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"Good hit! Hell yeah!"
Not far off, Robert watched Leo charge straight into the thick of the crowd and broke into a cold sweat for him. The next second, though, Leo somehow dropped half a dozen men in one go. A clear circle opened up around him instantly.
Robert whooped again, so pumped he forgot about the stab wound in his gut. The pain and the thrill hit him at the same time.
His roar shattered the brief quiet around Leo. The fighters who'd just been stunned by that whirlwind move heard the king cheering and felt the jealousy flare up all over again.
This foreign bastard keeps stealing the king's favor!
We take him down today. Right here. Make him look like a fool once and for all.
The same thought rippled through the men circling him.
Every eye locked on Leo.
His brutal display a moment ago had them all holding their breath, weapons gripped tight, nobody wanting to be the first idiot to rush in.
Then someone yelled, "Spearmen up!"
Spears were usually clumsy in a mess like this—one-inch-longer, one-inch-stronger only worked with flank cover. But now a pack was swarming Leo. A handful of spearmen took the lead, thrusting from range and kicking off the full-on hunt.
Leo dodged and blocked the long shafts, but the second they committed, more attackers piled in from his sides and rear.
[Whirlwind Slash] was still cooling down. He was getting hit from every angle. For the first time he realized charging blind into the middle of the pack might've been a stupid move.
He'd dropped several men and racked up the EXP, sure—but now he was surrounded.
Leo raised his shield, trusting the armor's protection and the fact that the Seventh Legion plate weighed nothing to him. He weaved, parried, gave ground when he had to, and looked for any opening to strike back.
Too many bodies. In seconds he took half a dozen solid hits. Two even slipped through the plate seams, drawing blood just like Robert's wound.
The sight of Leo bleeding only fired them up more. Their attacks came harder and faster.
Lucky for him the tourney weapons were blunted. Nothing life-threatening. Only one guy in the mob carried a warhammer, and Leo made damn sure that hammer never landed clean.
Robert saw his man trapped and bellowed at the guards beside him, "Get in there and help Neo, now!"
His own protectors were already busy fending off their own swarm.
"Our job is to guard Your Grace!" the knight from House Massey snapped. He was bleeding himself but still planted firmly in front of Robert, refusing to let the king plunge back into the fray.
Robert wanted to roar at them, but the shout pulled his gut wound again. Fresh sweat popped across his forehead. His heavier frame felt heavier than ever.
So he could only stand there, helpless, watching Leo fight like a demon—knocking men down left and right while more cuts and bruises piled up. The once-gleaming golden armor was now streaked with black-red blood, his own and theirs.
Leo felt like a dancer on a razor's edge. Every step risked everything. Weapons flew at him from every direction. He had no idea how many blows he'd already taken. His plate was slick with blood.
Yet he never slowed. Robert's warhammer rose and fell like it had a mind of its own, crushing anyone who got too close.
The pile of fallen men around him kept growing.
The others grew more stunned with every swing.
How the hell is Ser Neo still standing?
He'd been hit over and over, bleeding freely, and he still refused to drop.
That didn't stop the rest from piling on. They figured he had to be running on empty—any second now he'd collapse.
By sheer numbers alone he'd already taken out more men than anyone thought possible. His raw power had shaken every fighter on the field, every noble in the stands, every spectator packed along the ropes.
Every knockdown, every time he took a hit, drew fresh gasps from the crowd.
The men swarming him all dreamed the same dream: I'm the one who drops this monster. I'll be the hero who ends the melee.
Leo kept swinging Robert's warhammer like a tireless killing machine, smashing those dreams to pieces with every blow.
He still owned the dead center of the field, standing tall.
The secret was simple: Leo had [Victory Rush].
Unlike his other skills, [Victory Rush] reset its cooldown the instant he dropped an enemy. And every time he landed it, he got back a chunk of stamina and a little healing on his wounds.
The extra stamina kept him moving. The healing dulled the pain and closed the worst cuts just enough to keep fighting.
That was why he could stay upright, tireless, in the middle of this slaughter.
A few true knights refused to join the gang-up. To them, mobbing one man went against every code of honor.
But this was a group melee. Chaos was the point. They couldn't condemn the others, and they wouldn't lower themselves to join the hunt.
They could, however, attack the men attacking Leo—anyone outside their own squad was fair game.
Their interference eased some of the pressure.
Even Leo himself was confused. I've been this vicious—why are they still coming? Who the hell did I piss off?
Robert watched from the sidelines, teeth clenched, cursing under his breath. "Are these bastards insane? Why is every last one of them dog-piling Neo? What did he ever do to them?"
A knight beside him answered wearily, "Your Grace… it's a group melee. You can hit anyone you want. Maybe… Ser Neo's just too damn good."
Robert grumbled, still uneasy, but the unease only made him like the young foreigner more.
As the minutes dragged on, Leo's performance kept shocking everyone more.
Fighters on the field. Spectators in the stands. Every eye was glued to the blood-soaked man in the golden plate.
One thought burned in every mind:
How crazy is Neo?
When the hell is he finally going to fall?