Chapter 562 - 501: Mundane Iron Shatters, Fist’s Edge Breaks the Foe

Chapter 562: Chapter 501: Mundane Iron Shatters, Fist’s Edge Breaks the Foe

The muffled thuds of a Shield parrying blows and the sharp clang of clashing weapons were incessant.

After a perilously close sidestep, a Hand Axe scraped past his Chain Armor Shirt, kicking up a shower of sparks and shattered links.

His breathing grew ragged and his steps lost their initial nimbleness. He had clearly been forced into a desperate, defensive battle.

He was holding on for now, but defeat seemed to be just a matter of time.

His Shield heavily parried another vicious thrust, and Holland felt a wave of aching numbness travel up his arm.

The extra Power granted by the Holy Light was receding like the tide, and each breath now came with a searing pain.

’Damn it... five of them... and they’re all this tough...’

He gritted his teeth, cursing inwardly.

He had planned to end the fight quickly, or at least seriously injure one or two of them to create an opening for that "Rudolph" kid to escape. But these Green Skins’ resilience and coordination were simply too good.

The wounded one hiding in the back and throwing spears was even more of a nuisance, forcing him to split his attention and watch his back for openings.

’That old codger Karen was right... I really shouldn’t have come out after dark... Now look at this. Looks like the name "Unlucky Holland" is about to be set in stone...’

The self-deprecating thought flashed through his mind, but his hands didn’t hesitate for a second. He swept the handle of his hammer horizontally, forcing back an enemy trying to close in from the left.

Just as the force of his swing was spent, in the brief moment before he could muster his strength again, a vicious glint flashed in the eyes of the goblin that had been circling and harassing him from the right. It didn’t dodge or evade, but let out a low roar and lunged forward.

It wrapped its thick arms and body in a death grip around Holland’s retreating right arm and Nail Head Hammer!

’Wh—’ 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

Holland’s heart leaped in shock. He struggled to pull free, but the goblin was clearly putting its life on the line. Its muscles bulged, and it refused to let go even as the hammer’s handle and Holland’s armor dug into it, making its bones creak.

In that brief moment of delay, the goblin in front of him wielding a Hand Axe seized the golden opportunity. A trace of cruel cunning flashed in its eyes.

The axe blade sliced through the air with a foul stench, hurtling toward the wide opening on Holland’s chest, which was left defenseless by his trapped right arm.

The sharp, dark-brown-stained axe blade loomed larger and larger in his vision.

Time seemed to stretch.

Holland could even make out the fine nicks on the blade and smell the oncoming stench of rust and blood.

His Shield in his left hand was occupied by another enemy; he couldn’t bring it back in time to defend.

His right arm was locked in a death grip. It would take time to break free.

And time was the one luxury he didn’t have.

In this moment of life and death, an absurdly calm thought drifted through Holland’s mind.

’Tch... tried to save a little coin on an inn by traveling in the dark, and now I’m going to lose my life to a bunch of Green Skins... Karen’s probably going to carve "Here lies a man who died of stinginess" on my tombstone...’

As the thought faded, the cold glint of the axe blade already filled the depths of his pupils.

In that split second, a sharp, crisp clang of metal on metal suddenly rang out, drowning out the goblin’s snarls.

The Hand Axe that was about to cleave open Holland’s chest was stopped dead in the final inch, parried by the blade of a faintly glowing sword that had shot in from the side.

Holland could even feel the vibration from the axe blade and hear the teeth-grating screech of metal on metal, just inches from his face.

It was Roland.

The amnesiac who had just "recovered," the one Holland was determined to protect, had somehow slipped into the fray like a phantom.

He gripped the simple shortsword tightly in his left hand, parrying the axe blade at an angle precise down to the millimeter. Using his forward momentum, he turned his body slightly and slammed his right shoulder into the chest of the goblin holding Holland’s arm.

The goblin let out a muffled grunt, its grip loosening for a fraction of a second.

Without hesitation, Roland slid his shortsword free from the Entanglement of the axe blade and, in a fluid backhand motion, thrust viciously. The tip of the sword became a cold glint of light as it plunged straight into the goblin’s ribs.

However...

The expected sensation of a blade smoothly piercing flesh never came.

The shortsword sank in barely an inch before it felt like it had struck solid rock. It made a grating CHHH sound and was then caught fast, gripped by the goblin’s dense, knotted muscles.

Immediately after, the blade of the already mediocre-quality shortsword let out a pained groan as if under immense strain, and then, with a SNAP, it shattered at the point of entry.

The broken blade remained lodged in the goblin’s muscle, leaving Roland holding nothing but a bare hilt.

’This physical strength...’

Roland’s eyes narrowed as a quick assessment flashed through his mind.

The Constitution of these goblins was unbelievably formidable, far beyond any Low-Level Demon he had ever known.

With such savage physiques, not even an ordinary Extraordinary Professional would be able to handle them, let alone a normal person.

"Rudolph! You—"

Holland seized the opportunity to wrench his right arm free, smashing the injured, howling goblin away with his Shield.

He turned and saw the broken hilt in Roland’s hand and the goblin, only lightly wounded. A complex look—a mixture of surprise, frustration, and a touch of warmth—flashed in his eyes, but it was quickly overwhelmed by panic.

"Stop trying to be a hero! Get out of here!"

he growled, his voice hoarse from the fierce battle.

"These Green Skin bastards aren’t what you think! That piece of junk in your hand can’t hurt them! Now get the hell back to town!"

But in the next moment, all the rebukes and urgent commands died in Holland’s throat.

His eyes, usually half-closed from years of laziness, were now wide with utter disbelief.

He watched as Roland, facing the furiously roaring goblin that was charging him, neither dodged nor retreated. He even casually tossed aside the useless hilt of the broken sword.

Then, he met the charge head-on.

His movements were simple, unadorned, yet possessed a honed precision and fluidity that seemed almost instinctual.

The principle of [Body as Martial], an evolution of [A Knight Does Not Die Unarmed], had long since branded Combat Skills into every fiber of his muscles and nerves.

A weapon?

That was merely an extension of his limbs.

When that extension breaks, the limb itself becomes the most primitive and deadly weapon of all.

Therefore, he paid no mind to Holland’s frantic warnings.

The instant the goblin’s rough, clawed hand reached for his face, Roland’s right fist shot out from his hip like a fully-drawn Siege Hammer, exploding forward in a straight line.

There were no dazzling flames of Fighting Spirit, no strange fluctuations of Magic—only pure, unadulterated speed, Power, and a will that could pierce through anything.

SPLURCH!

A sickeningly dull, heart-stopping sound, like wet leather being ripped apart by immense force, suddenly erupted.

It briefly drowned out all the other snarls and clashes of metal on the battlefield.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

The goblin, lunging in mid-air, came to an abrupt, violent halt.

In the center of its broad, muscular chest, a terrifying, bowl-sized hole with jagged edges had appeared.

Roland’s entire right arm, from fist to elbow, had plunged completely through it, bursting out its back in a spray of blood and shredded tissue.

The rage on the goblin’s savage face froze, replaced by a blank, disbelieving stupor.

Its yellow eyes mechanically swiveled downward, as if trying to see the massive new cavity in its own chest, but its life force was already draining away like a receding tide.

Its powerful body swayed, then collapsed forward like a boneless sack of flesh.

All that remained was the thick, cloying, metallic scent of blood, mixed with the sickly-sweet smell of viscera, spreading through the cold morning air as if it were a physical thing.

The acrid stench was enough to make one gag.