Chapter 13 : Chapter 13
Chapter 13: Deban
You know just by looking, without having to fight.
Whether they lost because they were careless. Or if there's no hope no matter what they do.
There's no one who doesn't know that.
There are only those who don't want to admit it.
“How old?”
Simurtr's eyes, looking at Deban, shone.
He was unusual, a man who could objectively grasp his own skills. Knowing one's place. It was an essential quality for growth.
“I'm 22.”
“But you're a formal member?”
“Yes.”
“You're a genius.”
Becoming a formal swordsman meant reaching a state where one could handle sword ki perfectly as if it were their own limbs. The wall of Sword Master was just beginning to come into faint view.
“I thought so too, until I met a direct descendant.”
“Jahar and Ael aren't there yet. You're a formal member.”
“No. I meant you, Sir Simurtr.”
Results proved talent. Deban had completed his proof by joining the 3rd Sword Order and securing a formal position.
The battlefield gave superior experience, but it also took lives. But now was an era of peace.
There was no need, nor reason, to bear such risks.
He would probably reach even greater heights. His skill, his perceptiveness, his mindset… Simurtr had a hunch.
“You can't compare yourself to me.”
It was the same reason he had taken a liking to Jahar and Ael. Frustration, despair. The siblings had not shown such emotions even after being defeated by their youngest brother.
Jahar wanted competition, and Ael showed interest. These were reasons to like them.
Boom!
At that moment, something exploded in the sky. It looked like a firework, but it was Semenu's illusion.
“What does that mean?”
“It means one person has been eliminated.”
“Then one swordsman will be free?”
“That's right, isn't it?”
“So this is why you were acting like this?”
“Was it obvious?”
Deban's eyes widened.
Simurtr smirked. It was hard to read his emotions. Was he genuinely surprised? Or was he pretending to be surprised?
“All of them?”
“No. Only the fastest two.”
“Making three with you?”
“It would be strange if there were too many, wouldn't it?”
“True.”
If all 10 came, that in itself would be proof of his skill.
Medeoban might not, but the other swordsmen would surely express their doubts.
“It's become a bit too much for the kids.”
I think it's because of you.
Ael's words suddenly came to mind.
The extension of the Selection Ceremony, which was not originally there.
A difficult challenge for the sprouts, having to face active-duty swordsmen.
“I've caused unnecessary trouble.”
This is why I suspect he's gone senile. Simurtr let out a hollow laugh. He was certain now.
The extension of the Selection Ceremony was indeed his fault.
He didn't know the exact reason… but Medeoban was hoping for his failure.
“Any complaints? It seems the main house's Selection Ceremony is being strangely altered.”
“Well. A few have some… but what can we do? Given our position.”
The 3rd Sword Order had already fallen into disfavor as much as possible.
***
Medeoban Mectera.
Simurtr remembered his adoptive father from his past life quite vividly.
His love for the family was much deeper than his love for his blood relatives. It was the same now. Medeoban was trying to ostracize him for the sake of Mectera's traditions.
It was not a certain reason, but it was the only reason. Simurtr was half-convinced.
‘Not bad.’
It was better than being born as the child of an enemy. That birth would bring revenge closer, but there was nothing more disgusting than sharing the same blood.
The same went for his subordinates. If he had been born as the child of a subordinate, Simurtr would have been so sorry he wouldn't have known what to do.
Because the child he should cherish turned out to be his superior. He wanted his unit members to be happy. Simurtr sincerely wished for that.
‘Mectera is perfect.’
From that perspective, being born into Mectera was quite a good blessing. Moreover, he was an adopted son.
Mectera, which could be an enemy or not.
A moderate distance, unlike with his subordinates.
It would have been even better if he had been born in a place with no connections at all, but there was probably no better environment than Mectera.
‘I don't even hope for help.’
Medeoban was by no means on his side.
Even if he hadn't participated in the betrayal, nothing would change. Even if he revealed his past life, Medeoban would never help him.
Not only were they not on such terms in the first place, but the current position of the traitors was such that they had the power to crush Mectera in an instant.
There was no way Medeoban, who cherished his family pathologically, would agree to such a thing.
‘Besides, I might have to kill him later.’
If Medeoban, if Mectera, had cooperated in the betrayal. Then what?
Simurtr would place Medeoban and the officials of Mectera on the same line as the traitors.
‘But before that, I have to get everything I can. Eat all the elixirs. And build up my strength.’
In fact, the intention to ostracize me for the sake of Mectera's traditions was also laughable.
In the first place, that wasn't Mectera's tradition.
‘I'm not asking for much.’
In truth, such a perversion was of no concern to Simurtr. He wouldn't care even if Mectera declared they would follow the Degrate and become assassins.
Of course, he would feel sorry for the swordsmen and find the idea unpleasant… but that was all. Just that.
‘So petty.’
What he needed now was a good environment and time.
And the truth.
That was all he wanted from Medeoban. But that man was trying to push him away, which was infuriating.
“This is annoying.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I wasn't talking to you.”
“Phew.”
Simurtr stood up, brushing off his pants. Two had been eliminated.
There must have been a prior agreement. He didn't think the two freed-up swordsmen wouldn't know his location.
“Are you going to run?”
Deban's gaze also changed considerably.
If he ran, variables would arise. Deban had a duty to hold him back. The current Head of the 3rd Sword had staked his life on reviving the half-ruined 3rd Sword Order.
“No. Why would I?”
Simurtr caressed his chin with his middle finger.
Of course, the best way was to reduce the numbers before starting.
Either deal with Deban first.
Or meet the swordsman who was approaching and deal with him first.
‘That's no fun.’
Right now, Medeoban was anticipating his failure, yet also underestimating him. Wasn't the fact that he had chosen only three opponents proof of that?
‘And one of them just recently became a formal swordsman.’
Deban, who was 22, was said to have joined the 3rd Sword Order early this year.
In the Sword Net, Deban's mana was as clearly visible as if it were in plain sight.
The other two probably weren't much different.
‘3-star is enough. If push comes to shove, I can just push myself a little.’
Of course, it was a high evaluation for a 16-year-old, but Simurtr was not 16. Inside, there was a full-grown middle-aged man.
“They should be here soon. I should start preparing. Warm up a bit.”
He intended to let them know they had misjudged his worth.
He didn't know the exact reason they wanted him to fail, but he intended to show them that he was worth embracing.
“Or. Well. Should we start first?”
Simurtr grinned.
He was an unusual guy. He didn't know about the other two, but he wanted to see Deban's skills properly.
“I'm a little curious about you.”
He knew his level, but that was it.
He knew nothing about Deban. His combat skills, his proficiency, his wit… Simurtr wanted to see Deban fight.
“Um. Just a moment. Let me warm up first.”
Deban began to warm up.
He stretched his arms out wide, rolled his shoulders. After rotating his wrists and ankles, he then stretched his waist, followed by his thighs and groin.
“All warmed up?”
Simurtr waited quietly, then spoke when Deban's movements stopped.
“No. My neck is still left.”
He placed his hand on top of his head and pretended to pull it to one side.
“Ah. Come to think of it, I warmed up before coming here.”
He suddenly rushed at Simurtr.
A strange and stealthy movement unique to the 3rd Sword Order, representing the Phantom Sword.
Deban's form reached Simurtr's front in the blink of an eye. It was at the same time that the
presence of two people appeared behind him.
“Wow.”
Looking at Deban who was swinging his sword widely, Simurtr laughed loudly. A cunning bastard.
***
‘Bastards like this live long.’
The reason swordsmen insist on one-on-one duels is actually nothing special. To gauge the superiority of skill. To improve their skills. To feel the opponent's sword as much as possible.
‘It's all bullshit.’
Of course, it had its effects.
But as you live, things inevitably get distorted.
The damn knights proved that. Didn't they prattle on about their useless honor even on the battlefield?
‘Bastards like that die quickly.’
Although Mectera swordsmen, unlike those foolish knights, followed only the sword and not empty appearances, that in itself was a flaw if you could call it one.
He personally liked such single-mindedness… but he couldn't say, even with empty words, that they could survive in a war.
‘Is that why I died?’
It might have been different before the war, but Simurtr no longer gave such a high evaluation to those who were only crazy about the sword.
“Excellent.”
In that sense, Deban passed. It was obvious this guy wasn't that crazy about the sword.
His talent was also outstanding.
The cunning way he stalled for time until his comrades arrived.
And the idea of hiding the Phantom Sword to induce an opening by deliberately swinging his sword widely for his comrades' surprise attack.
“But that's not your style, is it?”
But he had picked the wrong opponent.
He probably thought he had hidden it well, but the intention was too blatant.
Simurtr had noticed the two who had joined them long ago. Although his Sword Net had become shabby, it couldn't be broken by someone at the level of a mere formal swordsman.
Operating the Star-Breaking Style, he turned sharply to the right. He was faster than Deban's sword.
‘Not this one.’
Using the rotation of his body, he instinctively tried to draw his sword but stopped abruptly. If he swung here, Deban would die. He wouldn't actually die, but he would lose his chance.
He didn't care about the two behind him, but he wanted to watch Deban until the end.
Instead of his sword, Simurtr swung his right foot.
“Ugh!”
His back bent sharply backward. A pain as if his spine was fracturing. Deban momentarily felt his lungs stop. Because of that, he couldn't regain his balance.
“Hey!”
The two, startled, hastily withdrew the swords they had thrust out and awkwardly stretched out their arms. They caught Deban's body with their forearms to avoid touching the sword.
“You shouldn't do that.”
At the clumsy sight, Simurtr grinned.
As expected, they were still inexperienced formal swordsmen.
The unfamiliarity with the environment of the Phantasmal Realm must have played a part.
“You should have cut him down together. Or dodged.”
Deban's body touched four forearms.
The two couldn't even think of catching his body because they were holding swords.
Whoosh!
Before Deban's body, its impact absorbed thanks to the forearms, could hit the ground, Simurtr's sword moved.
Mana amplified through a 3-star rotation. The speed that Jahar hadn't even been able to perceive brushed past both of Deban's ears.
“Keuk.”
“Heup…!”
The sound of air splitting rang in both ears simultaneously. Followed by a groan. Deban snapped his head around before he hit the ground. The forms of the two were glowing with a green light.
“What is this…”
Then, they disappeared without a shred of mercy.
In the Phantasmal Realm, that meant only one thing. Instant death. Deban recalled the sword that had grazed both his ears. The two thrusts were so fast that they sounded like one.
‘The neck? The heart? No, he stabbed two people almost simultaneously? And their vital spots at that?’
He tried to recall the trajectory by replaying the sensation… but he couldn't. Deban had not seen Simurtr's sword.
“Where did you stab them?”
Deban asked unconsciously.
“The heart.”
“Both of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh… You're amazing.”
Deban, who had collapsed, laughed helplessly.
The two who were his seniors had been forcibly removed before they could even display their true skills.
The death of Swordsman Keito. The Selection Ceremony he had watched on video. He had expected he would be no match, but he hadn't thought it would be to this extent.
“Thanks.”
“…Aren't you going to kill me?”
Simurtr extended his hand.
It meant to take it and stand up. At that hand, Deban made a puzzled expression.
Stand up? Without killing me?
“I plan to kill you last.”
Simurtr grinned.
“You've already killed two.”
“So. There are seven left now.”
Simurtr.
Intended to kill all the swordsmen deployed in this test.
“Wow.”
Deban let out an exclamation without realizing it.