Chapter 613 - Ragna's Impenetrable Wall
Ropord specialized in battles built on meticulous calculations, honing a unique skill in the process—a broad field of vision akin to observing the battlefield from above.
From the very beginning of the fight, he had been observing his enemies through this expanded perspective.
While he had long since identified gaps in the crusaders' formation, he lacked the strength to exploit them.
Now, however, he finally had the sword to make up for his shortcomings.
Ropord began calculating: Fel's explosive strikes, the resources needed to close those gaps, the necessary power, speed, and the time required for each movement.
Once his calculations were complete, he acted. Standing amidst a blood-soaked pile of dirt, he suddenly leaped to the side, shouting what seemed like an impulsive threat:
"I'll kill you for sure!"
It appeared he was charging at the goateed crusader.
His sudden movement created an opening, and the enemy's attacks came rushing in.
Clang!
Thud!
Slice!
Ropord deflected a curving blade with the flat of his sword and twisted his waist to dodge a spiked mace.
He barely avoided it; his cape was torn slightly by the embedded metal spikes.
That was the moment he had been waiting for.
He shook off the torn piece of his cape and flung it toward the enemy's face, obscuring one of the crusaders' vision.
The goateed man wasn't his true target.
Ropord was aiming for the mid-tier crusader who had been persistently attempting to land fatal strikes.
"You!"
Ropord roared, gathering his Will into a battle cry directed at the goateed man.
It was a display of intimidation, though it held little practical significance—its primary purpose was to boost his own momentum.
However, the combination of the flying cape fragment and his shout created the illusion that his sole focus was the goateed crusader.
I'm coming for you, the act seemed to say.
All this occurred in the span of a single breath.
The crusader's enhanced senses weren't easily overwhelmed, even with their vision momentarily obscured.
Yet there was a stark difference between what one can and cannot see.
The mid-tier crusader instinctively focused on Ropord's imposing momentum and raised his sword, ready to counter.
It was a minuscule opening.
Even as Ropord roared, declaring his intent, he silently gave the signal:
Now.
As if attuned to Ropord's thoughts, Fel moved.
He seized the moment Ropord had orchestrated.
Everything was decided in an instant—the swing of a blade, and the resolve to execute it. Fel focused entirely on that moment.
"You've got a knack for finding openings and striking them, but what will you do when there are no openings? You need to learn how to fight strategically."
Those were words of advice from Enkrid.
For Fel, they were crucial.
Yet, the next remark had lingered in his mind even more:
"Then again, do whatever you want. Who's going to stop you?"
Truthfully, the latter half resonated with him more.
While the former pointed to a clear and straightforward path, the allure of the obvious route was unappealing to Fel.
Instead of desperately searching for openings, Fel decided on another approach:
If there's no opening, create one.
If that's not enough, ensure your strike becomes one.
Every warrior had their own path, and this was Fel's. Enkrid had acknowledged and respected that.
Fel lowered his stance, his left foot grinding into the ground as he moved forward, almost scraping against the floor.
He swung his blade upward from below, twisting his entire body to generate maximum force and adding his Will to the motion.
You won't escape.
Fixing his target in his mind's eye, Fel ignited his Will, amplifying his explosive speed.
Pure, unyielding intent fueled his strike, transforming it into a tangible force.
The slash erupted like a silver curtain, or perhaps a geyser bursting from underground.
Slash!
Thud!
Fel's blade cleaved through the crusader, starting between his legs and splitting him cleanly up to his jaw.
The severed tongue within the split jaw was visible for a fleeting moment.
Before the blood could even spray, the fatal wound was laid bare for all to see.
If not for the momentary distraction caused by Ropord's thrown cape, the crusader might have blocked the strike—or at least avoided death.
But all of that was now irrelevant.
Dead was dead.
Fel staggered back, the force of his attack draining his strength.
His retreat was sluggish, less than a quarter the speed of his initial charge.
Splash!
The blood finally erupted from the slain crusader, drawing the attention of his comrades.
Reflexively, several crusaders swung their weapons, one of which—a mace with a round steel ball at the end—came crashing down toward Fel's head.
Clang!
Ropord intercepted it.
He blocked swords, maces, hammers, and spearheads alike.
His leather pauldrons were shredded, his chainmail partially broken.
Cuts marred his skin, and a trickle of blood ran down his arm, but he sustained no critical injuries.
He had bought four and a half breaths of time—just enough for Fel to recover.
"I'm going again," Ropord said without turning around, his entire body alight with exhilaration from the recent battle.
Fel felt the same.
Instead of replying, he patted Ropord on the back.
Though the two seemed constantly at odds, under Enkrid's leadership, they shared an unspoken camaraderie.
In moments like these, combining their strengths came naturally.
Their coordinated attack silenced the crusaders.
"These lunatics..." muttered one of the leaders, offering the pair a begrudging compliment.
From his perspective, if either of them had made even the slightest miscalculation, the first attacker would have been dead.
It was a strike worthy of admiration, but one reliant on sheer audacity—one that risked death in the event of failure.
For someone accustomed to group tactics, such reckless actions were unthinkable.
Most would leave enough energy in reserve for defense.
But these two?
They simply charged ahead without hesitation.
It was madness, plain and simple.
"Form a wheel formation!"
The leader spoke, but Fel only focused on catching his breath.
Ropord began recalculating.
For a moment, the two united their efforts and spirits.
Victory wasn't decided in an instant, but the balance began to tilt gradually.
Meanwhile, the Gray Holy Army stood face-to-face with Enkrid.
The standoff had begun.
A chilling wind whistled between the two forces.
If the wind had a consciousness, it would surely be unable to take its eyes off this scene.
Just as Ropord, Fel, and Teresa were about to block one side, Enkrid addressed the opposition, and as a result, Muel's plump face turned slightly red.
"Looks like abundance has settled in your belly and chin."
Descending the slope, Enkrid's first words upon meeting the adversary were these.
"…What?"
Muel was a central figure of the Church's power and one of the Seven Apostles of Abundance.
He had likely never heard such a remark before.
Not in the past decade, at least.
Even as the tongues of the crusaders and priests under him grew sharper, Muel himself had remained untouched.
Who would dare to confront him like this?
"You're a bit fat, aren't you?"
Enkrid repeated himself.
The simple insult could've been ignored, but Muel was irked by the tone of the man delivering it.
It was natural, given that the man had been grating on him from the start.
To make matters worse, one of the men nearby, draped in some kind of heated fur, chuckled.
So did another, wielding a massive greatsword with a languid expression.
"Ugly thoughts invite ugly flesh."
The Frog, Luagarne, added a comment, further souring Muel's mood.
"Perhaps it would be better if your heart grew prosperous first, brother."
A large, bear-like man chimed in, leaving Muel perplexed.
Above all, Muel wasn't known for his patience.
He wanted nothing more than to smash their skulls with a flail then and there.
Moreover, he saw no reason to endure this indignation.
"Indeed, words are pointless. Those possessed by evil spirits require only the mace."
Muel's declaration—that they were demons possessed by wicked spirits—elicited no reaction from anyone.
"Not one of them should get through. Who's taking the lead?"
When Enkrid spoke, Ragna silently stepped forward.
He trudged about five steps to the left, away from the group, when Rem called out from behind.
"That's the left side, not the front."
"…?"
Ragna paused, turned back, and asked, "Can't you tell front from left, savage?"
It was maddening for Rem, who had simply pointed out his poor sense of direction, only for Ragna to completely miss the point.
"Can I hit him once before we start?" Rem asked seriously.
"No, you can't." Enkrid shook his head.
The lack of tension annoyed Muel even more.
"Are you just here to spectate?"
Mule's voice was unmistakably furious.
Naturally, several members of the Gray Holy Army stepped forward.
Their presence was evident—their gait, the subtle yet calculating glances, and the poised polearms held as if ready to pierce their own brows with sheer intensity.
Audin observed them and muttered, "This is why Sir Overdier laments."
Enkrid glanced at him questioningly.
"When it's already a struggle to unite our forces for a fight, draining resources like this is maddening, brother," Audin explained.
"Stay out of it, bear who wandered in from God-knows-where," Rem retorted, pulling out his axe.
There were four presumed paladins among them.
The unspoken pressure they exuded bore down on the surroundings, but Rem's simple act of drawing his axe seemed to sever that tension entirely.
In such intangible battles of will, magic had the upper hand over martial arts.
And Rem had just proved it.
Alone, he radiated an aura that suggested he could fight them all.
"Save the pleasantries for later, axe-wielding brother," Audin remarked.
"Pleasantries, my ass." Rem scoffed, clearly unimpressed.
Audin had promised to educate him upon his return, and Rem's comment was a jab at that.
"No tension, I see, saints."
One of the opposing paladins spoke, wrapping something tightly around his wrists. This was Azratik, the paladin nicknamed the Snake of Broken Bones, born of the Scales' God.
"So, are you betting on your victory?" Azratik asked again.
Enkrid had already heard this question before coming here.
Not that it mattered.
His answer wouldn't change.
He had already spoken it with words and heart, leaving no room for doubt.
Despite the fearsome aura of the paladin before him and the looming Gray Holy Army behind them—
"He's mine," Audin declared, stepping toward Azratik.
This time, he wore a silvery metallic gauntlet unlike anything seen before.
Meanwhile, someone else had already begun their task.
"From here on, no one gets through."
Ragna had spoken.
The resolve in his voice was so vivid and unshakable that all eyes naturally turned to him.
This included Enkrid, Audin, and everyone else.
Audin and Azratik locked gazes.
Enkrid confronted a polearm-wielding foe, and Rem gestured at one of the Apostles of Abundance with his axe.
As for Ragna, he saw even battling a paladin as an amusing prospect.
Yet, he was more intrigued by how Enkrid had previously created an impenetrable barrier—
A feat accomplished by concentrating Will in a vast display of overwhelming pressure.
As Ragna stood amidst the chaos, he found himself lost in thought for a fleeting moment.
What can I do?
Could he replicate what Enkrid had done?
That required an unyielding reserve of Will, continuously pouring it into creating an oppressive barrier like an iron fortress.
It wasn't just physically demanding—it lacked finesse, something that bothered him deeply.
Beyond his limitations in Will, Ragna thought the method was crude and unsophisticated.
Drawing all eyes onto oneself meant inviting enemy attention as well, and the enemy commanders' tense expressions showed they recognized this opportunity.
"Fire."
The command came abruptly, and the next instant, a hail of bolts whizzed toward Ragna from close range.
Whoosh.
Ragna moved.
His sword swung in a single, fluid arc.
To the untrained eye, it seemed as though there had been no preparation—just an effortless stroke.
In truth, his body shifted subtly, his chest opened, and his angle adjusted, all in a fraction of a second. The blade swept through the air, carving a current ahead of the incoming projectiles.
BOOM!
The sound of the sword cutting through the air echoed like a thunderclap.
It wasn't just a strike; it was a shield.
The gust it created disrupted the bolts' trajectories, sending them off course.
It was a feat so extraordinary that even Azratik, observing from a distance, admitted silently to himself that he could never replicate such precision.
"Stay down. Stand up, and you die."
The words followed the impossible display.
Ragna's sword, now gripped firmly with both hands, tilted as he turned his torso and shoulders to the left.
The posture left no ambiguity—it was a setup for a sweeping horizontal slash.
"I've warned you."
And that was it.
No more chances.
Ragna didn't give his opponents the luxury of time or thought.
His feet slammed into the ground, propelling him forward as his sword cleaved the air in a wide arc. It wasn't just a simple slash; it was a culmination of everything he had seen and learned.
The genius swordsman, despite his brutish demeanor and poor sense of direction, had always been a keen observer.
His blade sliced through the battlefield, cutting down everything in its path.
His speed rivaled that of a charging warhorse, and his sword became a guillotine, severing anything in its trajectory.
Each step carved a line of destruction as he mimicked and adapted techniques he had witnessed. The flowing momentum of Oara's continuous strikes was now fused with the vibrations inspired by Aspen's Barnas's methods. Ragna had made it his own.
Slash! Thud! Crack! Crunch! Rumble!
The cacophony merged into a deafening roar as Ragna's strikes devastated the opposition.
His attack wasn't a solitary move but a relentless series of assaults.
When he reached the right flank, he pivoted sharply, charging back to the left while repeating the same devastating slash.
There was no escape. His sword moved like a storm, leaving nothing but chaos and destruction in its wake.
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