The Villain Who Invests in a Witch to Survive
Chapter 307
Volume 2 Ch 47: This Wasn’t How the Script Was Supposed to Go
The 󠄂󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄂moment the heavy sword descended, Ryan’s originally steady footwork suddenly became elusive and unpredictable. He moved like a fish swimming upstream beneath the water, his body slipping aside by the barest margin, almost brushing against the scorching, heavy edge of the blade. That fierce slash fell, only to cut apart the afterimage he had left behind and a few strands of hair lifted by the force of the wind.
Immediately 󠄂󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄂afterward, in the instant when Asa’s old strength had just been spent and his new strength had yet to rise, when his sword momentum inevitably stagnated because of that heavy chop, Ryan was no longer a shadow passively defending himself. He transformed into a ghost blending into the night, cutting into the almost nonexistent gap in Asa’s transition with an angle and speed Asa had never expected.
White 󠄂󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄂Raven, which had never once left its sheath, was no longer merely a tool for blocking. It turned into a vicious, tricky black line, like a venomous snake flicking out its tongue. The tip of the sheath shot toward the pulse gate of Asa’s sword hand, which had been slightly exposed by his full-force slash, forcing Asa to snap his wrist back and defend himself, interrupting his possible follow-up chain.
Like 󠄂󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄂an iron whip sweeping sideways, the body of the sheath carried a dull rush of wind as it lashed hard toward the back side of the knee of the leg Asa had used for support during his footwork adjustment, forcing his body to stagger and his center of gravity to slip.
Like 󠄂󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄂a heavy hammer driving straight in, the instant Asa barely steadied himself and tried to adjust his posture, the end of the sheath had already struck like a battering ram, carrying the short, explosive force generated by the twist of Ryan’s entire body, smashing fiercely toward the space between Asa’s chest and abdomen, where his centerline had opened slightly because of his defensive motion.
There 󠄂󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄁󠄀󠄁󠄀󠄀󠄀󠄁󠄂were no fixed sword routines. There were no gorgeous technique names.
Ryan’s counterattack was simple and brutal. Yet that brutality was not crude. On the contrary, it was extremely precise. Every strike landed at the most uncomfortable and vulnerable point of Asa’s offensive transition, force connection, and shifting center of gravity. Ryan attacked what Asa had to save and struck him at his vital point.
Asa’s fierce and powerful Falling Sun momentum, which had intended to claim victory in one stroke, was forcibly shattered into fragments by these seemingly unstructured yet incomparably sharp disruptive counterattacks, making it impossible to continue smoothly.
Again and again, he had no choice but to forcibly interrupt the heavy slashes he had been preparing, miserably drawing his sword back to block or twisting aside to evade. His rhythm was completely disrupted, and a stifling pressure built in his chest with nowhere to vent, leaving him painfully frustrated.
Inside the barrier, the figures crossed paths faster and faster. On one side was silver armor and Holy Light. His sword moves were sometimes like flowing dawn, light and dense, and sometimes like a falling sun, fierce and violent. Between each transition, the radiance was dazzling and the power astonishing.
On the other side was always that calm shade of dark blue, like a human form condensed from the night itself. The sheathed longsword in his hand was his only fang and claw. Amid that blazing, ever-changing tide of light, he used the simplest methods to carve out one strange and lethal trajectory after another, firmly guarding the darkness that belonged to him.
Clang! Clank! Bang!
The ringing of metal, the dull thuds of colliding force, and the rapid sounds of footsteps striking the ground intertwined, forming a strange and tense rhythm that beat against the heart of every spectator.
At the edge of the field, the nobles who had originally watched with scrutiny, suspicion, or even schadenfreude had long since changed from their relaxed expressions of watching a show. Now their faces were filled with uncertainty and disbelief.
This Ryan Velt… what sword art was he using?
Or rather, could this truly be called sword art at all?
Second Prince Keynes’s expression had already turned somewhat ugly. His fingers unconsciously tapped against the armrest of his seat.
This was not the script he had imagined!
Asa should have defeated Ryan swiftly and overwhelmingly, forcing this hero to reveal his wretched side.
Eleanor’s tightly clenched fists relaxed slightly, but the worry in her gray eyes did not fade.
As someone who had fought Ryan many times, and more often than not as the defeated party, she understood better than most people present just how troublesome this man was in close combat.
That inhuman reaction speed and battle awareness, almost as if he could predict an opponent’s movements, had always been the most maddening thing about Ryan.
And now, after his journey into the ruins, that ability seemed to have become… even more abnormal.
She even keenly noticed that within Ryan’s seemingly unstructured but lethal responses, there were faint traces that felt very familiar to her. The subtle rhythm changes between his footwork transitions, the angle of one tricky intercepting strike…
This bastard had actually, without anyone noticing, stolen and even adapted parts of her swordsmanship from their sparring sessions?
Although it was only the surface, and although he had integrated it into his own fighting style, it still left Eleanor with a strange mix of emotions: irritation, and a faint pride that felt almost like recognition.
Thinking that she would definitely have to grab him later and settle this account, the corners of her tightly pressed lips actually curved upward without her realizing it.
However, that brief relaxation was quickly replaced by deeper worry.
She knew very well that Ryan’s close-combat ability could indeed be called monstrous. But until now, Asa had only used the basic Holy Arts swordsmanship that Templar Knights used to temper their bodies and skills.
Although Dawn Sword Dance and Holy Light Slash were already systematic and refined combat techniques, they were not the true trump card of the vice commander of the Dawnblade Knights.
The greatest difference between Church Guardian Knights cultivated by the Holy Church and ordinary kingdom Knights lay in the combat divine arts they had inherited from ancient sacred scriptures, improved by countless generations of sages, and perfected through the combination of the power of faith and elemental Mana—especially that set with light as its core.
As a basic element, the light element, in the hands of most mages or magic swordsmen, was more often used as a supporting means for interference, purification, dispelling, enhancement, or in combination with other elements.
Using it as the main combat element and independently constructing a complete, efficient, and powerful battle system around it was unimaginably difficult.
The characteristics of the light element—scorching heat, purification, and even partial involvement with the soul and spirit—were both powerful and difficult to control precisely, let alone systematize and turn into combat techniques.
Very few forces could accomplish this. The Holy Church’s systems of Sacred Prayers and Holy Punishment Arts were among the finest examples. This was also one of the core assets that made the Templar Knight Orders so feared.
Precisely because of this, even though Ryan had not fallen behind in the swordsmanship exchange and even seemed to be gaining the upper hand, no one present believed that Asa would lose here.
The true test had only just begun.
Cecilia’s hand had long since tightened into a fist beneath her ornate sleeve. Her ice-blue eyes remained fixed on the dark blue figure in the field without blinking.
Ryan’s performance had refreshed her expectations again and again. That calm far beyond his age and that terrifyingly precise combat instinct filled her with astonishment, but also stirred stronger unease in the depths of her heart.
Asa’s true threat had never been his swordsmanship.
It was the Light Magic that had been systematically trained by the Holy Church and complemented his sword techniques.
As if to confirm what everyone was thinking, Asa, who had been unable to break through despite repeated attacks and who had even begun to feel his longsword faintly wail and the web of his thumb and forefinger go numb in pure clashes of power against Ryan, finally had the last trace of patience and false humility in his eyes ignited by shame and anger.
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