Down on the sand, there were many pieces of cracked, and forcefully torn metallic plates. Some were thick, and others weren't even shattered but bent or torn out of the bigger pieces.
Razmund wasn't that gentle with useless things, which didn't work up to his standards. They seemed like nothing special but some scraps of utter nonsense and useless metal. They were part of a Grade S Equipment Set of level 62 made of heavy manaforged alloys. They were quite valuable, but they weren't for someone like Thar to hit them.
Looking towards the source of everything, Razmund wasn't happy or afraid. He briefly glanced down to the ground but changed his mind as fast as smacking Paulfred to the ground. His eyes glared far, arriving 200 meters away into the large area full of undead. They waited, as he saw it. Thar did too.
Shaking in anger, even his mouth quivered and his hands trembled. Razmund didn't smile this time around, nor this was part of the original excitement and hope. It was an ashen realization that reality hit him. It wasn't pleasing him, but it indeed reached under his skin and shattered something dear to his heart.
The mere notion of the Encounter vanished from his mind, as something personal spread in his head instead.
This fight became personal with this little exchange, turning this into a play of ego and desires. He won't live this mistake down and will do his damned best to latch onto his claymore all so better.
Now that he felt he had the power necessary to walk hand-to-hand with the powers close to the nations, it was fine to be ruthless. It was a matter of perspective, but he was of quite some power, albeit not within the same threshold as Tier A or B powers, let alone Extremes. A voice to change things around at such a level wasn't for his level 65 to do.
Not yet, he figured and understood.
Razmund was still in a similar range of power when he met Murai for the first time. Nothing much can change in a week unless one endures hardships and goes through rather hard Battleworld endeavors. Dungeons were the most common means to reshape and change one's powers.
Some could take a couple dozen minutes until completion, to hours or days till the end. It depended on the difficulty and their level or origin. There were some harsh and extremely difficult dungeons. The harshest of circumstances in them would take months or years to solve, but those were rather rare to meet, and even harder to complete.
For Razmund to have level 65 was already splendid enough, considering his age was less than 30. He was a human, and he was no beast, nor someone with a weird bloodline or powerful physique.
Feeling the raging blood in his veins, and the pressure of the undead before him, he felt challenged. Unsightly was merely his face, but rising tides of mana spread inside his core, filling him with power until it leaked out of his skin. Yet his face hid a notion of fury and deep resolution to get serious or regret trying.
200 meters away, below the massive mountain filled with sand and many hills and stone blocks. An ancient temple stood there for a long time, albeit it was hidden for the majority of the time. Outside wasn't that important at the moment, as the mountain was mere upfront, or a simple callback to let it be a place off limits to Men.
The temple was visible for all eyes to see, standing in the same spot as it was found more than 3 dozen millennia ago, but buried in the sand. In a different manner, context, and state, of course, but with the notion of power that prevailed through the years. That sort of feeling never disappeared from this place, even though the previous god lost its way.
It had a new owner now and new rules to go along with its new purpose and standing in this new world.
Right.
This was the Battleworld and Razmund felt included to follow its principles to the core and taste Thar's power.
It was obvious now. No other undead came his way. Only Thar had some interest, and the difficulty spike applied to the Welcoming Party too.
The rest of his group was within the range of the destroyed storms, not far from the standing Razmund. Thar allowed them all to see the impressive state and clarity of the Levandis Temple, or perhaps it was a mishap to see his might and Undead Army?
Only he knew if he desired to test Razmund, or if that single finger meant something else. Lika a shush? A pressing finger to one's mouth to cease the nonsense away? That may be that.
Gordfiend and the rest all saw the mountain, as well as the unholy amount of undead standing right before the temple. Even though they were 200 meters away, it sent chills down their spines.
Gordfiend was the first to speak, feeling not that confident at this sight. “Holy mother winky shit! I saw only the picture of this mess, and heard stories! Has Death already formed a Welcoming Party? What the hell we are waiting for?” he mumbled in agitation, turning around to face his men. “Brothers! Let's welcome them as well. Uaaargh!” He let out a war cry, and soon enough, the rest of his man followed with a roar as well.
With him included, there were 10 of them, and they formed a Fury Group. The 9 of his brothers let their cloaks away since the storm was gone, revealing a bare chest, and a distinct, yet similar appearance to Gordfiend. It was clear none of them were his brothers, yet all of them had the same appearance. Bald head, mustache under the nose, and bulging muscles. It was a strange sight, but their strangeness was like their leader's.
That was one of the reasons they were here.
“Not yet, you bunch of lunatics.” said the mask-covered woman as they almost charged to the combat and messed things up that much more. They shouldn't force the party up yet. It was improper and only one should start it all. It seemed she knew the plans that Razmund had for them and Gordfiend didn't.
As if afraid, but more so than that, hesitating because of her, Gordfiend stopped and pulled a hand to the air, indicating a stoppage. He stopped so suddenly that some of his brothers bumped into him, yet he remained firm on his feet as if nothing would force him to the ground again.
“What is the point of this? Is it not a time for a Welcoming Party? A polite action is to welcome the welcomed. You haven't learned such manners, I bet. It is only polite, but nobody seems to be aware of common sense. How disappointing! I was told I could go wild!” he reasoned with an unyielding tone, oblivious to his lack of skill in reading the atmosphere.
In fact, he was widely grinning, while his muscles were sweating profusely. Veins and muscles were already twisting apart on his robust body as if each thread of muscles was trying to overcome the other. He was already ready to burn and forge his path forward.
“Shut up.” the woman said again, sighing as if she gave up on him a long time ago. Though, she at least had the power to point her finger forward, pointing at Razmund who started walking forward in his new appearance. “It is only proper for the leading force to decide what he wants to do and create. He is the chosen one for this. Don't forget it, " she said, still not discarding her cloak, hood, or her mask.
This, or her words made Gordfiend unhappy, but he couldn't help to agree and not make some mistakes that he would later regret.
After all, he battled Razmund before, and a lingering strike from this woman was due to some respect. It went hand in hand with Razmund, whose beatings were very honest, and every time he fought him, he almost never recognized himself afterward. Gordfiend wasn't willing to piss that man for sure, and the same was going with this woman.
In fact, one of them was more terrifying than the other, but voicing it out loud wasn't a good idea. Not now.
Shuddering his arms down, disappointment was apparent on his face, yet his body remained heated up under the undeniable Will to keep going forward. But he agreed on Razmund's time first, so he will remain waiting for his chance.
Observing Razmund will at least become a fine time to spend his time, and it won't be boring. From his point of view, he looked at how Razmund was holding the claymore in one hand, letting the tip creak through the sand as he walked in a straight line forward.
Where and what for?
That question entered his mind, as Razmund's walk ended before the strongest-looking undead in the group of hundreds. There was a wide-open path for him to walk through, which ended before a massive undead on top of a large horse. It wasn't clear to him what, or who was stronger. In fact, it was hard to feel the difference between who was the strongest undead from such a large distance.
Since Thar was so far from them, pressure rising from the cluttering bones and hundreds of undead, was an encompassing storm of unnatural feelings. It wasn't even mana which was the craziest. Their mere presence was enough to create some doubts and fear and it was pushing to them like one large entity.
Someone unfamiliar with it wouldn't be as clear about Thar and his strength at all, but Gordfiend wasn't an idiot, even though he seemed like one. He felt the pressure and power he couldn't fathom with his head, but he sure could feel it with his body.
Sweat spread around his skin and muscles, and a tingling feeling spread over his body hair. It was a strange analogy, but it was as if every fiber in his body was jolted up, ready to brawl or hoping to escape and survive at all costs. It was a form of self-preservation. An instinct. Gordfiend slammed his chest with his fist and then slapped and fist-punched his cheek. He wasn't upset but hopeful to see things clearly, and he grinned afterward.
All of it wasn't because of him, but for something better that will be waiting for him.
As the group returned to being the spectators once more, Razmund was grasping his claymore with utter calmness, as if he was taking a stroll through a field of roses. It was the exact opposite of that, but once again, he didn't see the difference in either. Without his cloak, Razmund had nothing to obscure his face or movements.
He was also barechested, showing dozens of contorted scars made from all kinds of weapons within many muscles. Some were cuts, others bruisers or puncture wounds. Some even traveled all the way around his back. Yet even through that, he held a beautiful, and surprisingly thin-looking body beneath that clutter from before. All of that armor was quite thick, yet it was what armor was for. Without it, he was visibly thinner and with a lean physique of a swordsman.
Still, he wore the remaining armor pieces, since they weren't in pieces or baring to his body. He didn't destroy them before. Arms pieces and even gauntlets remained, which had openings for fingers. His bottom pieces gave him some vigilance of a knight~in this case, a Falconer kind of pride, but it wasn't as if it was important to him.
It wasn't even 4th or 5th most important thing for him, similar to his armor.
For the most part, his claymore was more than enough for his needs. Far from anything else, or anyone. It was almost undeserving if he would ever utter an honesty.
However, the lack of the thicker armor didn't mean he was small, or big. The muscles in his chest had the right proportions to his head, not making him too tall, sizable, or thick. Nothing was out of place or proportions and he seemed well-versed in proper body training. His physique must be better than average.
A body suitable for the swordsmanship of his unique Path was all he needed, yet it still lacked some aspects and was yet to be perfect. He had a clearly defined 6-pack, a thin waist, and a chest that was round, and firm as unrip apple. It wasn't yet up to his standards, even though it seemed strong and well-developed.
Apart from that, another notable part was his arms and his biceps, which were quite large and well outside of the rest of his proportions, yet hidden behind the armor. They were bigger because of his unique swordsmanship, and his main weapon.
As for the forearms, they were hiding under the gauntlets, but they shouldn't be all that much thinner. His shoulders weren't the widest part of his arms, giving him some slimmer and tighter flexibility for his swordsmanship. After all, he wasn't some brawler, nor did he need a build like a bear.
He needed flexibility, which provided his well-built back. It seemed there was a demon sculpted from the shoulder blades, trapezius muscles, and his back in general. It was something akin to the layered face in a vision of a ferocious demonic enemy.
Soon, he ended 10 meters before Thar again, while it seemed that the rest of the undead made more space between them. None were around 15 meters around, making some space for himself and Thar.
Thar stood like a true king, observing the incoming challenger on his lofty throne. “You took my single finger rather easily. I wanted to break your loose armor completely, so I speculate it is better than I guessed.” Thar said, his voice resounding throughout the surroundings. Skeletons remained standing around, clustering their bones as if they desired to charge forward as Gordfiend tried.
Even the group that remained 200 meters away viewed things in rare silence. They won't do a thing, because this entire situation was what Razmund wanted and deserved. He will eat up his fill, and none shall question or stop it.
All according to a Centralis plan, one would think.
Wrong. Razmund changed some of those small plans they had, because of his private issue.
It was a rather insensible matter, Central Church would say, but there was no religion, or rules to shackle him. This was his Encoutner, filling his ego and desire with ridicule and amassing knowledge of his Path which desired this Encounter.
Razmund had only one shackle. Encounter and his own heart. That was two, or one thing in fact. Sometimes, he didn't see any difference in either, so he didn't consider it as two different things. It was the same with many desires one could have.
Most of his group was full of capable individuals, apart from indirect ones, such as Gordfiend's little toys.
They were more than capable of venturing toward the temple, but it was another question in what way? Razmund had his own plans, yet what went on in the many gates below the surface may be more than worse for them.
Out of the group of fever than 20 people, only Razmund and someone else were there twice. Paulfred, Waldorf, and masked women had their time there, but that was only for the first-timers. Their 2nd Time will await.
Every start was simpler than any following tries. It was a common fact in many dungeons unless they would have fixed points.
Alas, what may be a limit in the eyes of the extraordinary, Blessed viewed this temple as nothing but a challenge in a similar way to the Origin Dungeons on the 5 continents. Considering the hundreds of sub-dungeons and other kinds of various places across the lands, one couldn't fathom them all. Viewing them even in a nice light was a rarity and vanquishing at least 10% of them was already a feat of one's life.
For once, this Levandis Temple will have some interesting Rules that were quite fitting for Razmund's tastes and it was too perfect to not exploit them. Though he wasn't the one who came up with it, it didn't bother him.
Everything went for the desires and reasons for the Encounter, while some other figures will plow through this Encoutner, exploiting its worth and interest for their own benefits. Razmund will be a part of their hopes.
He indifferently kept his silence and didn't answer Thar's question about his armor. He kept staring at him, while Thar returned to his curiosity and silent wonder but it didn't last long.
“Tell me, what sort of armor was that, will you?” Thar said, and if one would say he was smiling, one would be an idiot. It was either a devilish grin, a casual smile, or both. “I am dying to know it... You know?” The last part had some mockery, so was he joking?
Razmund wasn't one to laugh, so he kept some space between him and Thar, hoping to get some clear idea on an opening act.
“Armor doesn't matter,” Razmund answered at last, stalling for time. “My body is much stronger than some measly armor that can obscure one's body. It is fit with blood, sweat, and tears of ages and countless trials, errors, and training, yet it seems some don't need to do that.”
“Was that a joke at my little poor living?” Thar said and seemed a bit offended so he through of a counter. “Then why have the armor to begin with? Is that sensible? Humans are really stupid, I must say.” he joked, and soon enough, Razmund was there once again ready to strike.
Blinkless and strained like a bowstring ready to discharge, he was in the range of Thar's bones with his claymore.
Claymore was a long weapon, and for a single-bladed sword, it held a tremendous range.
Alas, it needed skill and efficiency to use it to one's advantage. Its range was enormous in proper hand and it was hard to master. Razmund knew it and didn't need a lot of room to get some opportunity to strike. All he needed was a bit of a range, timing, and desire to strike.
“You are wasting time here with all this slow walking. Don't you think you want to the temple as fast as you can? Time is ticking.” Thar asked as he watched his body change.
“Silent! I know my foe, but the foe can't know me. It is my advantage, while this is just a brief path I have chosen. You, Undead King, are a stepping stone toward that desire. That is all to it.” Razmund said as he grasped the handle of his claymore with both palms and placed it beyond his head vertically.
Like this, the whole claymore's body and edge were closing on Thar's height even with the horse included. It was facing him like an axe to chop his head off. For this sort of stance to be that high, even though he was on his mount, Thar found it quite interesting.
“Oho? You are stoppin' with the physical strength alone? You aren't as stupid as I feared.” Thar commented, yet Razmund wasn't a chatty person if he didn't want to talk or stall.
He reforged his promise to himself, yet forgiving himself for his inability was a tough decision. He was angry at himself for not going all out before, and no one else should say otherwise.
That was right.
He didn't go all to in his first move.
Razmund exploded his Mana Core this time around, which was under his Path and Shaping. He wasn't a mage, but a kind of knight with some magical properties. He was at no peak of ordinary knighthood, and his strength was undeniable. His Path was under the Pathway of Magic and Sword.
He held utmost care in his mind toward this duality, and it wasn't rare for a sword to handle the magic.
The fact that he survived a strike from Thar with minor injuries spoke for that itself. He was an absolute tank.
Now, it was time to see if he could even do something to Thar with the proper attitude and not some underwhelming tactics like using physical strength alone. It was foolish, and he only paid with his armor alone, which was a cheap price for stupidity.
He was similar to the many kinds of Magic Knights but not really in the grand scheme of context. It would be too generic for him, so he had something better—something specific with sword and mana combined together.
He was no Berserker from the Radagan who wielded both mana and sword as one, with a major part of physique playing a large role. Nor was he a Fencer from Zeanor, who would focus on a sword with a small addition to magic.
One couldn't perceive all of the possible sword Paths from many layers of continents, or even from more distances. Many Blessed took their paths from the past life, which they may use or not. In this way, a whole lot of techniques moved to this world in this way, and countless times, they were incorporated into many Paths.
Razmud wasn't far from having the most careful Path one would ask for, but he did succeed in finding a passable one.
His Path was that of the claymore but with a simple way of name to make it shine. Path of the Sword Sage was the official name of his Path swordsmanship. He got it after an exuberating amount of effort and torturous training by his master. Getting it was the tougher part. It involved a certain vanquished hidden dungeon. The kind that few knew about, and even fewer accomplished it, as it was Remnant Dungeon. An ancient kind of place, among the Origin ones.
Razmund had this Path for less than 10 years, and his current stage was that of a Sword Mage of Class C. 2nd one out of an unknown number of Classes within that Path, but he was fine with what he had. It was already better than what any generic Sword Paths can provide.
He was yet to be comfortable with leaping to the 3rd Stage called Sword Saint, since it required confidence and powers beyond level 70. There was a need for time, improved mana, physique, and swordsmanship. For now, the Sword Mage was enough because it was a unique type of Path, combining magic and weapon, along with the body.
There was nothing else cluttering one's mind. Just one's body, sword, and enchanting either of them with magic.
That was a simple premise.
Using magic, Conjuring and Shaping was up to his alley, but not in a way one would expect from a regular mage. He wasn't one. He was a Sword Mage. Razmund's largest advantage was his status of a Blessed. He and many others like him had one of the strongest connections to the world that one could ask for.
A fate and talent, one would say, but it also put forth large demands, reasons, and desires from the gods.
Razmund knew his pros and cons, but using them to fuck with his ego was one thing. The one was doing what he should, and shouldn't do.
This was precisely the kind of situation where he had to force himself up and swallow his anger. He will make due power moves.
One Sword.
That was a major technique under the Path of a Sword Sage. It relied on the special circumstances that could come naturally, or by force. It was a state of mana and the sword, combing both together under a seeming resonance and care. It will also give birth to an unfathomable amount of might, as one's entire body would become a sword or channel for mana. It required the user to use a single type of sword for the entire duration of following this Path.
That was a tough requirement, but as with many things among the many Paths, there were advantages and disadvantages.
On his claymore's surface, a distinct glamor was emerging from Razmund's hands, while his body was no different. His mana surged like mindless waves out of his body, flowing toward his sword. It was like a layer of silk at first, and thanks to the clear sky above him, it was glamorous in the sunlight. It was thin and almost unrecognizable from the sunlight.
It was Razmund's mana of rich properties. It had high-quality Sharpness Affinity, enveloping and submerging his claymore with an increasing number of layered waves under his One Sword technique. It was gentle like a breeze of wind, and then, it began turning faster and faster, revolving into storming waves in the middle of the oceanic tornado.
And it wasn't stopping until mana reached a certain threshold, turning from a silky glow of azure whiteness to a mixture of azure and red.
“Blood is a neverending abyss. The body is a Temple. Abyss can face anything, and anything can face everything. One Sword Technique - 1st Dance - Cleaving the Earth into Two” Razmund let out no cry or emotions and recited sentences from the parts of the Sword Sage chapters.
It was a simple and calm tone he spoke, and instead of shouting like a madman, he rather let the sword itself scream.
By now, the claymore was like a raging tornado, with spiked mana fluctuations engulfing the whole claymore by turning it longer and thicker. From the thin yet long claymore became a large mass of swirling mana. It was in itself not as thick, but because of its length, it looked heavy and large.
Claymore was a very straightforward sword, with a straight body and a double-edged type of blade. A sharp tip at the end was good for stabbing, but it wasn't an ideal sword for that, because of the length of the blade which was, in Razmund's case, 140 centimeters long. Add to that the not-so-tiny handle, it was as large as his height.
Yet, the use of One Sword made the claymore many times more flexible, and as strong as a chopping axe, or other types of stronger weapons. There was Odachi, a two-handed type of curved blade known to cleave bison and many humans in half with a simple swipe. The peak of that swordsmanship could do that very easily, of course.
One can't simply hand someone a treasured sword and swing it and win. It never worked like that.
Without a doubt, there were a lot of types of swords, yet Razmund had a claymore. A rather unpopular type of sword with certain clunkiness and not much standing at the present age. It was a massive straight sword, with fewer redeeming qualities than others. That would tell any ordinary blacksmith, yet in terms of uniqueness and this world, sometimes the weird things didn't matter.
It may have less flexibility than some curved blades or simple straight swords, but anything could turn right in the right hands of unique Paths.
Razmund had no doubts about that, but if there was a mistake, one should overcome it or fix it.
How?
The sword was only a dense and crafted metal. It was never a Path by itself. It needed a good wielder to achieve some purpose, and that was that fix for everything. Every problem will have some way to fix it and it wasn't up to the sword to decide that.
The question was, what Razmund can do with his claymore? It was a storm above his head, yet what was the edge and not?
Could mana cut through the secular world, and reach the physicality as strong as metal could?
Of course. Murai was doing so since he restarted his re-familiarity with his own mana.
The use of Mana Blade was a bit similar to what was Razmund doing right now, but instead of imagining and using mana alone, he was using a catalyst for channeling the mana. This was how most conventional mages would describe it.
It was a popular and most sough-out method of enhancing and improving the use of swords, or anything in Pahtway of Magic. Of course, when one had mana and talent, or if a sword could actually take the mana with its structure, it could differ. A weakly forged blade would crack and shatter under this sort of power of one's mana, and if a sword-bearing soldier wasn't familiar with it, it will have mild effects.
Razmund was using a real sword, while Murai was creating one with mana alone.
Both of them had their specialties, but to tell which was stronger, it became very subjective and dependable on many factors.
Thar looked at Razmund before him with little of no interest. The strength of the claymore and what went above him was what was interesting, and this little challenger was something he expected to bite back. He remembered him from his two meetings already. Last time, he was merely a powerful Blessed at the starting point of his Path. The first time wasn't worth mentioning since he wasn't even an adult.
Now, he seemed like a man of conviction and will to shake things up.
Thar was thinking of his own reflection on those times, and he couldn't help but question the land of the living. It was too long... since he saw it. He wasted and tossed that sort of living away. It was too long ago since he was standing amongst the living, but it will never happen again, since he sinned, and deserved what the heavens got him.
So, Thar let go of the reins and opened his arms wide like a true messiah before facing the heavens.
Without any word, he put forth a clear message. “Come and try me! I will bore your sword.”
Razmund's unblinking eyes met Thar's Soul Flames. He wasn't afraid, as he was reliant and confident in his own ability, but he knew the limits. This was just a test. There was no way he could cut or damage Thar's origin at all.
So, he let go of the shackles and decisive thoughts alike. Swinging the blade after taking a wide step forward while swaying his back, he arranged every fiber of his muscles like a tensed-up bowstring. It also seemed the mana and the sword itself curved into an arc, similar to Razmunds' back. He wasn't overly fast in this move, but it wasn't slow either.
By now, the claymore was almost 4 meters tall with all of the swirling mana that was ascending upwards. Then, Razmund swung it at Thar, turning this whole wavy storm of sharp lines forward. They were before the true edge of his claymore, which was behind. Everything went forward, cutting and trying to feel Thar's body, who felt the mana enough and turned his bony right hand forward, pointing at the real claymore with a single finger.
Thar didn't even sway on his mount when this tidal wave hit him. Yet, the power of this One Sword + 1st Dance, kept going, striking forward with everything it had. Razmund even stomped on the ground, jumping upwards to add some weight to this move.
That was enough for Thar to struggle with one finger, so he put forth another one, which ended up losing too. So he used the 3rd and then the 4 to stabilize the situation.
He was yet to put forth the thumb, which was the strongest of the fingers, yet it was already enough. Thar sneered inside and looked at Razmund who was in midair, clutching the claymore not so far away from his face in the desire to kill. He was looking like a demon, eyes twisted, muscles tensed up, while the crimson mana added him some edge.
He was eyeing every power, hope, and desire to test himself. There were no second thoughts, or the temple in there.
It was worth the praise and interest. it was very honest too.
There was no pain in them either, when he noticed that not even this all-out attack wasn't enough to force Thar to use a full hand. All it took was 4 fingers to stop his 1st Dance, while no amount of mana, sharpness, or combination of sword, mana, and body did a thing.
Though, Razmund wasn't giving up, and kept sending forth his strength. Since he already started, he will seek through the end of this failure and use every fiber of his mana and strength.
“Unfathomable Sharpness. Your mana is decent too, for a made-up knight with... some Sage feeling to him? That is rare... You must have a Remnant Mark, and your mana went through the first Awakening. Impressive.” Thar stated, unbothered by the raging currents of the mana that couldn't possibly damage his bones, but it did bombard his chest, cloak, and face too.
This was too large of a strike, but the strongest point of this attack didn't move past the 4 fingers. His already tattered cloak became more tattered. It wasn't a big deal. It revealed more of his body, which was made of thick and dull-looking bones.
With the move basically over, Thar placed another hand forward and did one thing Razmund didn't expect, or to be precise, what he feared.
Thar made a thumbs up.
“Good job. You pass.”