through the air.
Strength and speed surged in a frenzy, his offensive becoming an unstoppable tidal wave of fury.
Yet the price was equally steep.
Deep within Roland's battle-burning eyes, the cold light of reason was being eroded by bloodshot veins, his spirit's perception sinking into a mire, becoming sluggish and blurred.
He no longer thought about complex tactics, only the most primal impulses for slaughter and destruction remained.
As one grew stronger, the other weakened.
The divine radiance on Van Buren's silver armor flickered frequently as he blocked, dodged, and activated his Holy Shield.
He remained powerful, but Roland's endless, effortless mastery of weapons, combined with increasingly savage, swift, and heavy attacks, had thrown him into an unprecedentedly passive state.
This fighting style completely defied his experience and understanding.
Each weapon switch was impossibly fluid, each movement exploiting the most cunning leverage points in the environment.
The Holy Shield repeatedly neared shattering under the brutal impacts of the weapons, and his refined sword techniques were brutally interrupted by raw, savage force.
"Absurd," Van Buren muttered, a flicker of seriousness in his crimson eyes.
He parried the whistling head of a flailing chain mace, his arm tingling with the impact.
But Roland's frenzied assault gave him no time to think.
In a clash of brute strength, Van Buren was jolted, his arm rising slightly, leaving his chest exposed.
That fleeting moment, that electric spark of vulnerability.
Burning with the fury of the [Battle Frenzy], Roland, with only a sliver of sanity maintained by [Mind Self-Shaping], seized upon the opportunity.
He stomped on the hilt of a broken sword beneath his feet, propelling his body forward like a blood-soaked arrow loosed from a bowstring.
Discarding the broken haft of the great axe he had just grabbed, he hooked his fingers into the scorched earth and ripped out a massive two-handed greatsword, half-buried and its blade riddled with saw-like notches.
There was no finesse, no technique.
Only the boiling blood energy, the icy psionic energy, and the full force of his suppressed power, unleashed in this single, brutal strike.
Momentum Slash!
The serrated greatsword left a trail of crimson and azure afterimages as it slashed upward from below, carrying the resolve to cleave through anything.
Too fast! Too brutal!
Van Buren's bright silver longsword had only half-returned to its guard, and the Holy Shield's glow had barely begun to flicker.
Screech!
The piercing sound of tearing metal mingled with the crunch of shattering bone, echoing across the deathly silent battlefield.
The battle-worn, notched greatsword sliced through Van Buren's unprepared left arm as easily as a hot knife through solidified grease. Undeterred, it continued its trajectory, burying itself deep into the junction of Van Buren's shoulder and neck, where his bright silver armor met.
Strength erupted.
Flesh tore, cervical vertebrae snapped.
A head, frozen in shock, soared through the air, its dazzling golden hair trailing behind.
In its crimson eyes, the last reflection was Roland's bloodshot gaze, burning with fury and cold killing intent, and the blood-stained, monstrous greatsword.
The headless body stood rigid for a moment, the light on its silver armor rapidly dimming and extinguishing. Then it collapsed heavily onto the scorched earth, kicking up a cloud of dust.
The territory of will began to violently tremble and crumble, like a shattered mirror.
The leaden sky faded, the desolate battlefield scene like an erased oil painting.
The view from the top of the High Tower.
A twisted core, dim light, cold stone walls.
These sensations flooded back into Roland's senses.
He still stood at the tower's summit, his hands empty, as if the brutal battle had been nothing but a dream.
Only the bleeding wound beneath his ribs, the searing pain in his torn palm, and the blinding headache—caused by the mental attribute's sudden drop—silently testified to the dream's brutal reality.
Clap... clap... clap...
Suddenly, crisp, rhythmic applause broke the silence at the summit of the High Tower.
(End of the Chapter)
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