Chapter 53: My Turn
The moment Bufolk’s fist struck the ground, the earth answered like a living thing.
Not a simple tremor—no.
A roar rolled up from below, deep and violent, as if something ancient and furious had awakened under the battlefield and was trying to break its way free.
The land cracked open with a thunderous sound that seemed to echo not just across the field, but through the bones of everyone watching.
Chunks of stone and dirt erupted into the air like shrapnel.
And then the crushing force surged upward—turning the ground itself into a weapon.
A little far behind Clay, the Captain felt his breath leave his chest.
His feet were lifted off the earth as the impact slammed into his body like a collapsing wall. His armor rattled; he was thrown backward and crashed into the dirt, struggling to keep his eyes open while dust and debris swallowed the world around him.
"Hold your ground!" he shouted—yet his voice sounded distant, muffled, drowned by the violence in the air.
The knights fared no better. Some were thrown off their feet. Others drove their weapons into the ground just to anchor themselves, faces twisted with fear as they realized what they were seeing.
This wasn’t a fight.
Not really.
It was something beyond comprehension—something that made their strength feel laughably small.
The archers, who had once mocked the "beasts outside the walls," now clung to whatever they could grab. Their confidence shattered into a single thought, repeating in their minds like a prayer with no hope behind it:
If that attack hits us... we are all dead...
Cerys stood her ground, but she wasn’t unaffected.
She had taken a step back when Bufolk released that overwhelming power. Her eyes locked onto the center of the destruction, where Clay had been standing—where his figure had vanished inside the explosion of force.
Her heart tightened.
For the first time since she met him, a trace of worry appeared in her expression.
Not because she doubted him.
Because this power—this way of fighting—was something she had never witnessed before.
Young master...
Please be okay...
Bufolk’s laughter echoed through the chaos. His body moved within a violent aura as he slowly lifted his fist from the ground.
The cracks spread further, as if the land itself had been wounded by that strike.
"This is the true power of a Bersuka warrior!" he roared, pride thick in every syllable. His eyes burned as he stared into the cloud of dust where Clay had been.
"This is what it means to go all out!"
The dust swirled.
Debris fell.
And then—
A figure stood there.
Unmoved.
Clay brushed dust from his shoulder with the casual indifference of someone brushing off ash after a minor disturbance. His posture was relaxed. His expression hadn’t changed.
Not one bit.
Bufolk’s grin froze—just for a heartbeat.
Then widened even wider, as if disbelief had only fueled his hunger.
"Good!" he shouted. "Good! You are still standing!"
Clay looked at him, eyes calm.
"Was that it?"
The question landed heavy—simple words, yet sharp enough to cut through the noise of the battlefield.
Bufolk’s eyes twitched.
Then he laughed again—louder than before—his body trembling with excitement.
"You really are something else!"
His voice nearly shook from joy.
"Then let me show you more!"
He vanished.
The ground cracked where he stood, as if his absence tore at the earth.
In the next instant, he appeared above Clay, fist raised high—violent aura condensing into a single point—then driven downward with everything he had.
Boom.
A massive crater formed beneath Clay.
The air exploded outward again, a fresh shockwave battering the battlefield.
Soldiers were knocked off their feet a second time; even those already bracing themselves staggered, faces turning pale as the pressure rolled through the ranks like a storm.
But inside the crater—
Clay stood like it was nothing.
His hand was raised.
Holding Bufolk’s fist.
Effortlessly.
As if the weight of the world were nothing more than sand.
Bufolk’s eyes widened. For the first time, the excitement on his face failed to cover what was underneath.
Not joy.
Not thrill.
Disbelief.
"You... stopped it?" he muttered.
Clay looked up.
"Are you done?"
Clay’s grip tightened.
And then—
He twisted.
A clean, brutal sound cut through the air.
Crack.
Everyone’s spine went cold.
Bufolk’s massive frame was thrown sideways, his body rocketing across the battlefield like a shattered monument. He slammed into the ground and rolled—dust and grit scattering—before finally forcing himself upright, breath coming rough, his arm hanging wrong for a moment before he fought it back into place with a grunt.
And instead of rage—
he laughed.
"Hahaha... HAHAHAHA!"
His laughter grew louder, reverent almost—like something holy and rare had finally appeared in front of him.
"This... this is it..."
His voice dropped, shaking with awe.
"This is what I have been searching for..."
He stepped forward.
Then another.
Each footfall cracked the ground under him, aura flaring brighter, violent mana pressing down like a storm that refused to be contained.
"Clay Valmont..."
His gaze locked onto Clay.
"You are worthy."
Clay sighed, bored.
"I already told you. You are not."
Bufolk’s grin returned—sharper now.
"We will see."
He moved again.
Faster.
Stronger.
His presence blurred around Clay as fists rained down from every angle—each strike carrying enough force to shatter stone. Every impact created explosions of compressed air, the battlefield echoing like thunder as the earth split and collapsed under the violence.
Boom.
Crash.
Bang.
But at the center of it all—
Clay remained.
Unmoving.
Each punch that came at him was answered with a simple motion: a slight hand movement, a redirect, a deflection—sometimes nothing more than a controlled pause that stole the strike’s momentum away as if it had never been real.
His expression never changed.
His eyes never lost that calm, almost bored indifference—like Bufolk’s assault was trivial, like it wasn’t even worthy of full attention.
This is pointless...
Clay’s thoughts drifted as he watched the furious barrage keep coming.
Even this is not enough...
Bufolk’s attacks grew more frantic.
His breathing grew heavier.
His laughter fractured into grunts of effort as he pushed himself past his limits—not because he wanted to win anymore—
but because he couldn’t bear the feeling of failing to reach Clay.
"Why!" he shouted between strikes. "Why are you not fighting back properly!"
Clay met his eyes.
"I am."
The answer only made Bufolk’s expression burn brighter.
"Then show me more!"
Clay watched him for a moment.
Then—
he moved.
Just once.
A single step forward.
His fist came out.
And in that instant—
everything went quiet.
Not because the battlefield calmed.
Because the air itself seemed to reject what was happening, collapsing inward as the pressure strangled the space between them.
Bufolk’s eyes widened as he felt it—too overwhelming to process in time.
His instincts screamed.
His muscles tensed.
But—
it was too late.
Boom.
The sound didn’t burst outward this time.
It collapsed inward, as if the impact had swallowed the world’s noise and replaced it with only force.
Bufolk froze.
Then his body lifted—his feet leaving the ground as if gravity had been briefly rewritten.
His eyes rolled back.
And then he was launched away again, farther than before—his massive frame becoming a projectile that tore across the distance before crashing into the far ground with enough violence to shake the battlefield even from afar.
Silence followed.
Complete.
Absolute.
The soldiers didn’t cheer.
They couldn’t.
Because cheering required disbelief to still exist somewhere, and what they had seen had already erased it.
Bufolk lay still.
Unmoving.
Clay lowered his hand.
His expression remained unchanged.
Still not enough...
Far beyond the battlefield—beyond the continent itself—the Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe stood frozen.
His eyes were locked on the scene like they were trying to force it to break.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
The Shaman beside him swallowed hard.
"Warchief... this... this human..."
The Warchief didn’t answer right away.
His gaze stayed fixed.
Then slowly, he spoke—voice low, heavy, stripped of pride.
"He’a exceptional."
The word carried something new inside it.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Concern.
Back on the battlefield, Clay exhaled lightly, as though bored by the result. His gaze drifted away from Bufolk’s fallen body and then he looked up toward the sky.
"You from the other side, are you satisfied?"