System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 157
In the weed-choked courtyard.
“Bang, bang, bang.” Amid a violent hiss of torn air, two figures slammed into each other.
In an instant, a spray of sparks poured from the clashing sword edges.
One figure moved like a phantom, a short sword spinning around his wrist, trailing overlapping afterimages.
The target of his assault held a solid defensive stance, eyes locked tightly on the dancing blade-shadow, sword and body flowing smoothly through five opening forms.
Block, counter.
Clang.
After a heavy, forceful cleave, Aerondight was caught between two nimble short swords. The blades locked, steel straining, and the sharp gazes of both men struck sparks in the air.
“Too slow!”
Orin bared his pale gums in a feral grin and suddenly sprang backward like a cat.
Swish, swish. The twin short swords spun nimbly in his palms. He bent low, pushed off on the balls of his feet, stuck out his crimson tongue, and licked the short sword with an excited gleam before beginning to circle the young Witcher at a slow, measured pace.
“Huff...”
Roy’s veins stood out as he gripped the longsword diagonally in both hands. His feet held a T-stance, the sword tip tracking the ghostlike figure as if drawn by a magnet.
Less than five seconds of close-quarters exchange, yet cold sweat had already soaked the loose strands on his forehead. Beyond the raw gap in strength, once combat began, Orin’s eyes, posture, and voice blended into a terrifying pressure that crushed Roy’s heart and nerves.
This was the difference in real combat experience.
Thump, thump. His war-drum heartbeat exploded against his eardrums. Blood surged in his chest, adrenaline flooding his body.
But he dared not move recklessly. His reactions and speed were completely outmatched, leaving him no choice but to adopt a defensive counterattacking strategy.
The man opposite him was a seasoned assassin, unhurriedly circling, applying pressure with his gaze, noise, and posture, never striking rashly, waiting for the exact angle, until his footwork tightened.
The snow-bright short sword in Orin’s hand flipped, and a blade of blinding sunlight reflected off the steel straight into Roy’s pupils. For an instant his vision swam, his focus broke.
The figure opposite burst with sharp light in his eyes, kicking off the ground and lunging straight in.
Roy relied on instincts honed between life and death. In a flash, he shifted his weight onto the tip of his left foot, moved against the direction of the short sword’s attack, and swung with both hands, twisting his body into a spinning slash.
With a crisp pop, yellow light flickered and died. The Quen shield shattered, and Vyrt, watching from the sidelines, widened its eyes and let out a mournful whinny, lifting a foreleg.
“I lost...” Roy let Aerondight fall in his hand, feeling the chill pressed against the back of his neck. His limbs went stiff, his expression tinged with disappointment.
“Hic ... you did very well. Your response to that last move was correct.” Orin sheathed the short sword back into the leather buckle on his chest, admiration on his face. “You nearly hit me just now. If that had landed, who knows who would have won.”
If not for his powerful balance and agility, forcing his body to twist midair, he would not have avoided Roy’s full-strength strike.
“That said ... maybe I drank a bit too much ... hic ... why do I suddenly feel stiff all over ... mind’s gone blank.”
Hearing this, the knot in Roy’s chest loosened slightly. Orin’s symptoms were not from drink, but from Roy’s Skill, Intimidate. Even so, this man’s Willpower was also 9.5, identical to Roy’s, and the resulting stiffness lasted only a hundredth of a second, nowhere near enough to turn the tide.
“Looking that grim, feeling crushed? To be honest, aside from a thin foundation in swordsmanship and slightly awkward transitions, your overall performance hardly looks like someone who passed the Trial of the Grasses less than half a year ago ... let me think...” Orin flipped back his hood, rubbed his greasy yellow hair, and stroked his chin as he sized Roy up from head to toe. “Your combat strength is about where I was at eighteen. Barely enough to handle a Wild Hunt foot soldier. No wonder Letho values you so much.”
“A Wild Hunt foot soldier? How much of your strength did you use just now?” Roy asked unwillingly.
“About thirty or forty percent.” Orin yawned.
Thirty or forty percent?
A chill ran through Roy. He had only forced this easygoing bastard to use a third of his strength.