Blades shimmered beneath the firelight as over thirty bandits twisted and surged toward Allen.
He braced himself low, eyes sweeping rapidly across his surroundings.
The roar of shouting, the sharp clash of blades cutting through air, the rustle of leaves beaten by the northern wind—all of it flooded his senses.
Flickering silhouettes blurred his vision.
But he heard it clearly. Amid the chaos and dissonance—
The tangible killing intent. The subtle thread of incantations being muttered under breath.
At that moment, Allen's eyes locked past the crowd, straight at Leopard.
Their gazes met.
Farther off, a dense blaze had begun to rise, roiling the night air.
I see now… a full display of trick-based tactics. He noticed something off about my [Rockbreaker] earlier. So he personally tested me to dispel his allies' fear, then used his words to provoke them into attacking en masse.
And now, he's treating them all as disposable pawns—to trap me behind a wall of corpses. Banking on the belief that I don't know Sword God Style, he created an opening for a true finishing strike.
That magic signature… high-tier? No, advanced tier? Maybe Saint-level.
Smart plan. But—what a shame.
Healing rune: activated. Time limit—ten seconds.
Dragon Saint-tier aura burst from the runes etched along Allen's limbs in radiant green arcs. Battle aura and mana surged wildly through his body.
At that very moment, the wave of bandits slammed into him like a flood.
And vanished.
Allen smiled. His whisper was softer than the wind, scattered and shredded by the clash of steel.
"North God Style meets Water God Style… [Rockbreaker] melded with [Twenty-Fold Slash]—"
"Original technique, evolved."
"[Stone Strikes Water]."
Allen's eyes flared open.
His blade vanished into the shadows and began weaving through the crowd at blistering speed. The mastery of Flow Technique diverted every incoming strike with flawless precision—each gap in motion filled by brutal, aura-fueled slashes.
In the crowd, blades flared. Screams rang out.
Dozens of swords clashed—and shattered.
The front line of attackers paused as if frozen.
And then, they exploded.
Severed arms. Crushed legs. Ripped-open torsos.
Guts, bones, skulls—
Corpses rained down like stalks of wheat, reaped mid-harvest. Blood poured in torrents.
The ground in front of Allen cleared in an instant. He grinned through the red mist, eyes locking onto the fire rising beyond the carnage.
At its heart stood Gray Hawk—staff raised high, chant reaching its crescendo.
"[Exodus Flame]! Die, monster!"
The fireball exploded from his staff. Their eyes met.
But in Gray Hawk's gaze, there was no satisfaction—only dread.
In the blink of an eye, half of them are dead... Thank the gods, the spell's finished. Leopard's plan was right. Even if the cost is steep—
His thoughts cut off.
A searing heat struck the crown of his head.
A red gash split his scalp and slid downward, slicing between his eyes.
In his failing vision, he saw Allen—wreathed in smoke and heat.
Right before him.
Horrified, Gray Hawk watched the twisted shimmer around Allen's blade.
In the next breath, his face split open like melting cheese under hot oil.
Just like the two[Exodus Flames] streaking past Allen's back.
Twin explosions erupted behind him, shredding what remained of the bandit formation. Screams echoed as fire and flesh mixed into ash.
The shockwave hit Allen from behind. The blood coating his clothes dried and cracked in the heat.
He tossed aside the now-melted blade he'd used to cleave the fireball. His actual sword had already been damaged earlier in [Rockbreaker's] opening strike.
The skin scorched by the fire began to rapidly heal under his glowing runes. He dusted himself off as flakes of dried blood fell from his shoulders, then bent down and casually pulled a dagger from Gray Hawk's belt.
Turns out the most dangerous guy in this camp was the one who looked the least threatening… Shame. That chant was just too slow. And that killing intent—far too obvious.
He turned toward the forest's edge.
There, Leopard's retreating figure was crystal clear in his gaze.
Allen took a step forward and smiled.
"I see you."
In the next instant—
Leopard's head fell.
Blood geysered into the sky.
His body dropped to its knees. Two smoke bombs tumbled from limp fingers. His severed head flipped end over end through the air.
His expression was blank.
From the moment the fireball had been cleaved, his mind had unraveled.
Gray Hawk's death sealed it—everything Leopard prided himself on had been crushed in seconds.
Recalculate the plan? What plan? Who was left to execute it?
One-on-one? At equal level, Water God Style beats Sword God Style.
And Allen didn't just have Flow Technique—he'd mastered [Longsword of Silence].
A monster.
Unwinnable. He needed to escape. Rethink everything.
Fear drowned out thought.
Without hesitation, he reached for the trickster's smoke bombs he always carried.
And then he died.
Didn't even get to draw his blade.
That's the Sword God Style—deadly, plain, efficient.
A moment later, the light in Leopard's eyes went out.
Allen watched as body and head collapsed.
His blade pierced the earth, carving a shallow trench between the neck and skull.
A voice, young and gentle, echoed through the settling dust and blood.
"I sever."
…
[North God Style + Water God Style Original Technique: Evolved.]
[North God Style level increased.]
[Water God Style level increased.]
[North God Style – Advanced.]
[Water God Style – Saint.]
The haze of smoke danced and rippled as glowing letters rearranged themselves.
[Evaluation: The dragon's fury ignites flame. And before that fire, the direwolves had no time to even whimper.]
Year 412, Calendar of the Armored Dragon.
A midsummer night.
Allen attained the rank of Water Saint.
...
"...Didn't Roxy say, 'Not even bones would be left of the direwolves'?"
[Yet there are bones. Many.]
Allen looked down at Leopard's corpse and scratched his chin in exasperation.
"...These bandits were way stronger than I expected. Did James really spend all this just to kill me?"
"Something's off. I wanted to keep one alive, get the full story behind the bounty… But he was about to throw a smoke bomb. I couldn't risk it. So I had to go with [Longsword of Silence]. Couldn't gamble on catching him later if he slipped away."
[Correct move.]
Allen wrinkled his nose at the smell of scorched meat.
"Well, it is what it is. Even if there's something bigger behind this, once I reach King-level, James won't be able to touch me."
"And he probably won't know I did this anyway. Back at the Red Dragon Upper Jaw, I only showed Water God techniques. Based on what they think of me, they'd never guess I wiped out an entire bandit camp overnight."
The smoke curled gently around him, almost like it was laughing.
[Oh? What if they do?]
Allen glanced toward the two giant craters left by the fireballs.
The spot where he'd been standing was untouched—surrounded by blood, limbs, and severed bodies. But in the pits, the corpses were burned beyond recognition.
Truth be told, Leopard and Gray Hawk's plan had been excellent.
They'd stirred the chaos to full boil. The stronger swordsmen had rushed Allen. The weak ones stayed back.
If Allen had been only an advanced Water God user, he would've been cut down in that first assault—and Gray Hawk could've cast magic from the lake or overhead.
But if Allen had surpassed expectations?
Then the mob of attackers would slow him down—just long enough for Gray Hawk to hit him with a spell in the confusion.
Perfect… if not for Allen unleashing more than a dozen slashes in an instant.
They didn't even recognize the [Twenty-Fold Slash]. Probably never saw it before.
Allen had picked up that move three years ago from a certain North God Style Second-Gen—Alex Kalman Lebrech—during a visit to the main dojo.
That guy tried hard to recruit Allen, too. Scared him into hiding out in the capital's red-light district, scrubbing backs in a bathhouse for half a month to dodge him.
After all, Allen had to make it to Buena Village. No unexpected variables allowed.
Now, Allen looked at his system panel and shrugged.
"Even if James suspects something, he can't possibly know where I'm headed. I never told anyone about going to Buena. As far as they're concerned, I've vanished off the map."
"Maybe they'll stake out Roa, but two years from now? I'll either be unrecognizable or so forgotten he'll let his guard down."
[Reasonable.]
The dust thinned. Allen smiled faintly and started walking toward the craters, waving his arms as he mused:
Both styles leveled up...
Water God Style reaching Saint level was expected.
But Sword God Style feels... smoother. Brutal, unreasoned, pure talent. Hard as hell, but once you click with it, progress comes fast. I think I finally get why that cheat Keno seemed invincible.
Still, how did I reach Advanced North God so fast?
Wasn't I relying on healing runes to push past my limits temporarily? Those shouldn't count for long-term progression, right?
Then—realization struck.
Allen blinked. Tossed his blade into the air.
His body suddenly went limp, tipping forward. But just before he hit the ground, he slammed both palms down.
Rebounding with a pulse of aura, his core tightened, muscles coiling from arms to waist.
In the next instant, he flipped in midair and landed cleanly beside the blade, catching it on the way down.
Thanks to his North God combat foundations, just watching Leopard's four-legged stance had given him a rough grasp of its essence.
That four-limbed form really was leopard-like... The trickster faction of North God has some merits after all. Never saw many use it in the capital—all Water God swordsmen there.
It still feels clunky. And I reached advanced with this?
Could it be that the average level for North God advanced swordsmen is just... lower?
[Correct. Trickster faction practitioners vary wildly. Some even reach high ranks with dirty tricks and cheap tactics. Based on your current ability, you fall just below the average for Advanced North God—by 10%.]
Allen blinked.
"You can calculate that? Then how many advanced North God swordsmen are there worldwide?"
A pause. The dust hesitated, then swirled into new text:
[3,340. North God Style is popular among adventurers and bandit groups, especially in the war-torn regions.]
"Yeah... makes sense. The main dojo's just south of there. What about Sword God?"
[827. Most are based in the Holy Land of the Sword.]
"Sounds right. Fits that sword-nut town's scale. Not many high-level Sword God users roaming this far out. But farther south or east? Probably even fewer. What about Water God?"
[4,732. The most widely used style. Elite bodyguards for nobles all across the world.]
"Fair."
"And North Saint?"
[Host should focus on the present, not daydream of dragons.]
"...Fair."
Mid-thought, Allen arrived at the twin craters, feet squelching into the blood-soaked soil.
He crouched and began picking through chunks of flesh with his blade, grimacing.
"Ugh. So many broken blades and meat chunks. Can't find my hilt anywhere... Should've sliced cleaner."
He turned, staring at the smoldering pits. Silent for a moment.
"...Forget it. Time to scram. That magic was too flashy. Someone's bound to come."
As he said it, Allen's face darkened. He turned toward the camp's edge—toward the treeline.
The shadows shifted. Leaves rustled.
A figure stepped into view. Her steps were light, cautious, hesitant.
Allen's pupils widened. His eyes followed the familiar knee-high boots, up past black stockings, the hem of a mage's robe, soft heaving chest, parted lips—
And locked onto a pair of deep blue eyes.
It was Roxy.
She stood there, hand over her mouth, breath ragged, staring at Allen.
The night wind stirred between them, but it couldn't carry away the stench of blood and burning flesh.