Chapter 717

Chapter 717

“I won’t be brought down by a little toxin. Do you understand? If you have something to say, just say it.”

Just as Ragna prepared to lunge, Anne slipped several medicinal bottles into his hand from the rear. Ragna considered admitting that the venom was already circulating through his system—but he bit his tongue. This wasn’t the moment for such a confession.

Ragna was certain of his path. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a blade, his direction became absolute.

Poison.

Lynox had mentioned that the sigil-etched blade held by Heskal was coated in venom. Yet, Will hadn’t shown a single symptom. The only sign of the engagement on his shoulder was the puncture from a stealthy strike he hadn’t seen coming.

The crimson droplets leaking from the wound were instantly swept away by the deluge. No evidence remained. The torrential rain helped, of course, but Ragna had also instinctively hardened his musculature the instant the steel bit in, sealing the gash.

A physical fortification method. Impressive, Fanatic.

He had acquired the basics of the skill simply by observing Enkrid’s drills. He’d even picked up specific variations directly from the Fanatic himself.

“Haha, little brother, exactly! Use that weight! More, more, more, more!”

…Good grief. A waking hallucination nearly took him.

It was no mystery why they labeled him a madman. He never offered a formal challenge; he just wore that wide grin and kept hoisting massive iron weights, chanting “Good!” repeatedly. When Ragna attempted to drive him off with his sword, it inevitably spiraled into a duel. In truth, that encounter was practically a genuine battle. Both had invested a significant measure of lethal intent, resulting in a violent collision.

A fanatical titan—one that couldn’t be felled with a solitary strike.

That was the conclusion Ragna reached regarding Audin that day. He shifted his grip and lifted his sword. He had studied the essence of ferocity from Enkrid—but that didn’t guarantee it would manifest on command.

Nevertheless, standing here against the sycophants surrounding their leader, with his very existence on the line, his spirit and flesh had no choice but to ignite. High stakes always sharpened his drive. It was the same sensation as when a silent predator crept too close, or when a vulgar barbarian sparked a conflict.

It was all the same.

And if no one challenged him, Ragna would occasionally go out of his way to instigate a fight. When he required a catalyst, that was his method. This was especially true when the commander was absent. He preferred the atmosphere of a fight to be jagged and unforgiving.

One slip of the wrist and death would brush your skin. One lapse in concentration and your throat would be shredded. He had endured countless moments where he had to step beyond the safety of the precipice. He had to perform in the heart of the blaze. He had to tread upon the edge of a razor.

If he failed…

I would remain the youngest.

That was a reality he refused to accept. Ragna let the tip of his greatsword dip toward the mud and stared ahead.

I will never be the bottom of the rank.

His determination solidified into a tangible force, beginning to radiate. Much like the day Enkrid’s resolve blazed in the thick of war, a parallel light now erupted from Ragna’s core. If survival and status demanded risk, he would embrace it. If brutality was the required currency, he would summon it and forge it into a weapon. His inner fire burned hotter than ever before.

Ragna was finished playing around.

Heskal deactivated Camouflage—his shifting blade that could lengthen and shrink—and settled into his primary combat stance. He faced Ragna with his profile narrowed, keeping his left hand obscured. He maintained a hollow, indifferent stare.

Such an effortless posture was designed to overwhelm an opponent’s nerves. It also served to keep the memory of the blade’s deceptive reach fresh in Ragna’s mind. That mental weight would fragment the boy’s focus. Combined with the injury, it would sap his endurance and shatter his confidence.

It was calculated.

Naturally, if he could have finished the bout with that prior strike, he would have done so. But the opening had vanished. Following the successful hit, Heskal’s instincts had forced him to create distance.

Harass with the steel, strike with the phantom length. The strategy remained unchanged, and it had already proven effective.

Those eyes…

There was no sign of distress—no heavy gulps, no nervous twitches. On the surface, Heskal was the image of serenity.

Despite the significant wound in Ragna’s shoulder, the boy’s stance was identical to his previous position. He remained on the very patch of earth he had moved to when dodging. Aside from the initial flinch of the stabbing, he hadn’t wavered. It was as if the injury were nonexistent.

Shhhhhhh.

The rain beat against his eyelids. Medusa’s curse had no power over him, allowing him to keep his vision unobstructed. Ragna, however, didn’t share that immunity. His head was bowed slightly, his focus directed downward. His eyes were shadowed.

Typically, when one fighter’s vision is compromised while the other’s is clear, the latter holds the winning hand. So why… why was there such a sudden chill in the air?

Heskal felt his fibers coil, his entire frame tightening like a viper coiled to strike.

Why?

His survival instincts were screaming before his logic could process the cause. Ragna hadn’t shifted an inch—yet Heskal’s history of violence whispered a visceral caution. The boy was lethal. He was a genuine hazard. Heskal’s skin crawled. This was the physical manifestation of a looming crisis.

When was the last time I felt this dread?

The memory eluded him. Heskal pressed his lips together and let out a measured breath. From his chest to his core, he forced his muscles to relax slightly, bleeding out the excess tension. He used long, rhythmic inhalations to manually restore his composure.

Simultaneously, his vision swept over Ragna once more. Both hands held the hilt. The arms were low. The left arm was angled across the midsection. Ragna had unleashed the greatsword once, but now Heskal perceived it with clarity.

The boy hadn’t truly begun to move yet.

That massive sword—that was the primary danger. A heavy, two-handed blade. No secondary armaments. His combat philosophy seemed to rely on channeling everything into a single, devastating impact. It was reminiscent of the lessons he had imparted to Riley.

And what I passed to Riley—I received from the patriarch.

Ragna would have been molded by a similar doctrine in his youth. It was natural he would mirror the style of Tempest Zaun.

Should I be grateful to feel this threat now?

Without a doubt. Now that his thoughts were organized, he could anticipate the maneuvers Ragna might employ. That foresight increased his odds of victory. Now he grasped the origin of that sudden coldness.

You’ve been a diligent student, Ragna.

The blow Ragna was preparing would be a nightmare to parry.

But Ragna…

A drop of rain caught Heskal in the eye, causing a momentary squint. Fine lines etched themselves into the corners of his face. He had survived decades as a warrior. He had danced with the reaper more times than he could count. His instincts—forged in those brushes with the void—had once again signaled a warning.

Not everyone adheres to the rules of engagement. If you don’t grasp that, you’ll perish in this rain.

KR-RRRRRACK!

A bolt of lightning carved a jagged path through the heavens above the cursed serpent. The dark clouds split, momentarily replaced by a blinding brilliance. The white glare illuminated the entire field. Heskal waited for the spots in his vision to clear before he spoke.

Ragna remained a statue—unmoving and silent.

“That must be excruciating.”

Still attempting to erode the boy’s mental fortress. To claim victory, one had to use every tool available. The children sequestered in the halls of Zaun didn’t understand that. The same went for most prodigies. They believed combat was a measure of pure talent. They thought winning with honor made one the superior warrior.

Legitimate and fair methods? There is no such thing on a battlefield.

Ragna Zaun. Do you grasp that reality?

Probably not. To internalize that, one must fight with desperation against a superior foe. Only by shattering those barriers can one truly evolve. Occasionally, that grit is more vital than innate gift. Surpassing your own threshold—that experience becomes a foundation when despair threatens to pull you under. It is your tether in the storm.

But I suspect you haven’t faced that yet.

The most striking things about the boy were his surprisingly biting words—and this current, absolute focus. He wasn’t wavering. He simply stood there, centered. It reminded Heskal of Enkrid from the Border Guard. Even to him, that man had seemed extraordinary. Regardless of his current level of mastery, the weight of his history was etched into his very being. Not just through physical scars, but through his instincts. The way he made split-second choices during training—that revealed his true nature.

That man might have been cut from a different cloth.

With that final thought, Heskal spoke.

“Stay alert.”

He lunged with the same posture as before. This time, Ragna’s reflexes were even sharper. Naturally. If he moved at the same tempo as before, the shifting blade would find its mark.

Heskal aborted the lunge halfway, snapping his wrist. The blade elongated without a sound. A mute thrust, arcing through the air in a wide, sweeping path. Even a basic horizontal cut doubles its reach when the metal expands. Heskal was timing his move to catch Ragna as he raised the greatsword to guard.

Now! Deploy your preparation!

As the deceptive blade made contact, a concealed edge would whip out laterally—to open his throat. He anticipated the trajectory, gauging the resistance Ragna would offer. He would clear a path with his steel and pin the boy down. The logic was sound.

The steel nipped at Ragna’s cheek—a tiny line of red appeared.

But instead of committing to a swing, Ragna retreated. He cleared the kill zone entirely. Then, he launched himself forward.

It was faster than his retreat—a sudden, kinetic burst.

BOOM!

The sodden earth buckled under his weight. Closing the gap, Ragna threw a high kick—aiming for Heskal’s knee.

However, if Heskal possessed one peerless trait within the house of Zaun, it was his defense. He dropped his weight, lowering his center of gravity, and brought his left hand down to his midsection.

Clang!

His bracer shifted into a compact buckler, intercepting the kick.

THUNK!

Heskal skipped backward, bleeding off the momentum of the strike. He allowed the force to dissipate through his joints—ankle, knee, hip—and escaped the impact while staying in motion.

Ragna pulled his leg back—then drove it into the soil with every ounce of his redirected energy.

BANG!

His foot buried itself to the ankle. To any observer, it appeared to be a transitional offensive stance—but the heavy blade remained still. It was a deception.

Heskal didn’t take the bait. The tension in the muscles, the forward drive, the grip on the hilt—if Ragna swung now, Heskal could evade it with ease. Ragna wasn’t a total novice. He wouldn’t squander a built-up attack on a doomed effort. Heskal gave him that much credit.

“You’re unrefined.”

That was his verdict. Ragna offered no comeback.

Heskal resumed his assault. Occasionally Ragna evaded. Other times, he permitted the blade to graze his limbs or neck. If Alexandra’s duel had been settled in a heartbeat, this was a grinding war of attrition. Heskal calculated several sequences in advance, over and over, tightening the noose around Ragna with every exchange.

Ragna survived by the narrowest of margins, always appearing to be on the brink of failure.

How much time had slipped by? It was impossible to tell. It felt brief by the standards of high-level duels, yet eternal to a spectator. Time was subjective. For one of them, the seconds flew. For the other, they crawled.

Heskal lifted his blade—and hesitated.

A wall.

His precise style, polished through years of combat, talent, and intuition, acted like a map. But the road was now obstructed. If he continued his pattern, he might pin Ragna within three exchanges. But he would also be forced to trade a mortal blow.

Knights operate beyond the reach of normal men—but they aren’t gods. Limits exist.

If you wish to prolong this struggle—fine.

As he prepared another slash—projecting through Ragna’s clumsy feints—

Another obstruction?

Even the most perfect swordsmanship has cracks. And cracks can be mended. Heskal wasn’t looking at the next move—he was looking at the endgame. In a pure contest of technique, he refused to believe Ragna could outmatch him.

And yet, anomalies kept occurring. Dead ends. Repeatedly.

What do you mean, the sequence won’t connect?

The straightforward plan of carving a path and overwhelming the boy—it kept failing at the first step. Every strike should have transitioned into an opening. But the chain was breaking. If he struck here—he could already visualize the disaster. His blade would shatter. He would be forced into a clumsy retreat.

Could he simply withdraw? Was Ragna quick enough to intercept him?

Yes. He had seen that speed earlier—during the kick.

His subconscious was already mapping the inevitable conclusion.

Finally, Ragna spoke.

“You’re the one who’s sloppy, Heskal.”