Allen looked at Ghislaine standing just a few steps away and broke into an easy, contented smile.
In an instant, all the killing intent and rage he'd been carrying from that relentless pursuit vanished without a trace.
This had nothing to do with his Boreas bloodline acting up.
It was simply that standing before him was a real, genuine Sword King of the Sword God Style.
Finally, he wouldn't have to keep learning swordsmanship from Paul—whose speed couldn't even keep up with his own anymore.
This was a major victory.
Of course, some of the satisfaction came from the emotional context in the original storyline, too.
Allen blinked and gazed levelly at Ghislaine, who was still half-submerged in the swamp.
She had dark skin like chocolate, a wild mane of gray-black hair draped messily over her shoulders, and an eyepatch covering one eye. A pair of upright beast ears stood alert atop her head.
Even drenched, mud-smeared, and clearly battered, she radiated sharpness like a drawn blade.
As for her outfit—an extremely revealing set of leather gear—well, it was exactly the same as in the anime adaptation.
But Allen couldn't feel the slightest hint of attraction.
Because her biceps were about as thick as his calves. And her height and build were far more imposing than the slivers of femininity visible beneath that outfit.
Even while submerged waist-deep in the swamp, she could still look him in the eye while he crouched.
All of which led to one obvious conclusion:
Ghislaine was incredibly strong.
Yeah… Paul really was kind of a beast, huh.
Even if the guy couldn't take a single blow from Allen's [Longsword of Silence] anymore—
It didn't change the fact that Paul was impressive in his own right.
Ghislaine studied him silently, her sharp eyes flicking from Allen's face to his posture, then to the hand that gripped his blade. A glimmer of respect passed through her gaze before she finally spoke—voice low and steady.
"Allen, huh. You're just like I expected."
Allen blinked again.
"Expected?"
She was quiet for a moment, clearly intending to say something else—but then she held back, choosing to switch topics.
"…Sorry. I wasn't able to help. Yelling and distracting Gard like that—that was the best move I could think of at the time."
Allen looked at her serious, no-nonsense face and chuckled.
"It worked. Helped a lot."
Smoke flickered before Allen's eyes.
[Instant Task – "Philip's Intent & The Web Behind the Scenes": Complete]
[Participation Score: Increased]
[You predicted Philip's intentions long ago. And tonight's variables—the assassination attempt masked as a fake kidnapping—you've also deduced the layers of manipulation behind it.]
[As for the "unplanned" variable you yourself introduced… did you really need Ghislaine to guard from the shadows?]
[Who is it that's standing in the swamp now?]
[Who killed Nuckle and Gard?]
[Promotion within North God Style: Saint-tier]
[Is there any clearer proof than killing two North Saint-level swordsmen within the span of an hour?]
[Your rogue master—the one with the "Second Generation of North God" title—wouldn't hold back praise, no doubt.]
[Even if his standards for awarding rank are... a bit casual.]
[Assessment: Your adaptability in combat is outstanding. The gates of the Chiba Faction will always be open to you.]
[(Sincerely, North God Second. Not me.)]
Allen twitched.
North God Style's reputation for uneven standards was almost entirely thanks to that lunatic, North God Second. As long as your fundamentals were decent and you had enough "creative ideas" in a real fight, even someone wearing mirrors from head to toe could be declared a North King.
And since the system judged rank based on average performance within the style, his promotion to North Saint made sense.
He had killed two North Saints. Nothing strange about that.
If anything, it was strange that there were so many.
There were, what, nearly forty North Kings alive?
Meanwhile—there was only one Sword King in the entire world.
That… was absurd.
Even Ghislaine would want to cry.
Not that she cried.
She just looked down at Allen's outstretched hand, then reached out and placed her calloused palm over his, gripping it firmly.
Her voice was as solemn as always, expression unchanging.
"Helped a lot? No—I didn't help at all. Is Miss Eris safe?"
Allen blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and instinctively gripped her hand back.
"She's fine. I've already taken care of all the kidnappers. They're…"
As he spoke, his hand completely closed around hers. It was larger than expected. Her skin was coarse, weathered like stone baked under sun and wind for decades.
And full of strength.
As expected of a battle-hardened Sword King.
Yeah… very strong.
Wait.
Wait—
DAMN IT, SHE'S TOO STRONG!!
That thought barely finished when it happened.
Allen had cut wooden planks earlier for a dramatic entrance, laying them across the swamp's edge.
But the "ground" beneath those planks was still waterlogged and soft—no solid footing to anchor against.
As expected—
CRACK.
The board beneath his feet splintered. The next second, Ghislaine—who easily outweighed him threefold—yanked him straight down into the swamp.
Allen flipped once in midair and landed with a splash.
Instantly, he understood why Ghislaine couldn't move.
There was no traction in the swamp. None. And the [Four-Legged Form] couldn't function here at all. The red-ink lubricant was slipperier than expected—Newton himself might as well retire. No matter how hard he kicked, he couldn't shift his body.
The fact that Ghislaine wasn't sinking entirely was already a testament to her control over aura.
Rain drummed against Allen's back. He watched the shattered planks float beside him.
Fell silent.
So did Ghislaine.
She looked at the now-drenched Allen, completely transformed from the godlike figure who had descended moments ago. After a long hesitation, she spoke again.
Still utterly serious.
"…Sorry."
"…No need to apologize. I mean, the rain should dilute the lubricant eventually, right?"
"I tested that. It works. While I was stuck fighting Gard, I could tell the grip was improving. But then he dumped more red ink, so now it's hard to judge. If any of them were still breathing, we could've asked."
Allen turned to look at the two severed heads stacked neatly by the swamp's edge. He swallowed hard.
Was she being serious? Or was this some deadpan attempt at humor...?
He looked back. Ghislaine was studying the two heads intently, expression unchanging.
Allen swallowed again.
"Forget it. No use crying over dead bandits. Do you remember how much of the stuff he used? The dosage?"
"He threw it a few times. Didn't count exactly."
"Ah… well. From the moment you were trapped to when you started regaining traction—can you estimate how long it took?"
"Hm. Let me think…"
A long silence followed.
"…Sorry. Can't really say."
Allen stared at the broken planks floating around him. His lips parted and moved for a moment—
And finally, he managed one word.
"…Six."