Tough ideas and realizations were stressing and gritting his nerves for long enough. Razmund wasn't an impatient guy in heart, but he was brutal in many different ways and also many acts. When desires swayed the heart, emotions, and reasons moved.
He hated the fact that the slowly creeping advances hindered his hunt. He doubted he would catch Murai at this Gate, but what if he was close? Perhaps it was wishful thinking or something that eased his time.
He still had his chances at Gate 3 if things got worse. It was a Gate he knew way too well after spending weeks in there, touching its premises, and surviving its lands. It was an interesting place, but Razmund focused on his current problems.
He was always very strong and straightforward, almost like a sword he always had in mind. This world carried that wish, giving him a Path that was like pen writing a book. Some things were meant to be, he believed.
Razmund sighted, unwilling to talk to Lint anymore, or hear his nonsense that had its validity. Razmund recognized that he killed too many foes, but he couldn't stop it. The situation about the Encounter angered Overlords for sure, or could it involve Levandis as well?
Gods shouldn't be his concern, but what about the whole Encounter? Gods were always touching them how they wanted, using them as means in various political touches or personal vendettas or plots. It always touched on the mortals, of course.
Gods shouldn't become too personal with him, Razmund knew. Well, unless the Centralis Kingdom would get personal with its own heavy forces across this whole situation, or if more Tier A powers suddenly got involved. Everything should then vary in their steps. Encounter needed that care, which Centralis knew. They won't be too obvious in any of their tries for obvious reasons.
A single Tier A power would never fare well against a Hell Haven, but taking it on with Encounter's rules? That was a different story. It didn't matter if it was the youngest Hell of them all or the power in the Surface with a rich history and many Sages in their midsts.
A proper Hell Haven was way too dangerous for even the strongest person on the Surface of the Battleworld. It was a large place, carrying secrets from the Depths of this world. Chaos was dangerous. Demonic factions were vast thanks to the Gods that clashed against the Skies in so-called balance and desired fights.
Something was still salvageable. Razmund knew that Gate 3's variables weren't problematic. They were almost good for him because they meant to take a long and open time. It wasn't about fighting any longer. Tactics, knowledge, and wits outplayed those in Gate 3. Or those who were unfamiliar with the way of the Hell Havens.
Razmund knew how to handle them thanks to his claymore.
One still had to be a good tactician, albeit the power still ruled above certain limits. He was there to hunt Murai down, so he was almost looking forward to that more than catching him in this Gate. Perhaps it was a fitting choice, as this Gate was problematic in its location and premise.
Anyone would find obscurities of various lengths and layers. And there was no escaping him if he played his cards well. As far as Razmund knew, the fastest way to finish it was still a couple of hours, which must be outside of his target' possibilities.
It still gave him lingering fear, because he didn't know where Murai was, what his strengths were, or how well his journey through this Gate went. Apparently well enough, evident by Razmund's inability to catch him.
So there were a lot of worries. If he let him get a long or steady way forward, Murai might leave him in the dust, but Razmund still believed in his tactics, what he knew, or what Centralis forced and helped him with.
Razmund calmed down, no longer willing to be worried. He waited for his core and stamina to calm down before he stepped into another mess.
That was a good idea, even though Lint pestered him for a good reason. Guides were responsible for the Challengers no matter what, and their problems or good merits meant a lot for their well-being, reputations, and spirits.
Inside the Islands, it was calm without such pestering, so Razmund rested for just 5 minutes, which was enough for Lint to give him all the words he had.
“Heh!” Lint snorted. “You are quite pathetic in this state. I swear, if you kill this Island, you won't like the consequences.” He commented upon knowing all the visible frustration on his fleshly face. This was the best way to punish this punny human, although Razmund's irritation wasn't about Lint's words. It was just his voice that annoyed him.
“Watch... Just watch. Calmly, like your eyes can't allow you. I will prove my point by going there, accepting whatever this temple has to offer, and getting out without problems. Think I can't do that?”
“Wanna bet some points?”
“Wanna test my claymore on your remaining arm? I can do many things. It will take longer, like carving the socket for your other eye. That's it. I will do that later.” Razmund argued as he closed his eyes, repeating mantras from his Path in his mind. They should help sharpen his mind and ready his claymore.
All noises disappeared, the wind became a hue of foggy air, and when he opened them after a few moments, that was the point where he got up, almost bumping into Lint.
“Don't regret it, alright? Don't do the obvious blunder! You can't take it, I swear.” Lint snorted, clearly unaware of what else to tell this thickskinned man.
Razmund disappeared into the Space Cage, swallowed into the Variant Island.
“Good lord. I hope his death would provide the end to this madness.” Lint said in a mocking tone, sticking his hand into the Space Cage himself, but not disappearing into it. “Didn't think I can't watch? Too bad. I can.”
Arriving on the 68th Island was like walking through a door. Razmund saw the same arena where Murai battled Long Zi, but unlike him, he had a vastly different foe that he had to deal with. Hopefully, without severing the limbs, or other important organs that would be fatal to lose, he hoped to tread this hypocrisy by its rules.
But Razmund wasn't thinking about that. Whether he battled for his life, or when his Path was on the line, swings of his claymore happened on their own. Aftermatch wasn't important. He could only hope the foes could take them without dying, which was the usual case for the past dozens of Islands.
Every foe wanted his scalp, so speaking about not killing them in return was resentful. He deeply wanted to shout at the top of his lungs, refute this temple, and reason how it came to him. It wasn't part of the Voice he so respected, coveted, and cherished.
This was Mindarch's doing.
It was unfair, but where was the fairness of his acts or in what Centralis Kingdom had done? There were questionable grey rules everywhere.
And there, amid the sandy arena, a nasty foe was waiting, ready to slay this problematic Challenger. It was a familiar sight, but not in this temple so far. It was a human opponent, unlike the majority of his past foes which were almost fine to lose.
Those were many beasts and demons, with the undead being the majority. Devils were rare and so were humans. Undead were much easier to crack than living foes because of his Path alone, while their loss was often a matter of stability. Undead could be replenished. Killing what was already dead was kind of hard to comprehend or stop.
Sitting there on the sand, a naked man rested. His back was wide, arms crossed like his legs and he was the epitome of a warrior who prided himself like Zao.
His back was slightly hunched because of his sitting position, but even then, he was still tall. His elbows rested on his legs, while one palm was down his chin, supporting his thick head, thin beard, and impatient mood.
He looked bored, as anyone would be if they had to wait for hours without doing a thing. So when he finally saw the Space Cage waver in action, he cheered loudly like thunder.
“Oh! At last! I was dying out there! Finally here to catch our fight? Thought I would grow another pair of legs.” he said so cheerfully, that it was a wonder if he was here for something else than a fight.
Getting up in a rather strange way, his whole body acted as if he didn't weigh a feather. He flung upwards to his feet, where his legs smacked the sand for the first time. He was undulating wavy streams of space cracks all over his skin, which was a depiction of either: wind, space, mana itself, or some other various powers that had special pushing forces. It made his aura very strong, and every move of his limbs stirred the sand below his feet.
In a mere moment, he got up without even touching the sand before. He was never sitting on top of it, to begin with. He leviated as part of a training regiment that he was subject to.
“Well, here I expected something normal from a Variant Island. Fuck.” Razmund cursed loudly, and by coincidence or not, Mindarch spoke out loud, giving this Variant Island the required attention.
And hearing him and the incoming topic, Razmund met it with disgust and disdain.
[Challanger, before you is your 68th Island.]
[It is a special one, called Variant Island that has a unique set of special rules outside of the normal completions. For you specifically, it acts within the expected means with a twist.]
[Defeat the foe and be rewarded with special rewards.]
[Reward: High Key!]
[Bonus points: 10-fold point boost upon a kill of enemy | 5-fold upon defeating him, or making him give up.]
“What the fuck?!” Razmund shouted. “Killing? Are you fucking with me right now? Now, you giv...”
[Shut up.] Mindarch muttered without a single care given to this mess of a Blessed. He wasn't willing to hear anything after dealing with the mess that Murai caused.
[Your enemy is Level 70 Low Marshal of the Demonic Army]
[Just die already.] Then he shut up this brief and mandatory introduction.
Low Marshal heard it too, but unlike Razmund, he remained smiling and standing in the arena. “I hurried here from the Battleworld,” he said. “An offer of my Lady is hard to tame in one's heart, even if it is nothing more than a trial set upon this blissful temple. Though, I wonder. A cause has some reasons. At least in most cases, right?”
“Shut up,” Razmund mumbled. “Reasons don't matter when Challengers go into this temple from all kinds of places and ideas. All of you are the same. You follow this temple in respective hopes of advancement and power, while you are a human, hm? ”
“Well, so what? Some have it different. For example, high-stakes Challengers that stir too much trouble in many ways are a problem worth mentioning. And this style of Gate 2 is quite a battle-stricken madness, I might tell. It is wonderful that you've chosen that, Challenger.”
Razmund grunted as if he stepped on shit.
“Most wouldn't bother with such a Gate, you see.” the man continued. “And as far as choosing the Thread of Hopes goes, we all get that it isn't as random as it looks. Funny. Peculiar. I wonder what you have in you to stir this place so much.” The sturdy man said with a rather intrigued face that sounded way too honest, confident, and brutish.
Razmund met his match, it seemed.
His whole body was extremely toned down to every sliver of flesh, while all-natural aspects of his body showed he had no shame. At least he wasn't fully naked. He had some armor plates around the waist down and a bit of the thigh.
A Low Marshal of demonic armies was a major figure.
Looking like a mountain that coveted the strength to go against Gods and mountains, he was well over 2 meters tall thanks to his burly and tall legs. A relatively thin weist ensured his proportions were kind of weird, but that was because his back and shoulders were wider and thicker than usual. Muscular was the sole term to describe him, and he showed it all quite a lot more than some would like.
At least he didn't show it all, Razmund would reckon if he didn't know this man.
He did, unfortunate as it may be.
Looking at him with a clear bother, but no disgust, Razmund's whole physique tensed up upon meeting no freak of an exhibitionist. That wasn't a problem, as demons or devils often fought completely naked because of their primordial nature.
The problem was the status that this man held under the Hell Haven that ruled in some layers of the Somalis continent.
He was a human. That was rare, similar to how his Level was only at 70, yet he was considered a Marshal? That was a military rank that was quite close to Overlords, albeit only in the aspects of voices and rules. Not power.
Marshals were often Exremes in the same general power as Generals, who were more private in terms of military strength. Marshals rulers over their respective armies, right under the eyes of Overlords. That meant much more official strength that came with responsibilities.
Low Mashal was the start of that rank, which spoke of his talent and accomplishments. It was a rank amongst the Hell Haven armies that held quite a meaningful reputation and authority.
Having this as a human spoke of a couple of things: prominence, talent, and authority that touched some of the demonic Gods that allowed him to have it.
He was also looking relatively young for a human, posing as a wondering indication of how he managed to get it. He must be powerful and talented to the bone, crashing any competition and anyone who denied him the chance.
He showed great accomplishment by leaking his power all over the arena, traveling everywhere, and giving Razmund a tough wake-up call that he didn't take for granted. It was a feeling alone, but it was more of a warning to take note of this person.
Instincts were calling.
“Oh, you are not the one to talk that much, huh?” the man asked, disappointed that his opponent wasn't a chatty person. He remained smiling the same as usual, undulating his power because he could. Nothing was wrong with that, even if it was a questionable expenditure of his mana when he wasn't on a battlefield.
Here in this temple, mana was enriching, meant to flow like crazy. He liked it so he used this change as much as he wanted.
A personal invitation was something he shouldn't refuse. He took it, of course, not thinking even once about refusing it.
This temple's special invitations were quite a special time. Every foe was a person or a being from the Hell Haven or this Gate. These two weren't that different, however. They were all under Levandis anyway.
Getting a chance to prove yourself before a Challenger was a great merit. Usually, it wasn't an invitation, but an order. Rarely, there were invitations to greater members of Hell Haven. It was treasure itself, as it could highlight one's status across the whole Hell Haven, please Overlords or even Gods.
However, that depended on how the stakes were, how Challengers acted, who they were, and how Mindarch wanted it done. These weren't overly crazy. On most such invitations, it went through at least one Overlord.
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Razmund didn't know the details, even though he was sure there was a lot to tell.
“Let me introduce myself, Challenger.” His opponent said. “Rank of a Low Marshal is my backbone. The 2nd Legion is my home. Name' Luno. Heard of me before, Challenger?” Luno introduced himself with a surprising amount of politeness, pride, and an unending amount of pressuring aura that trembled the sand and pushed against Razmund.
He stood still, no longer caring for some face or hunt. This man was watching him like a fool. A stool to step on.
“Hmph!” He snorted, stepped forward, and introduced himself as best as he could.
He wasn't some raspy idiot who showed too much skin or spoke without thinking. He let his power shine without any care, letting tides of his Cycling Technique rise from his torso. It was crisp red mana, thanks to his Awakened Sharpness that touched upon his Path.
Normally, such Sharpness should be either invisible or not that far from the azure color of mana. After all, what was Sharpness? It wasn't something one would say held some physique. It was a simple act of something sharp, cutting, or dividing something into pieces.
A thin aura engulfed his body next, which wasn't having any effects besides showing off and pestering Luno's aura.
“Razmund of the Falconers. Blessed of the Centralis Kingdom. And I heard of you before, Luno.”
“Oh, I heard of you as well, especially now when stirs of troubles touch too many folks that better be untouched. Though, I do wonder why a not-so-old Blessed does this sort of trickery. As I've heard, doing such madness is one key to an easy End when messing with the Hell.” Luno asked as he rested his palms on his hips.
Strangely enough, there were no veins visible throughout his well-toned body. It was as if his body was sculpted out of the finest, yet a rather filthy brownish marble. Luno's body was of healthy sheen, obviously so, as his physique was one of his core priorities. He spent a lot of time under the sun, battling for a chance to prove himself as someone who came to this world in a different way than a Blessed.
He was Wicked. A person who was in touch with the Hell of this world in a different way than a Blessed. In truth, these two weren't very different, but their reputation or relation to Gods was. Luno still held memories of his past life. He cherished a world full of radiance, battles, and blissful chances. He loved every sun, battled to touch them one day, charred by high temperatures, or wounded in other ways.
Either way, he stood like a marbled statue, while his aura wasn't suppressing his desire for battle.
Razmund looked at his enemy with quite a helpless attitude. Can he defeat him? That will be hard, as his talent was probably out of his league because of his status alone. A Low Marshal of level 70? What kind of Laws or magic did he use to get that position? It shouldn't be easy, so how about killing him? That was ludicrous, as Mindarch offered it himself, but it was more like a mocking test that was out of the question.
“What is this... Where is a sense of reason in this place?”
“Reasons?” Luno chuckled. “Those disappeared the moment you arrived with your band, or so I heard. Though, a lot of it goes outside of that, right into the Sky. Is that correct?” He asked to the ceiling, laughing in the process.
“Sky? We Blessed had no heed to question the rules. They happen in shambles with the Chaos of your so-called Pride. You don't say it is wrong. Nothing is wrong when winners dictate the rules and power allows that.”
“Well said. There is nothing wrong with how Gods do their bidding, if the mortals follow it anyway. Though pain or strings like dolls, it matters not when we follow our hearts too.”
Razmund couldn't disagree with him. He believed in that logic too.
“But what about this meeting?” Luno asked. “We are different, but act in similar hopes.”
“Stop blabbering nonsense. I will try killing you. Hopefully, you won't crumble to pieces. If you do, I am not sorry. That is enough for this charade.” Razmund pressed his hands down his waist, clutching a handle of his claymore with his right hand. His left clutched cold Destiny Dice that reminded him of his Fate.
Right now, and even in the past, he shan't stop clutching it, apart from the moment of every fateful toss, or the finishing side.
He drew the handle, brandishing the full-length claymore beside himself.
With such a view, Luno whistled in honest astonishment, almost clapping cheerfully. “So it is truth? A Claymore Sage? That is some good blade if I see one, so I suppose it shouldn't be hard for it to wound my body.”
“Wanna see the answer to this wonder straight away? I am cheap.” Razmund said, smirking as he walked forward. “Stop right there, offer your head, and I give you the answer the right way.” he proposed a good idea but knew Luno would never take it.
So he went to his fighting stance by grabbing his claymore tightly with a single-handed grip. He was close to starting his primary techniques, but he was practically out of potions, so he took his time with his tactics. At his core and empty stance, he was much better at this stage than before this Gate.
He improved through these 67 Islands similarly as Murai did. He grew accustomed to these challenges though stable, albeit not peak powers.
Luno heard his confident offer and still chuckled. “Thanks. Will pass.”
Then, by sheer confidence and killing intents of both men, both of them glared at each other with unblinking eyes and no longer swayed from the start of the fight. A step forward from either of them would start this fight, which meant momentum that both competed to take.
Luno was most notable because of his visible aura that kept flying out of his body. His armor plates remained unmoving, but Razmund's clothes flickered in the air, while the sand below their feed trembled and moved like water.
Razmund made the first move by engulfing his clamore in mana. He had no choice but to go almost all out straight away, but Danceless, and with the primary teachings of his Path going forward. This was the core of his improvements. Just a claymore and his mana. That was all he had.
His mana will last without a problem. It was one of his strengths as his techniques didn't eat to his reserves. He wasn't a mage who was too dependent on the quantity of mana. He was more dependent on quality because his mana worked in different needs.
Spending a large chunk of mana to improve his claymore poised as a long-term enchantment that didn't require sending spells away, thus spending mana. He should last for a long time while cutting things with a physical blade went as simple as possible through ages so old this world didn't even exist.
This was the simple state of his Awakened Mana that worked with his claymore alone.
Razmund decided to do things slowly for the sake of discovering what Luno could do.
Depending on how flexible either of them will become, Razmund had a single plan in mind. Made Luno give up. That was a harsh task with various possibilities.
How I should go about it? Making him surrounded at the edge of no return. That is a possibility only when I am close to killing him. As before. All those damned demons and fools. They never wanted to acknowledge it. Only when half dead, some swallows their pride. Perhaps this time, this fool will get it with enough force? Razmund thought, remembering many Islands behind him that weren't difficult because they were hard.
Most were annoying. He survived worse.
He was usually choosing not to kill his opponents when possible, which made his current ratio rather poor since his heart wasn't deciding that. He was angry at how close he was to the vague line that may or may not exist.
He didn't know that, but he shouldn't try to discover if it was real. So his successes came in simplest forms by clashing against the opponents until they would bleed out, die straight away, or give up.
It worked well after he went over the 50th Islands when the spike in difficulty turned his tactics worse. It meant trouble because he had to try to go against their thirst for his head.
The further he went, the tougher it was to kill them but also easier to find himself unable to cope with his choices. Making them give up was closer or further, the more problematic the enemy was. It was difficult to let his acts and claymore together, so he had no choice but to work with what he had.
With brutality, this duel against Luno will be no different. So what if he was a Low Marshal? Razmund had no qualms that with enough time, overshadowing this man with his Path alone wasn't a pipedream.
Affirming his inner heart, Razmund clutched the handle of his claymore even tighter and changed the Sharpness Awakened mana into dozens of thin layers of twisting red lines. They swirled around the metallic edge, forming no Dance, but it was close to the 1st Dance.
Lines resembled swords and were thin, similar to the vision of his claymore that acted almost like a Catalyst. It wasn't exactly that, as it was his primary weapon that acted for his sake.
These lines stopped flaring like crazy snakes, thinning and letting their flow go side by side, making his already long claymore even longer and wider. It didn't make it heavier, but hard-to-wield aspects of this mana made swinging sharper and harder.
This was one of the fundamental aspects of his handling Sharness in his current Path Manual. At its core, it was nothing more than a sword covered in Sharpness, but the kind that will sooner or later turn to a Law of Sharpness, Sword, or other various and vague sword-related Laws. Mastering the right foundation was mandatory if he wanted to go all the way to the Extreme.
Mana can move like water or a sword under the right technique and grasp. Some acts and truths about specific powers did change its flow. In this sense, Sharpness was almost unnatural for mana, as it corresponded with swords, blades, and anything sharp, rather than following the principles of elements or what was occurring in nature everywhere.
The sword was man-made, after all, while Sharpness was a forged aspect of mana that was a dream and foundation for any magic-based swordsman.
It made a neat combo with a person, capable of going alongside a physical blade or enchanting everything to another level. That was how the Dances were created, or simple moves, or motions. They took their principles and made something neat and collected.
Following these principles, Razmund won't be lost.
He swayed his body, letting his claymore high in the air and behind his shoulder. It was not the 3rd Dance either; just a regular act of a sword that held nothing extraordinary apart from its foundation.
Formless acts of a Sword Sage should be like that, capable of doing significant damage with a simple swipe. Dances were trump cards that required greater attention to detail and power. That was at least how his Manual displayed it.
As Razmund finished his preparations, he followed the new principles of spending just enough energy for sufficient motion. That was the advantage of nothing complex. He had many layers of his power that required other touches.
Simplicity was what he found in this Gate. And he needed this, as far as his teacher would chuckle behind his back. He crouched down and in one moment, deployed Flying Steps.
It was a quick combo of a couple of steps, causing him to disappear on the spot, arriving right before Luno, who held the same standing position throughout his talk, or comparing auras.
He saw the steps or the incoming claymore, but so what? He sneered, watching how redness swayed at his shoulder. Luno grinned in satisfaction, willing to test the quality of such a prestigious Path. He didn't counter with anything but his body, letting the red mana and claymore reach him.
Razmund realized it this person was way too prideful in his flesh. It was almost shameless.
Upon the closure, the claymore hit Luno's chaotic aura and closed onto the flesh. Then, everything stopped. The redness flinched as if met with a wall, and it didn't move even a millimeter forward.
Razmund failed even when the red amassing blades cut into the aura, moving at the same time as the metallic blade. Razmund retrieved his one-handed grip and kicked this fiend of an opponent.
His kick went for the ribs, leaving nothing but pain in his feet. It was at this moment, that he knew, he fucked up.
Luno clutched his fist, bent and cleaved his arm right towards Razmund's face, and folded the aura around it. He didn't punch him. Instead, he angled his hand aside, swayed his back, and unleashed his elbow onto Razmund's chest, soaring him across the arena.
Coughing and feeling the pressure on his chest as he traveled through the harsh sand, Razmund felt great. This was a much milder attack than what Zao forced him through.
This posed an interesting question: why and how was Zao that powerful?
Well, how was a clear answer. Goldsteel Titan were no weaklings from birth. They were meant to be ridiculously powerful.
So, it at least confirmed that Luno was weaker than him, but what about the all-out fight? And Razmund killed Zao, even if he spent significant points of attention and vigor on that task, potions, willpower, and saving graces in his pouches. His mana and the best combo of potions ensured it became a reality.
Which he couldn't use right now. At least the whole lot of it.
There was no choice back then, as Zao was there for his head.
Now, Luno was no different, yet he felt as dangerous. Was it the confidence? Reputation? Was some Law bending around him? It was almost physical, but it was hard to guess it.
A smile crept around Razmund's cheek. He pushed the sand with his free hand, lurching himself upward to jump against the approaching wall. His feet went against it, cracking it slightly as he prepared his Flying Steps.
He was like highly bent strings, ready to fly as he stayed on the side of the wall.
Luno cracked his fingers and arms, stretching his neck as he began to walk forward. He sent Razmund quite far as he intended.
“Didn't want to end your face. How nice of me, wasn't that?” He reckoned. In this exchange, he remained intact, but afterward, his body firmed in the grasp of his aura which was his style of power. His Path.
Was it gravity? Chaos Elements? The earthquake itself? Wind of some kind could form this aura too, and it was clear this went from his Mana Core. What else would do this besides some form of mana?
Well, Razmund was sure some Artifacts could do this sort of effect, while Blessings often carried significant powers as well. He knew it himself.
He could only make his guesses since he had never heard of the proper technique breakdown about Luno, but he heard of his reputation and some readings. He was known for the brutish strength of his flesh, and he should be relatively new in Level 70, which was a stage that was like an unsurpassable wall for some beings.
There were all kinds of powerhouses in the demonic armies. Knowing everyone on top of one's mind wasn't plausible at all. That was where the Voice would gift the rightful information, but Razmund had no voice for his help. He knew why.
“Well, there we go.” Razmund pushed himself, readied his claymore beside his side, and jumped. He felt a bit numb in his chest, but it was nothing compared to having his torso in pieces.
“You call it an attack?” Luno asked, seeing how Razmund appeared before him in a flash, claymore ready to take his head.
Luno moved his palm onwards, clashing against the rather chunky and crimson-looking claymore that swirled in tides of lines.
“I just scratched your chest. I presumed it was itchy, was it not?” Luno joked, his voice filled with clear mockery and killing intent.
“Right, you fucker.” This infuriated Razmund quite a bit, so he flared his mana up, let his action speak for itself, and gripped the handle with both hands. It wasn't that nice when his left remained clutching the Dice in the process. Like many times before, it was mildly inconvenient.
Within this clutch where Luno caught his blade, the air shook. Luno wasn't losing this clash, and neither did Razmund.
But he wanted to change it by backing away to prepare for a better position. Luno let him.
Claymore ready above his left shoulder, Razmund pushed the ground into a storm of sandy dust as he performed the Flying Step in a different way than going forward. He pushed himself on the spot, tensing his legs, and lowered his body to an unnatural state. He basically performed very small Flying Steps by twisting his hips to a sidestep and performing a wide swing of his claymore. It added momentum that he wouldn't get without them.
His speed was incredible and quick, striking Luno with red mana alone. The claymore hadn't reached that far by itself, because mana moved like an afterimage, but not like it needed it. Luno's vision was momentarily useless when a storm of thick red mana of Sharpness enveloped his body, stretching in mass and Sharpness. It was like a veil.
It went against his power, overpowering his aura for the first time. It was how mana worked well. It was a clash where powers influenced and interrupted one another. It was how powerful beings compared to one another, where differences mattered, and weaknesses changed these outcomes.
Luno changed his face for the first time. A simple counter with the same quality or a much denser power would do the job.
So he clutched his hands above his chest, taking this hit to his body as he flexed his torso before the crimson tide enveloped him whole. It was a bit tense, sharp, and heavy. Bruisers and cuts went all over his forearm and even moved to his chest, but his head was fine. He used his palms to save it.
Luno felt the pain and loss of his flesh like a slap to his face. He widened his arms, opened his palms, and consumed the aura around him.
Within his palm, a powerful swirling whirlwind appeared. Each was cracking like damaged space, letting out crisp sounds from wincing cracking lines a few centimeters thick, before they disappeared and reappeared in some other spot. That was occurring hundreds of times per second.
It was the power of the space affinity, which was within the range of wind, air, and gravity as one of the greatest natural elements.
Powered by the Path of the Shaking Space, he used a Space Shatter, which went through numerous changes since he got it. Luno clutched the whirlwind and changing space, swiping his left arm across the tide that kept eating into the flesh of his chest. Razmund kept sending more strikes from a safe distance away.
It was a good tactic. It worked.
A swing later, sand hurled away like a tidal way, and even mana went to shambles, revealing hard-pressed Razmund who was pushing his feet through the sand a dozen meters away, turning and swinging his claymore for protection. Until he heard a space crack echoing and a space-bending fist was coming at his face. He defended against it on instincts.
And on time.
He moved to a different stance that pulled the redness outwards, protecting him in a quick turn against a rather nasty force. This kind of action was part of the regular Mana Shaping, even though it involved a sword as a Catalyst and Sharpness awakened mana.
What he was doing was relatively common, while anything more complicated or powerful required a specific set of skills or Dances.
Mana Shaping in this form was nothing fancy by itself. Its benefits were. Razmund wasn't even sure if what he was doing had some name. It wasn't far from the Mana Slash, or other long-range uses of mana and sword. He changed his Sharpness however he wanted because it was his priority. His Revolving Core was full of it, as any Mana Awakening ensured that idea.
Without undergoing too powerful changes, it was the stability of simplicity that any Sword Sage needed.
It was a common stance of all Sword Sages.
Razmund wanted to see his chances. Remaining in the previous form didn't work that well, so he changed his grip, pulled his legs from the sand, and moved sideways, escaping yet another brutish long-range space manifesting fist that almost hit him. He was quick thanks to his Flying Steps that crashed the ground and moved the annoying sand away. He more or less jumped by exploding the sand away.
He saw how Luno was still in the same position, annoyed that his flying fist strike was slow because of the red annoying veils. The crackling sounds still lingered around his fist, but the second one still waited in much more notable sounds.
Razmund wasn't ready to give him time. He drew his claymore onwards, stabbing Luno like a spear. The red lines of his mana swirled to make a point, arriving quicker than the real metal.
This wasn't a hard thing to do to anyone on his level. Differences arrived when weapons, mana, and other techniques were used at the same time.
It was called Folding. Those were the techniques that worked well together, giving each other more strength, or other benefits. Everything about Sword Sage Path worked with Folding. Countless sword techniques and abilities had their symbiosis and compatibility with flesh or swords.
These principles were major hurdles at the peak of what was possible. Low-level fools hardly understood them to make complete use of them.
Razmund was long following these concepts that were available to pretty much anyone, but mastering them was not easy. There was a spectrum to the Shaping talents, while levels, equipment, talent, sword, mana, cores, and all sorts of things made it even more complex.
He was far from reaching the lengths he desired. And he hadn't failed in what was within his reach, or what was before him.
It was like asking for the heavens before even knowing what it was.
Razmund wasn't the kind of idiot to hope for something unreasonable.
Luno noticed the thrust coming to his chest and made his move. He readied both arms forward, palms ready and clutching the Space within. He struck the red tip with one of his Space Shatters before the redness swallowed him with Sharpness that felt like ranging currents of water. His other attack came in clutch, ready just in case, hitting the incoming cryptic claymore that went to his head, arriving closer than he liked thanks to the veils.
Clash of Sharpness against densely packed Space exploded against one another, unleashing power that trembled the arena.
Everything turned into a storm until the arm twisted the tip of the claymore aside before another came straight to Razmund's face. Flexibility was hard to fix. Human hands were fine weapons on their own.
Explosion spread in the arena as redness dissipated. Razmund felt his back in the wall in a mere moment, breathless, but in no way gone.