The military man staggered, but his stance never broke. His head snapped up, eyes sharp, jaw clenched. Blood trickled from his lip, but his expression was cold—colder than tempered steel.
Prominent Leg's twin swords shrieked through the air—one angled for his throat, the other for his ribs. A clean kill.
But the military man moved.
His broadsword, still recoiling from the earlier clash, wasn't in position to parry. So he didn't.
Instead, he surged forward, slipping inside the arc of the blades. His bare forearm slammed into Prominent Leg's wrist, knocking the high slash off course, while his free hand clamped down on the hilt of the second blade, halting it cold.
For a heartbeat, they were locked. Chest-to-chest. Breath to breath. The iron scent of blood clung to the air between them.
Then, the military man struck.
CRACK.
His forehead smashed into Prominent Leg's nose. Cartilage crumpled. Blood burst in a vivid spray, speckling the dirt beneath them. Dazed, Prominent Leg's vision swam, but instinct guided his body. He wrenched his trapped sword free and drove a knee upward—only for the military man to shift, catching it on his armored thigh with a heavy thud.
The counter came fast.
An elbow crashed into Prominent Leg's temple, sharp and brutal. His world tilted. Stars flashed. His wide grin almost—almost—flickered.
But he straightened, slow and deliberate, spitting blood to the side. His stance reset. Blades raised. Feet firm.
"Hah! Now that's a fight!"
The military man gave no reply. He merely adjusted his grip on the broadsword. The metal groaned under his tightening fingers.
Then he charged.
No hesitation. Just a blur of motion.
His sword came down in a savage overhead cleave.
Prominent Leg crossed his blades to block—
BOOM.
The ground cracked beneath him. Dust billowed as his boots sank inches into the earth from the sheer force. His arms quaked. Muscles screamed under the weight.
But Prominent Leg did not yield.
With a roar, he heaved upward, pushing the broadsword back—and in the same fluid motion, he spun, unleashing a whip-fast kick toward the man's ribs.
The military man took it.
CRUNCH.
The blow would've shattered bone in a lesser man. But he only grunted, sliding a step back before slamming his boots down and planting firm. Pain licked at his ribs, but his face stayed unmoved.
Instead, he smiled.
Not out of joy. Something darker. Wilder.
A battle-drunk grin carved its way across his face.
"Your strikes are fading. Are you sure you're still not going to use your talent abilities?"
Prominent Leg barked a laugh.
"What a rude and honest boy you are!!"
He paused, eyes narrowing with respect, then let out a long breath. Slowly, he shifted into stance once more.
"As much as I'd love to… I can't bring myself to strike a defenseless opponent. I don't know why you're not using yours, but it's not in my principles."
The military man's grip shifted as he spoke with a voice low.
"Principles. What a foolish thing to cling to in the face of death."
He lunged.
This time, his strikes weren't just powerful—they were relentless. Broad, sweeping slashes flowed seamlessly into sudden, razor-precise jabs. He fought like a storm given form, each motion honed to overwhelm, to break, to batter down resistance with unyielding force.
Prominent Leg met him, blow for blow. His twin swords blurred through the air, deflecting, countering, striking back with equal ferocity. But he felt it—the shift in momentum. Subtle at first, but undeniable. The man's superior strength was beginning to assert itself, creeping into every exchange like a rising tide.
It was only a matter of time before his so-called principle would have to shatter.
A feint. A twist. The broadsword reversed mid-swing, hooking under Prominent Leg's guard—
SLASH.
A deep gash tore across his chest. Blood sprayed. He hissed, but didn't falter. Instead, he drove into the pain, turning it into momentum as he thrust one sword straight toward the man's heart.
The military man twisted. The blade sank into his shoulder instead, tearing through flesh and muscle. He gritted his teeth, not a sound escaping him. Instead, he grabbed the embedded sword with his free hand, heedless of how the edge carved into his palm—and yanked Prominent Leg forward—
CRACK.
An armored knee slammed into Prominent Leg's gut.
The old warrior folded, the air punched from his lungs. But even as he doubled over, his second sword came whipping upward in a vicious arc—
The military man jerked back, but not quite fast enough. The blade's tip carved a red line from his chin to cheekbone.
They broke apart, panting. Blood dripped between them, painting the dirt in slow, steady beats.
Around them, the battlefield had fallen silent. Even the distant clash of war felt muted, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Prominent Leg wiped his mouth, smearing crimson across his beard. His grin was ragged, but the fire behind it burned bright.
"You… you intend to force my hand, don't you…?"
The military man touched the line on his cheek, smearing blood across his fingertips. He stared at it, then raised his eyes. They burned—not with rage, but something colder. Something far more ruthless.
"First, I'll show you how foolish principles are in the face of death. Then I'll break you—make your old body tremble with fear. And in shame, you'll use your talent abilities."
Prominent Leg chuckled.
"Ah… ahhh. What a very strange man. Do you want to die that badly?"
He raised his swords again.
The military man shifted his stance.
And then—
The air itself seemed to shatter as their blades clashed once more.
This time, the military man fought with a different kind of fury—not just raw strength, but ruthless precision. Every strike was a calculated dismantling, each step a hammering rhythm meant to break Prominent Leg down. He wasn't trying to win.
He was trying to crush.
Prominent Leg's twin swords danced, deflecting, parrying, carving arcs through the air—but the weight behind each of the military man's blows sent violent tremors up his arms. His muscles screamed. His breath came in ragged gasps, lungs seizing with every motion.
"You feel it, don't you?"
The military man's voice was a low growl, his broadsword crashing down like a falling guillotine.
"Your body failing you."
Prominent Leg twisted aside just in time—the blade gouged a trench into the earth where his head had been. He lashed out with a desperate slash—
But the military man caught his wrist mid-swing.
CRACK.
His grip was merciless. Bones strained beneath the pressure. Prominent Leg's fingers twitched, then gave out—one sword clattered to the ground.
Before he could recover, a fist slammed into his ribs.
"Ghk—!"
He staggered back, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
But the assault didn't stop.
A sweeping kick took his legs out from under him. He hit the dirt hard, barely rolling aside as the broadsword came down like a guillotine—burying itself where his skull had been moments ago.
He kicked upward on instinct—his boot slammed into the man's jaw.
But the military man didn't budge.
His head snapped back slightly, but his grip on Prominent Leg's ankle held firm—unyielding.
He spat to the side, voice coiled with contempt.
"Pathetic."
Then, without pause, he lifted Prominent Leg and slammed him into the ground like a broken doll.
BOOM.
Dust erupted.
Prominent Leg's vision whited out for a second as agony screamed through his spine. He barely registered the next impact—another bone-rattling slam into the earth. Then another.
Each one knocked the breath from his lungs. Each one felt like a death knell sounding through his body.
The military man wasn't fighting anymore.
He was breaking him.
With a final, contemptuous heave, he flung Prominent Leg across the battlefield. The old warrior tumbled, skidding through blood-soaked dirt until he came to a halt on his knees.
His remaining sword was still clenched in his grip, but his arm trembled with the effort. His breath came in wet, stuttering gasps. Blood leaked from his lips, his nose, his brow.
The military man strode forward, broadsword resting across his shoulder. His expression was carved from ice.
"Still clinging to that principle?"
He mocked.
"Still refusing to use your Talent?"
Prominent Leg coughed, spitting red. His fingers tightened around his blade.
"Heh… heh heh…"
A broken, bloody chuckle escaped him.
Then, slowly, he pushed himself upright. His legs shook. His frame swayed. His body screamed for rest.
But he stood.
"You're… a real piece of work, kid."
The military man paused, watching him closely.
Prominent Leg raised his sword.
"But if you think… this is enough to break me…"
His grin returned—cracked, bloodied, but unyielding.
"You've got another thing coming."
The military man's eyes narrowed. Then, with slow intent, he planted his broadsword into the earth.
"Fine."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Then I'll do it with my bare hands."
He lunged.
Prominent Leg swung—
The military man ducked low and drove a fist into his gut.
"URK—!"
A second punch cracked into his ribs. A third shattered into his jaw. Prominent Leg's head whipped back, but before he could collapse, the man seized his throat and lifted him off the ground.
"Look at you…"
He hissed, voice low and venom-laced.
"Holding onto something so useless… principles, in the face of death. My face. Childish, for someone your age… Prominent Leg, or whatever you're called."
The look in Prominent Leg's eyes dimmed—just slightly. But his grin didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened. There was no fear in his face.
He was enjoying this.
The clash. The pressure. The pain.
He wanted more of it.
But even so… it was a losing battle.
The military man was stronger. Of that, there was no question.
Prominent Leg was a Sage, and yet he was certain—the man before him was at least an Ascendant. Maybe even a Paragon.
And that only made it more baffling.
Why keep demanding he use his talent? Why not end it?
Why fight like this when he could break him without even trying?
Was it pleasure—an urge to break him at his peak?
Or was there something else?
Could it be… he couldn't use his own talent until Prominent Leg used his first?
The thought twisted through his mind, hazy but persistent. Maybe he wasn't right—but he was close. He could feel it.
Which meant…
This brutal, punishing battle was reaching its final acts.