Chapter 47: Victory and Defeat

  Ethan’s sharp senses made it clear that his combat strength was in an entirely different league from his opponent’s.

  General Gru seemed to be standing there casually, with no particular stance—his hands were even tucked behind his back. He looked at Ethan as if he were observing a chick that posed no danger at all.

  Yet to Ethan, he felt as if he were facing a primeval behemoth from an ancient, mysterious realm. Beneath that relaxed posture, a latent aura lurked—sharp and menacing as blades, as if it might unleash its true, colossal, and ferocious form at any moment, tearing all foes before it to shreds and swallowing them whole in one bite.

  Judging from the opponent’s movements just now, Ethan knew he stood little chance of winning. The layer of white light sheathing Gru’s body was not magic, but another kind of power—purer, more direct, more violent, and thus more effective, more unstoppable. Even with the robe he wore, a single direct hit from this power would still be fatal. This power was fused with Gru’s flesh, pushing every movement of his beyond the limits of human speed.

  Slowly, Ethan dropped into a starting stance, half-crouching with his right foot slightly angled outward. His left hand pressed against the ground, while his right hand gripped the hilt of the sword on his back. As he assumed this pose, every muscle in his body tensed, storing up strength—ready to erupt like an explosion at the slightest trigger. His eyes fixed on the ground, but he focused all his concentration and attention on his opponent ahead, tracking him through the corner of his eye in a half-aware gaze.

  One strike. All his chances rested on a single strike.

  The threat of death was tangible now, and a primal surge of fighting spirit and killing intent began to spread from the deepest recesses of Ethan’s heart. It was as if a beast had been slumbering there; once stirred, it awakened and began to rage wildly within him. The clarity from his meditation still enshrouded his mind, merging with this awakened primal desire to form a cold, sharp yet still burning resolve to fight.

  Watching his opponent hunch down like a leopard, Gru’s expression—once as motionless as a statue—finally flickered with a faint change. His thin lips stretched slightly to the side, then curled upward in a faint arc. This tiny smile breathed life into his face. A faint white light began to glow from across his entire body.

  Neither of them moved a muscle. The air in the room seemed to freeze, thick with the damp heaviness of the sea before a storm. Lord Sedros, standing by the door, slowly stepped out of the stone chamber. He had no desire to interfere—and he was certain he had no need to.

  Only the sound of their two breaths remained in the room, overlapping and chasing each other in a strange rhythm.

  The instant Ethan’s inhalation peaked as Gru’s exhalation hit its lowest point, Ethan exploded into action. All the strength he had been storing erupted in his leap; he darted forward like a leopard, the power from his legs and waist cascading up to his wrists. The sword on his back transformed into a streak of inky black lightning, slicing down at Gru—who stood unflinching ahead—with the force of a thunderclap.

  The flame in Gru’s eyes dimmed suddenly, growing weak, as if it had lost its fuel in an instant.

  He could see the power and speed of this strike were impressive, yet he also found it utterly dull.

  The striker’s strength and physical movements were flawless, but there was no trace of spirit or fighting will in the blow—it was merely the mechanical use of brute force. This was not an attack forged from life and soul, as in a battle to the death; it was no different from the mindless act of chopping wood.

  Gru felt disappointed. When he had first seen his opponent’s beast-like reactions and movements, he had been excited, thinking this would be a thrilling fight. He reached out his right hand and caught the blade—effortlessly, as if plucking a leaf that had drifted down in front of him while walking. His left hand clenched into a fist, launching a punch tinged with contempt and the anger of disappointment.

  But he immediately noticed something odd: his right hand felt light, while his left felt unusually heavy.

  The blade in his hand was not just lacking spirit and will—it seemed to have lost all its strength and speed entirely.

  The sword was light because the one holding it had let go. Ethan had released his grip the moment the blade was about to be seized, saving all his strength to block the fist hurtling toward his chest.

  One hand met the fist head-on, but even with all his pre-prepared strength, he could not slow the fist’s momentum in the slightest. Instead, his hand was driven forward with the fist, slamming into his chest—both his hand and chest caving inward in the same instant.

  Yet thanks to the buffer of his left hand and the robe’s miraculous protective power, his sternum did not shatter into splinters that would pierce his heart and lungs. It only broke into several pieces, and he was knocked back a single step.

  There was no sound of breaking bones. Instead, the entire room roared with a thunderous blend of gale-force winds and magical energy. A massive, bizarre, and ferocious fireball swelled into shape between them in the blink of an eye, dragging a powerful gust of wind as it shot straight toward Gru’s face—only inches away. This was the true fatal strike, forged from all Ethan’s strength and spirit; even the fireball’s shape, warped by the intense concentration and distortion of his mental power, resembled a roaring beast.

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  Reflecting the light before him, Gru’s pupils turned golden, flickering with the fire’s glow. He could even see the magical energy rushing wildly within this low-level spell—energy powerful enough to blow a bronze statue to glowing red smithereens.

  Fireball was a simple fire attack spell, one that every novice mage could cast. But its simplicity allowed it to channel all the caster’s magical energy in an instant, making it usable even in such close-quarters combat.

  It was impossible to dodge.

  Ethan had devoted at least half his magical energy to accelerating the fireball. This was a perfectly timed moment—or rather, a moment he had created. A moment bought with one of his hands and a severe injury.

  He had seen his opponent’s speed earlier; no matter the distance or how fast he cast a spell, he could never be certain of hitting him.

  When there was no opportunity, create one. The only split-second chance came when the opponent attacked first—when they were committed to their strike and could not dodge.

  But an opponent like this, once he struck, would almost certainly kill Ethan in one hit. The robe alone could not defend against it; he needed a larger buffer. So he used all his strength and one hand to block, then unleashed his magical energy to attack.

  The fireball was half a person’s height in diameter. The moment it took shape, it was already almost touching Gru’s body, and it flew faster than a crossbow bolt. The distance between them was no more than two steps. No one could dodge at such close range—Ethan was certain of it.

  Whether it was truly impossible for anyone to dodge, he did not know, but Gru showed no sign of trying to evade. He tossed the sword aside, and the white light on his hand intensified, seeming to take on physical form. With speed too fast for the eye to follow, he raised his hand to block the fireball.

  A fireball was not a true “ball”—it was merely the natural shape formed by magical energy spinning at high speed. The moment it touched anything that disrupted the balance of its energy flow, all its power would erupt in an explosion. Yet now, this fireball was held back by Gru’s glowing white hand as if it were a solid sphere. The flames at its edges flickered restlessly, trying to break free and surge forward, but they could not cross the layer of white light. It was like the most ferocious hellish beast being held by the forehead by Ares, God of War—powerless to resist.

  This pause lasted only a moment. Gru swung his hand upward, and the fireball’s direction changed completely. It hurtled toward the roof with its original ferocity, and with a deafening crash, the entire wooden roof—built from thick timbers—was reduced to countless burning fragments that shot into the sky. Almost the entire Oufu City was bathed in its light.

  Gru’s right hand remained frozen in the upward swing. Redirecting a swirling mass of magical energy without altering its form was no easy task—it required several times more effort than casting the spell itself.

  So before he could pull his hand back, the hand that had cast the spell was already reaching for his face, and another fireball began to glow between its palms. This time, Ethan did not hurl it; he intended to press the fireball directly against Gru’s face and detonate it.

  This was not a pre-planned tactic. For a human body, the flow of magical energy was too slow to cast another spell in such a short time—which was why this fireball was visibly smaller and slower to form than the last. It was a second attack, launched immediately after the first had missed.

  To trade one of his own hands and the risk of instant death for the most effective attack opportunity—how cunning and seasoned that was. And to launch another attack immediately after a full-force strike failed, without a hint of discouragement—his fighting spirit was fiercer than that of the most brutal warrior.

  This was what a true fighter looked like. Gru growled a single word: “Good.” The fist he had thrown earlier was already retracted; he grabbed the hand reaching toward him, their fingers interlocking as if in a friend’s high-five. The fireball, not yet fully formed, was instantly crushed by the white light coating his hand.

  Again, there was no sound of breaking bones—only the sight of Ethan’s hand twisting into a grotesque shape. His bones were like brittle biscuits crushed by a machine; it was not that they made no sound, but that they were ground to powder before they could.

  “Clang”—the sword finally hit the ground. The victory was decided.

  This had been a wonderful fight. His opponent had displayed all his wit, strength, spirit, and resolve to the fullest. Gru felt thoroughly satisfied.

  Ethan was overwhelmed by despair. Not just the utter despair of realizing all his efforts had been in vain, but also anger, agony, and fear of death. These emotions surged together, finally erasing all his reason—even his humanity—leaving only pure, primal savagery. He yanked violently at the hand that had been crushed, nearly tearing the mangled limb from his wrist. Using the force of that pull, he lunged straight at his opponent.

  He did not think—he could not think anymore. Driven by the instinct of all animals, he fixed on the softest spot where his opponent’s head met his body. A faint throb there betrayed the warm, crimson, and foul-smelling liquid flowing beneath. That sign stoked his instinct further; he opened his mouth and bit down fiercely at that spot.

  Gru tilted his neck, slamming his forehead into Ethan’s onrushing head with a dull “thud.”

  But to Ethan, the sound was nothing like that. What he heard was a strange noise—one a person hears only once in a lifetime. It was the dull creak of his own skull splitting, echoing directly into his nerves.

  It felt as if a awl had stabbed into the deepest part of his brain, then exploded—sending sharp shards piercing outward in every direction, rending everything inside to pieces.

  Ethan did not feel himself being knocked backward, slamming into the wall and crumpling to the ground like a rag doll. He did not know his blood was flowing from his hands and head like a cheerful stream, spreading across the floor and claiming more and more space. He could feel nothing at all.

  “That was a truly spectacular fight—and the most artistic display of magical attack I’ve ever seen. I never thought the Necromancer Guild still had such a vibrant, creative talent. What a shame…” Lord Sedros shook his head, sighing as he walked into the room. He bent down and pulled the book from Ethan’s arms.

  Two sheets of paper fell to the ground, caught up with the book as he lifted it. They were sheets of high-quality parchment—thick and sturdy, with edges smooth enough to show no fray. They were even embossed with exquisite patterns; it was obvious at a glance that they were not used by ordinary people or the mages of the Necromancer Guild.

  Gru still stood frozen in place, replaying every detail of the fight in his mind—savoring it like a gourmet savoring a fine dish. Ethan might not have been the strongest opponent he had ever faced, but he was certainly the most lethal, the most thrilling.

  “Good,” he murmured, voicing his admiration.

  “Not good.” Lord Sedros spread out the two sheets of paper. When he saw what was written on them, his face darkened.