Deep within the forest.
The air hung thick with darkness. Time felt suspended, as though the concept of minutes or hours had ceased to exist.
Two silhouettes faced each other across the curtain of rain.
Were it not for the palpable killing intent slicing through the rainfall like invisible blades—and the fact that they stood far too close for any "safe" conversation—the scene might even have been called… peaceful.
Gard's voice cut through the downpour. Unlike the sultry tone of the rabbit-eared woman Allen had beheaded earlier, his voice was deeper, laced with mocking amusement.
"Oi, Ghislaine. All that Sword God training gave you a rock-solid stance, sure—but once you lose your footing, your whole style crumbles. Then what are you, really? Just a helpless little kitty, yeah? Sword God Style's one and only Sword King. Princess of the beastfolk, reduced to this."
Even as his words ended, a sharp thwip sounded—something tearing through the rain.
A blackened bolt aimed treacherously at Ghislaine's face was swatted away mid-air, deflected with a quick flick of her sword in the [Heavenly Flow] form.
Her glare burned through the darkness. She slashed at the mud-slick earth in front of her, a flare of sword energy tearing through the muck—but Gard, standing ten meters away, stepped aside without breaking a sweat.
"Look at you," he sneered. "Can't even release your sword aura properly anymore. You rely too much on that rigid, idealized theory of yours. The one that got you promoted to Sword King."
He strolled in a slow circle around Ghislaine as if chatting with an old friend on a walk, loosing another bolt under cover of his words.
Again, she severed it mid-air.
But even as she moved, her eyes darted around—searching for a way out.
The marsh around her stretched five meters in every direction, a man-made quagmire churned by rainfall, bubbling up with muddy foam. From the waist down, she was submerged.
It had been dug ahead of time by Gard and his companions, taking full advantage of the storm. If it had been just a swamp, she could've escaped long ago with the Four-Legged Form.
But they'd added… something else.
Ghislaine had been stuck here for nearly half an hour. She was waiting. Waiting for the rain to dilute whatever was mixed into the swamp enough to gain even a sliver of traction.
And finally—her footing began to stabilize. She could feel it.
Just a little longer.
Gard saw the shift in her expression and smirked. He flicked his hand and tossed a handful of red spheres into the muck. Ghislaine's eyes flashed; she tried to blast them away with sword aura—
Too late.
The moment her energy touched them, they exploded mid-air, scattering their contents across the swamp.
Her hard-won foothold vanished again. She staggered to keep her balance, and this time, she couldn't suppress her fury.
"GARD!!! I'LL KILL YOU!!"
Her roar reverberated through the dark forest, shattering the veil of rain.
It was… imposing, to say the least.
Gard's body tensed. He watched closely.
She hadn't infused that shout with aura—thank the gods.
He'd mocked her sword aura as inaccurate, but in truth, dodging her strikes had been hell. After all, she was a Sword King.
Still, the psychological warfare was working.
The rain-soaked bolts weren't meant to hit—they were distractions. Sound cues. Constant, maddening stimuli for a beastfolk's sensitive hearing. Repetition bred tension. Tension bred mistakes.
This was North God Style—Chiba Faction.
Gard toyed with the last bolt in his hand, adjusting his expression to something more cheerful before speaking again.
"The world always says Sword God Style trumps North God. But y'know the problem with your style, Ghislaine? Recklessness."
"First thing you did when we met wasn't ask questions—it was draw your blade. That meathead brain of yours moves faster than your sword."
"Sure, your [Longsword of Light] is deadly—but what's it matter when your next step lands square in our trap? Brother risked his life setting that one up, y'know."
Another bolt fired. Another deflection.
And now—he reached into his cloak again and pulled out a few more red spheres.
North God Style – [Chi-Ink].
Crafted by specialized apothecaries within the Chiba Faction, these projectiles were designed to rupture on impact, releasing a chemical payload.
In the Asura succession war, they'd been used by the Peacock Sword—North Emperor Oberl—to stop Eris and Ghislaine's advance. The technique sabotaged footing, making Sword God Style's stance-based techniques impossible.
Oberl had used the sticky variety—best for dry terrain. The kind that washed away in rain.
But this batch?
It contained a water-soluble lubricant.
The opposite effect.
It thrived in storms.
Its purpose remained the same: expose openings in Sword God fighters so North God practitioners could finish them off.
Few had seen it. Fewer lived.
It was one of Chiba's many secret weapons.
And a secret, once known, is no longer a weapon.
That was Chiba Faction logic.
Gard loosed another bolt, watching Ghislaine's face closely. Her mind teetered on the edge. She was seconds from cracking.
And he smiled.
"Timewise, my brother should've finished the job by now. I've kept you busy waiting for backup. And what are you waiting for? A corpse? Your own death?"
"I'll kill you!!"
Her voice shook the canopy.
Gard chuckled, lowering his rabbit ears to block out the volume.
"Aiyaa, stop screaming. What's the point? You'll be dead soon anyway. They're on their way, and this job pays very well."
"Really, I should thank you—for being such a helpless wreck."
"Just look at yourself. You're not even holding out hope for that Water Saint brat, are you?"
"You really think he can kill my brother? What a joke."
He raised his bolt, aiming at her head.
"Where's this baseless confidence coming from? Hm?"
But then—
The rain.
The wind.
The rustle of leaves.
They masked the sound of faint footsteps.
And yet—Gard heard them.
Familiar.
The North God Style's signature stealth pace.
Inside his muffled hearing, a voice slipped in.
"…Gard?"
He smiled instinctively and turned his head.
Then—hesitated.
That didn't sound like his brother.
But he was already turning.
And what he saw—
Was his brother's face.
Right there.
It was him.
Right?
The cold on his neck gave him pause.
Then—nothing.
A wet thud.
Gard's head hit the ground. Blood sprayed upward into the rain.
A figure stepped silently out from behind.
Blood splattered across his body—washed away by the rain—pooled at his feet in a shallow red puddle.
The bloodline connected to the puddle. The puddle blurred into nothing.
And in that figure's hand—
Nuckle's head dangled.
Outstretched.
In the swamp, Ghislaine's raging voice fell silent—as if the outburst had never happened.
The two of them met eyes—
Across rain and blood.
Time rippled.
---
Ten minutes earlier.
Five kilometers away.
The wind through the rain brought whispers of the terrain.
Broken branches.
Water pooling in freshly stirred mud.
Not rain-pocked holes—camouflaged trails, concealed by aura-infused churned earth.
Fresh.
Deliberate.
The downpour erased almost everything—yet Allen closed the distance with unerring precision.
His silhouette burst through the rain.
This pursuit had lasted nearly ten minutes. And as Allen surged forward, the traces Nuckle left behind became more obvious.
He narrowed his eyes.
The air ahead felt… off.
Like something long and lean was dashing through, disrupting airflow.
Got you again. Now—
A slash cut through the rain.
Allen's blade swept sideways, severing a tree just thick as a man's waist that had been "conveniently" dropped in his path. He exploded through the opening.
But Nuckle had vanished again.
Still—the trail was locked.
Trap #21, Allen noted grimly. Chiba Faction, through and through.
Since the twelfth, they've been accelerating. Nuckle's panicking.
He expected a typical Water God Style swordsman—slow, reactive. From the start, every trap, every distraction has tried to force me to stop, to hesitate. To act like I'm not built for a running fight.
But I'm not the type he expected. And my aura's endurance far exceeds his.
In the original story, Nuckle only reached North King level alongside Gard. Alone, he's just a Saint-level.
That's why they were called Twin Blades.
Under pressure, people run toward what's familiar. Nuckle's headed straight for Ghislaine. That's his comfort zone.
Whatever state she's in—I'm getting close.
But if they reunite, and she's not battle-ready… they could escape. Or worse—if she can't fight, I might be killed.
I need to end this before then.
A deep thoom behind him—the tree hitting earth.
Allen's dark gray eyes glinted.
---
At the same time, somewhere ahead—
The same thoughts were forming.
I have to kill him before I reunite with Gard. Not much time.
Fear of the unknown brings out the same instincts.
Fear. Dread. They mirror each other.
Allen feared Ghislaine's condition.
Nuckle feared Allen.
But now—the probing phase was over.
The spring called hesitation had fully compressed.
Nuckle dashed around a tree, feeling the slash of a blade behind him. For the first time, he smiled.
Tossing that woman gave me just enough time to lay the first trap. Twenty-one in total. Each was a test. The kid's blade got slower. He's favoring his neck. Compressing aura to hold the wound, huh?
Pushing himself just to follow me. Bold move.
A Water God Style prodigy… with a Sword God brain. If he'd trained in North God too, he'd be terrifying.
Too bad—
He didn't.
So—he dies here.
A bolt of lightning cleaved the sky.
Allen's rain-soaked boots slammed the ground, electricity flashing in his eyes.
And in that instant—
A dagger gleamed from the trees ahead—aimed straight for his throat.
Allen's pupils shrank. He reacted instantly—blade flashing, knocking the dagger aside.
Clang.
Then—
Darkness.
The flash was gone. His vision took a moment to readjust.
But the wind on his skin told him—
A second strike.
Something sharp sliced toward his neck.
[Perception Flow]!
Allen jerked his head—
A blackened dagger whizzed past and embedded itself in a tree.
It hadn't even touched his skin—
Yet blood sprayed from his neck!
He froze.
And from his blind spot—
A figure surged forth.
Nuckle's sword drove straight for Allen's back.
An opening!
But then—
He heard a voice.
Soft. Calm. Even casual.
A murmur—
Just like his own thoughts earlier.
A mirror of his own tactics.
Using feedback.
Waiting for the right moment.
"Opening."
Nuckle froze.
His spine turned to ice.
Colder still was the blade at his throat.
Allen had never hesitated. He'd already turned.
The light of the blade vanished into the rain.
His neck wound—already sealing. Self-inflicted. Bait.
Could the [Longsword of Silence] kill a Saint-tier enemy from meters away?
No.
Too slow.
But from a single meter?
Still risky.
Too reckless.
But… a foot away?
A flick of the wrist?
The blood gave the answer.
Nuckle's eyes dimmed.
Allen held his severed head aloft.
Then vanished into the night.
"Next."
Blood splashed across the marsh. Ripples echoed outward.
...
A lightning bolt cleaved the sky.
With it—
A blade flashed.
A thick tree was cut into planks—laid across the swamp.
Allen walked atop them, carrying the head.
Toward Ghislaine—
Whose eyes flared with light.
He reached out a hand—
Palm open before her.
"Nice to meet you."
In the flash of lightning—
He smiled.
"My name's Allen."