Chapter 612 - A Light That Does Not Dazzle
Ropord had hoped that Jaxen's assassination of a few priests would shake the enemy's resolve, but the enemy commander attributed it to the work of malevolent spirits.
'Quick thinking,' Ropord mused.
Or perhaps the commander had already planned for such an eventuality.
Ropord quietly assessed the positions of both armies, the terrain, and their current hold. At that moment, the enemy forces were beginning their cautious advance. Factoring everything into his calculations, he arrived at a conclusion:
'If we fight inside the monastery, the losses will be too great. There will be those who die without even a chance to resist. The unarmed monks inside cannot be counted as part of our combat strength.'
Then what should be done?
Sword in hand, Ropord moved to the front of the monastery, clearing away the barricades and cutting through the undergrowth. In truth, he had begun this task earlier when Esther blocked the sacred spell. Fell had assisted him. Enkrid's instruction for them to step forward had simply been a cue—nothing more than recognizing that the three of them were already prepared to act.
There hadn't been any elaborate tactics at play. The situation didn't allow for such foresight anyway.
As Ropord cleared the last of the path, Fel spoke from behind him.
"I'll go first."
"…Why, you idiot? I'm the one who started clearing the way."
"If you two want to argue, go do it outside," Teresa interjected. Casting a shadow over the two of them, she cut through their pointless bickering with her practical wisdom.
Meanwhile, Teresa noticed Audin's arrival and glanced toward her mentor.
From afar, Audin nodded back.
There would be plenty of time later to catch up on all that had transpired. For now, they had work to do.
"We're not going to fight inside. We'll fix the battlefield outside to avoid needless casualties."
Ropord stepped forward as he spoke. It meant that he and the other two would fight with their lives half on the line, but that was of little concern.
After all, sparring with Ragna or Enkrid often pushed them to the brink of death.
Putting half a life on the line didn't seem too bad in comparison.
Ropord genuinely believed this, and as a result, he acted in ways that would have been unthinkable during his days in Naurilia. Instead of listening to others' opinions, he took the initiative himself.
Enkrid's sharp instruction to step forward served as tacit approval. Moving forward, Ropord drew a line across the ground.
"Anyone who wishes to die, step across this line."
It was something he had once seen Enkrid do and had always wanted to emulate. As he finished, Fel stepped ahead with a light hop over the line, saying,
"I've crossed it."
"You fool, that's meant for the enemy."
"Oh, I know. But anyone who approaches this line will taste my blade first. After all, if they've picked up a piece of iron without talent, they should be prepared to lose their lives."
The first part of Fel's words was directed at Ropord, but the latter was meant for the enemy forces.
Fel maintained an air of confidence.
From his perspective, few among them had the talent to be a real threat.
The advancing enemy soldiers grew fiercer.
To display the gray divine light was to show greed and deep corruption in the secular world.
For such individuals, authority was of the utmost value.
Seeing the two blatantly defy that authority, the Holy Crusaders felt a surge of heat through their bodies—the heat of rage.
"I'll tear that mouth apart and kill you!"
The first Crusader charged forward, confident in his leg strength rather than relying on a mount.
Clang!
The ground trembled as his body became a streak cutting across the battlefield.
Fel met him head-on, drawing a line across his body.
Slice, splatter.
The sound was audible only to Fel.
To the others watching from a distance, it was a sight rather than a sound—a gruesome one.
The large Crusader who had charged forward had half his side sliced open, spilling his entrails as he collapsed.
"Urgh…"
With a guttural groan, the Crusader tried to clutch his spilling insides, but Ropord stepped in, smashing the man's helmet with the flat of his blade.
Thud!
The man's helmet tilted askew as his head slammed into the ground, blood from his side pooling onto the cold, dry earth, now soaked with warm, wet liquid.
"One down," Fel remarked.
"I finished him off," Ropord added, scoffing as he stood beside Fel.
The aura of some of the Crusaders shifted.
These weren't just anyone who had broken through the allied forces; they wouldn't rush in recklessly and waste their lives.
Among every ten Crusaders, each group had a leader—a senior Crusader.
"Form ranks!"
Groups with a long tradition honed their collective tactics, and these Crusaders were no different. Twenty of the Abundance Crusaders split into two formations.
Six of the more confident Crusaders from the Scales group moved toward Teresa.
"Is she a giant? Seems worth facing.
That tough skin might even make for a satisfying cut," one Crusader sneered, licking his pliable blade.
Teresa, however, wasn't untrained.
She had learned much from Enkrid.
"Your tongue will get poisoned from licking that blade," she retorted with a biting remark, echoing Enkrid's sharp tongue.
The Crusader's smile twisted in irritation at the unexpected comment.
"Bitch," he spat, his tone unbecoming of a man of faith.
But Teresa remained calm, though it wasn't the time to savor peace.
Adjusting her shield at an angle toward her left diagonal, she noticed the six Crusaders spreading out, preparing to encircle her.
Likewise, the six Crusaders held no thoughts of defeat or failure.
They formed a precise formation, drawing their weapons.
As Teresa observed them, she briefly reflected on her grueling training.
Though fleeting, it made her stomach churn.
The madness of the training instilled by her mentor had left even the giant-blooded warrior dizzy and nauseous at times.
What had all that suffering earned her?
Stepping forward with her left foot and shifting her weight onto her right, Teresa lowered her stance slightly—a position ready to bring her shield down at an angle the moment someone approached.
"Hah!"
A crusader rushed forward and swung his flail without hesitation.
The attack aimed to strike through the shield and target the wrist behind it.
Teresa calmly raised her shield, intercepting the flail with the shield's edge.
Clang!
Metal clashed against metal, a deafening noise echoing across the battlefield.
The attack, reckless and devoid of defense, left the attacker vulnerable.
Without missing a beat, Teresa swung her sword in a sharp, vertical arc, channeling her immense strength.
However, two other paladins stepped in to block her strike.
Both wielded thick iron rods, which they crossed to deflect Teresa's blade.
Clang!
The second impact reverberated with a force that temporarily numbed the ears.
"You'll regret stepping in," one of them growled, his brows furrowed in anger.
Their strategy was simple but effective: one attacker would press forward aggressively, while the other two provided support.
The three moved in perfect unison, a synchronized assault.
With six opponents total, similar attacks bombarded Teresa from both sides.
She deflected one with her shield and the other with her sword, either blocking or countering.
To an observer, it seemed like Teresa was at a disadvantage.
The crusaders rotated positions fluidly, while she stood rooted in one spot.
Yet, Teresa herself did not perceive this as a crisis.
"Isn't this easier than fending off attacks from both Ropord and Fel working together?" she mused.
The lack of visible openings in her opponents didn't trouble her either.
"Pull and push as you might, if the door doesn't open, perhaps the fault lies in your strength."
This was a saying from the scriptures of the God of War.
Teresa had always admired these words.
When Enkrid had once unleashed a devastating strike infused with his Will, she had learned to do something similar.
Harnessing her innate giant strength, she imbued it with her Will—enough to force open any unyielding door.
Clang.
Blocking with her shield, she used the pommel of her sword to deflect an incoming blunt strike from her right.
Exploiting the momentary gap, her sword traced a familiar arc, slashing vertically downwards.
Bang!
This time, the sound was different.
Crack.
Something broke with a harsh snap.
"…What brute force," one of the crusaders muttered in disbelief.
What could they do against an overwhelming strength that surpassed their combined resistance?
Teresa's attack hadn't been mere brute force, though.
If it were, her teacher, Audin, would have sighed in disappointment.
Her technique had evolved.
As she struck, she twisted her blade subtly, directing more of the impact toward the left opponent.
This adjustment shifted the force, overwhelming one defender while the other faltered.
It was a variation of the paladins' own skill, "Penetration."
With the force focused on one side, the clash sounded different.
The result?
One crusader's wrist snapped, the iron rod falling from his trembling hand.
"Treat him," one of the remaining paladins ordered.
Leaving an injured comrade unattended on the battlefield revealed a flaw in their tactics.
Teresa's strikes, however, had already shifted pace.
Faster and fiercer, her shield joined her offensive arsenal.
She grabbed the handle at the shield's edge and wielded it like a blade, slicing through armor with its sharp edge.
Scrreeech!
The grating sound of armor being shredded made one of the crusaders cry out, "You madwoman!"
Teresa smirked, retorting, "Do you know the name of our order?"
Even in words, she refused to back down, asserting her identity with sharp wit.
"Insane!" another crusader shouted, just as Teresa thrust her sword forward.
The attack wasn't just a simple stab—it was a weighty, deliberate strike.
The force behind it would shatter ribs if only half-heartedly blocked.
The blade found its mark, piercing the thigh of one of the paladins.
Crack!
The sickening sound of bone breaking was followed by a scream.
"AAAHHH!"
The harrowing cry of agony resonated as the shattered femur pierced through the skin, driven by the deliberate force of Teresa's blow.
"Block her! The Scales of the Divine watch over us!"
Desperation overtook the crusaders as they summoned divine light, their armor glinting under the sun.
Yet their holy radiance failed to blind Teresa.
With cold resolve, she continued her assault, cutting down her foes.
As Teresa overpowered her six opponents, Ropord and Fel faced their own challenges.
"Why are you standing behind me?" Fel snapped.
"Move over there and play with the sheep. Just stay out of my way," Ropord retorted.
Though their bickering was fierce, they never left each other's backs unguarded.
Not all of the crusaders were were even close to knight-level skill; after all, such prowess was rare.
However, one in ten was formidable, and these individuals stood out.
The ten enemies rotated between attack and defense, giving no chance for Ropord or Fel to focus on any single target.
Unlike Teresa's situation, their fight was a battle of attrition.
The crusaders' strategy chipped away at the duo's stamina.
Among their enemies were two who had almost reached the level of knights.
Both exhibited remarkable patience, synchronizing seamlessly with their comrades and taunting mercilessly.
"Idiots."
"Do you even know where you are?"
"You're both fools."
"We'll cut out the tongue of the loudest one first."
"How many times do we have to warn you? You're dead meat."
"Go cry for your mommy."
Their jeers stung, their words sharp as daggers.
The goat-bearded paladin with a sly, conniving look stood out, his mocking tone enough to make blood boil.
His deliberate mispronunciation of insults added fuel to the fire, leaving no doubt that these paladins were well-versed in psychological warfare.
Not all twenty enemies spoke, but with over ten of them taunting verbally, it was nearly impossible for just two to come out on top in the exchange of words.
Inevitably, both Ropord and Fel had to endure a constant cycle of jeers and attacks.
Swish.
A spearhead grazed Fel's cheek, drawing blood.
Stepping back, he kicked a stone with the tip of his foot.
The movement had been calculated from the beginning, designed to create an opening in the opponent's defense.
Ping!
The rock shot forward but was intercepted by the shield of a soldier emerging from behind.
Thunk!
The impact was so strong that the stone shattered on contact, scattering pieces everywhere, but that was all it accomplished—no opening was made.
On the opposite side, Ropord was busy deflecting incoming spear thrusts and morning star swings, using his sword's blade to parry and evade.
How would this fight play out if it continued this way?
Fel didn't need an answer; he already knew.
And if he could figure it out, Ropord certainly understood it even better.
After all, Ropord specialized in analyzing such situations.
"Hey."
Fel called out to him.
"What?"
Ropord replied while maintaining his footwork. Moving in sync with him, Fel asked:
"See an opening?"
The two of them had a notoriously bad relationship—genuinely bad.
But having fought while constantly watching each other's moves, they had become the best-coordinated duo in the order.
Normally, semi knights of their caliber preferred to fight alone rather than in groups; their strength was closer to that of war machines.
Yet for these two, the story was different. Fel knew Ropord's specialty well, and Ropord understood Fel's.
Ropord lacked the explosive strikes Fel wielded.
His swordsmanship was steady and deliberate, focused on gradual buildup, the opposite of Fel's high-impact, one-hit approach.
Of course, Ropord was aware of his own shortcomings, so he was working to blend heavier strikes into his otherwise traditional sword techniques—a style he was learning from Ragna.
Ragna wasn't exactly an ideal teacher, but he also didn't shy away from sparring, which had yielded some progress.
On the other hand, Fel's style was all about explosive bursts of power.
He wasn't skilled at drawn-out fights or strategic combat; his instincts, almost animalistic, were his foundation.
Thus, Fel was weaker at tactical engagements compared to Ropord.
But even so, Ropord, who usually preferred to keep his distance from Fel, couldn't resist the sight in front of him.
"Wait... what? Did these guys just say their mother hooked up with a ghoul?"
That came from a goat-bearded Templar, whose smug expression made it clear he was the perfect target.
"A sharp tongue must be the only thing you're good at," Ropord muttered, glancing at Fel.
"Fine," Pell conceded. "I'll leave cutting out that tongue to you."
For once, the Templar's sharp wit managed to unite the two in a shared goal.
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