CHAPTER 71: MOUNTAIN SWORDPLAY

Hours later, Kaelor sat in the wooden tub, the heat of the water loosening the fatigue from his limbs as curls of steam swirled gently around him. His short blonde hair clung damply to his scalp, beads of water sliding down his pale, angular face.

They traced the sharp line of his jaw, gathered beneath his chin, then dropped in soft, rhythmic splashes into the tub below, each one echoing faintly in the stillness of the room.

His brown eyes stared into the distance, unfocused and brooding. His thoughts were far from the warmth surrounding him, preoccupied instead with the grim truths Damien had laid bare. Ivory Hill was becoming a calamity. Despite the current measures, offering two sheep a week to appease the beasts and culling those bold enough to stray near the exit, it simply wasn’t enough.

The danger was evolving faster than they could react.

With the alarmingly high reproductive rate of the Colossal Urus and Mountain Urus, the threat still loomed larger by the day. The bighorn sheep population had not only recovered but was flourishing. Many had already birthed two or even three lambs, never just one.

And what was more frightening was the pace of their growth. In just three months, a Mountain Uru, regardless of gender, would fully mature, an insane velocity compared to the usual seven to twelve months in natural cycles.

The Colossal Urus were only slightly slower, reaching full maturity in five months. And both rare beasts birthed twice a year.

It was monstrous potential. Potential that should have been a blessing... but it seemed to be all for the bats.

All of it, all of that hard-won promise, stood to be obliterated by the ever-growing threat of the Giant Devil Bats. Monstrous wings that blotted the sky. Shrill cries that turned dusk into dread.

Kaelor’s jaw clenched.

He stood abruptly, water sloshing around the sides of the tub as he climbed out. Not bothering to dry off completely, he dressed quickly and strode into his room. His hand went straight for the chest beside his bed, lifting the lid to reveal the stack of Weapon Master booklets. His fingers hovered, then stopped on one, longsword.

He pulled it out and sat on the edge of his bed, the aged cover warm against his fingers. His brown eyes scanned the first page, absorbing the words.

’Steady as the earth, unmoving as the mountain, heavy as the hill—this is the mountain swordplay.’

He squinted. This wasn’t like the Human Emperor’s technique, which had struck at the soul, igniting one’s hidden heart from the very first stance. No, this was something else entirely. This wasn’t finesse.

It was Brutal, grounded, unapologetic strength. A path forged not by insight, but by power. Raw and undiluted. The kind wielded by warriors with unrelenting might.

"System, fuse."

[30 FP deducted!]

The words lifted off the pages in a soft glow, floating, then dissolving into fine strands of light that wound around Kaelor’s body. The author’s philosophies, the meditations, the refined will that shaped each stance, all of it, soaked into Kaelor’s mind and muscle.

The booklets were merely guidance in the hands of most, a seed of thought. But the system bypassed that stage. It took the intention behind each line and amplified it, reshaping Kaelor’s understanding as though he had trained under the very Sword Expert who wrote it.

An echo of that expert’s presence now lingered in him.

Driven by that fire, Kaelor stood again, gripping his sword.

He stepped out into the backyard.

The evening breeze tugged lightly at his clothes, but his stance was already firm, feet spaced wide, heels planted into the packed earth like roots driven into stone. His muscles tensed, the cords in his arms shifting beneath his skin as he raised his blade.

The longsword’s weight was far too light for his liking. It lacked the weight this style demanded. But for now, it would have to do. His vision flickered, he could almost see the Sword Expert before him. A man with a broad back and eyes calm as still stone, lifting his heavy sword with both hands. His posture was perfect. His presence, immense.

A mountain, waiting to strike.

That same will, the arrogance of immovable earth, filled Kaelor’s chest.

He lifted Ignis, letting it slice upward through the air and brought it crashing down in a brutal diagonal arc. The sword didn’t touch the ground, yet the sheer force of the strike left a deep gash in the earth.

"One," Kaelor muttered, voice low, eyes gleaming with a hardened determination. There was no hesitation.

He stepped forward and swung Ignis in a wide, horizontal slash, shoulder to hip, a sweep meant to cleave a man in two, a strike that could shear the legs of a warhorse. As the imagined horse fell, Kaelor twisted his waist, raising the sword in a sharp, rising arc. He pictured it clearly: the rider following the horse to the earth, only to meet a flash of steel that severed his head from his shoulders.

An upward stroke that screamed in defiance against gravity itself.

His body moved on instinct, burned by the momentum of that will. Mana surged through his channels, flooding his limbs, nourishing his muscles, bones, and tendons. Every swing of Ignis carried more weight, more intention, as if the sword were a hundred pounds and the earth demanded resistance with every step.

Time blurred around him.

Minutes, then hours passed. Yet Kaelor remained, a figure dancing with steel beneath the darkened sky, the soft hum of mana surrounding him like a storm barely held in check. Deep gashes littered the ground. Even the short stone wall that bordered the yard bore the scars of his relentless practice, grooves and slashes that told the story of a man carving strength into reality with every swing.

Fusing with two Expert booklets didn’t elevate him to the rank of Master. That wasn’t how the path worked.

Swordmasters stood on a summit of their own. Titans in human form. They commanded the loyalty of seasoned knights, directed the tides of battle from the frontlines, and held authority strong enough to silence lesser men with a glance. Their footsteps echoed across forts, and their blades shifted the morale of men.

One Swordmaster could cleave through a dozen Sword Experts with skill alone.

But even if Kaelor had not yet ascended to that formidable peak, he had climbed higher within the realm of the Expert. His understanding deepened, sharpened like the sword in his grasp.

His will forged tighter, less forgiving. There was new depth to his every strike, a grounded confidence in the way he moved, in the way his mind approached combat. His rhythm had matured. His thoughts were faster. His instincts, honed.

Hound, formidable as he once was, wouldn’t last long against him now. Kaelor was no longer a peer. He was on the verge of eclipsing his current rank. One more step, one more fuse, and perhaps, perhaps, he would begin to knock on the gates of mastery.

But for now, sweat soaked through his tunic. His arms were heavy with strain, shoulders aching from countless repetitions. Mana still trickled into him, soothing and nourishing flesh, yet fatigue crept behind it.

He stopped, chest rising and falling. The wind had shifted, colder now. The scent of dew touched his nose. He looked up, breath fogging the air.

Clouds drifted beneath the pale moon, thin and lazy as they passed, uncaring of the toils of men.

’It’ll soon be dawn... I should have rested,’ he thought with a weary sigh, running a hand through his damp hair.

Then he heard something, faint, soft, almost like cloth brushing fog.

His eyes narrowed, trained ears picking the direction. A faint silhouette emerged from the white veil, a figure slender and composed, approaching the low fence that marked the backyard’s boundary.