The air around me vibrated as Ragnar's right fist, wrapped in a thin layer of golden Aura, shot forward tearing the distance between us. His speed was terrifying for a teenager who had never tasted the battlefield. If that fist struck my face, my nasal bone and jaw would surely be shattered to pieces.
However, to the eyes of a veteran who had spent ten years dodging sword slashes, Ragnar's attack looked like a dance whose choreography I had already read. His power was extraordinary, but too honest.
I did not parry it. Attempting to withstand a physical impact against an Aura user with my current fragile body was tantamount to suicide.
In the fraction of a second before his knuckles touched my skin, I shifted my weight to my left foot and tilted my head just a few millimeters. Ragnar's fist missed, leaving only a sharp gust of wind that thinly sliced my cheek.
Ragnar's eyes widened; the excessive momentum of his attack caused his upper body to lean forward, ruining his center of balance. That was the opening I was waiting for.
Without using a single drop of Sanguine Core magic, I stepped cutting into the inside of his defense. My left hand shot upward, slapping and grabbing his wrist that had just missed, borrowing his own momentum to pull him further forward.
At the same time, the heel of my right boot kicked hard right into the crease behind his knee, the popliteal fossa, a dead point where muscles cannot bear weight.
Ragnar's leg folded instantly. His balance was completely destroyed.
Before he could react, I rotated my body, using my shoulder as a lever to slam his massive frame. A loud thud was heard as Ragnar's back hit the muddy ground. The air was knocked out of his lungs, canceling his Aura flow instantly.
I gave him no chance to breathe. I dropped my body onto him, pressing my right knee hard against the side of his neck, while my right hand held his elbow in a bone-breaking lock.
One extra push from my knee, and blood flow to his brain would stop, causing him to faint in a matter of seconds. Or die.
"Nice dance, Old Bear," I whispered coldly, looking into his brown eyes that now radiated a mixture of shock and explosive anger. "But you put too much weight into your first punch. In the defense trenches, you would be dead before you could draw your second breath."
Ragnar growled like a trapped wild beast. He struggled, trying to use his raw strength to throw me off. However, military locking techniques are designed to neutralize physical strength. The more he struggled, the more his elbow joint screamed.
"Let me go, bastard!" cursed Ragnar, spitting to the side. "I swear I will rip out that noble mouth of yours!"
I smiled thinly. There was no panic, no arrogance. I released my lock, lifted my knee from his neck, and took two steps back casually. I brushed the mud splatters from my uniform, letting him cough and gasp greedily for air.
"I am not the nobles you usually beat up, Ragnar," I said, changing my tone. I discarded the remnants of Aethelgard etiquette and let the mercenary way of speaking take over. Rough, straight to the point. "Next week, there is the Forbidden Forest Expedition for the Middle Class. The Nightbane Faction just put me into the Blood Sword Faction."
Ragnar, who had just stood up and prepared to lunge at me again, suddenly froze. His eyebrows knit together. He knew the reputation of that group.
"You were promoted just to be sent to the Nightbane doghouse?" snorted Ragnar, a mocking smile appearing on his dirty lips. "Then you are already a corpse, Young Master. And you came to me for what? Asking for protection? Why should I bother saving a noble's life?"
"Not protection. I need a mad dog to watch my back so I can focus on slaughtering monsters in front," I answered flatly. "And as payment, I offer two things you need the most."
Ragnar narrowed his eyes. "Oh really? And what are those?"
"First, the entire quota of gold coins from this expedition's hunt. All for you. I know you need that money for your family in the border village," I said. I saw Ragnar's jaw harden when I mentioned his family. In my past life, he often told stories about his starving younger siblings.
Before he could ask how I knew that, I continued my offer.
"Second, an unlimited hunting license. The Blood Sword Faction is full of Nightbane sycophants. In the Forbidden Forest, there are no academy laws. You have absolute freedom to destroy, break bones, and beat them up without fear of being expelled from the academy."
I leaned forward slightly, looking straight into his eyes. "Gold, and the blood of noble sycophants. Doesn't that sound like a fun vacation to you?"
Silence enveloped us for a few seconds. The afternoon wind blew Ragnar's messy hair. The street fighter stared at me intently, searching for lies or traps in my eyes. Yet all he found was the dense emptiness of someone already accustomed to death.
Slowly, the wild crooked smile returned to grace Ragnar's face. He spat on the ground, then wiped the remaining blood at the corner of his lips.
"If you turn out to be just a whiny burden in the forest later," threatened Ragnar, his voice heavy and vibrating, "I myself will break your neck and take those gold coins from your corpse. Deal, Young Master?"
"Deal," I replied lightly. "But before we go to the forest, we need real weapons. Your wooden sword and bare fists will not be able to pierce the thick skin of a Steel-Bear or Mutant Wolf."
Ragnar snorted in agreement.
"By the way, I am not a noble," I said easing the tense atmosphere. "So, do not call me 'Young Master'. Just Kael is enough."
"HAH?!" Ragnar's mouth gaped in disbelief. "You are not a noble? Then where did you learn that military technique just now?"
"Curious?" I asked, even though I was not going to tell him.
"Forget it, damn it!" snorted Ragnar, as if knowing I had no intention of revealing it.
A rough agreement had been established. This alliance was not yet a friendship, but rather a symbiotic contract between two killers. And for me, that was more than enough for a start.
The Aethelgard Academy Logistics Warehouse was a low-roofed stone building whose smell of iron lubricant and rust could be smelled from a hundred paces away. This was where cadets picked up their standard military equipment.
As the two of us stepped inside, the atmosphere within was dim. Behind a long oak-paneled desk covered in ink stains, sat a plump middle-aged man. His logistics uniform seemed too tight around his belly. He was lazily chewing roasted peanuts when his eyes caught my presence.
A condescending smile immediately formed on his fatty face.
"Ah, Cadet Draven," he greeted with an overly affected tone. "Sir Vance had informed me of your arrival. A thousand pities, I must deliver bad news. All standard Middle Class steel swords and armor are currently undergoing repair and polishing."
Ragnar, standing beside me, immediately kicked the leg of the wooden desk hard.
Thud!
"Do not talk nonsense, fat pig," growled Ragnar. His eyes stared sharply at the row of racks behind the man, where dozens of shiny steel swords were neatly arranged. "Then what is perched on the rack behind you? Ornaments?"
The warehouse guard paled slightly seeing Ragnar's threatening posture, yet he put back on an arrogant face, leaning on the authority of the faction that bribed him. "Those are weapons already reserved by cadets from high-tier factions. For Cadet Draven, according to distribution policy, you may only choose from the pile of leftover logistics in that corner."
The man pointed to a dark corner at the end of the warehouse. There, three large wooden barrels held scrap weapons. Spears with warped wood, rusted and dented iron shields, and chipped swords more suited as firewood choppers.
Ragnar growled, his fists again radiating the glow of golden Aura. He prepared to vault over the desk and crush the warehouse guard's face.
I raised my hand, holding back Ragnar's chest. "Calm down. Just let the dog bark with leftover bones in its mouth."
Ignoring the guard's face turning red with anger, I walked casually toward the dusty corner.
Ragnar followed me, clicking his tongue in annoyance. "You are not seriously going to take scrap iron to the Forbidden Forest, right? The monsters there will laugh at you before chewing off your head."
"Your eyes often deceive you, Ragnar. In this academy, there are many foolish people who throw away gold thinking it is a stone."
My mind drifted to the fifth year of the Great War in my past life. At that time, magical metal supplies were running low, and a former technician from Aethelgard who defected to our faction shared a secret that became the laughingstock of the generals.
Years ago, Aethelgard blacksmiths tried experimenting with forging weapons using ore from the Crimson Cliffs. The result was an anomaly. The black metal they produced, which would later be known as Blood-Iron, possessed properties that strongly rejected pure Mana.
When the academy knights tried channeling Aura into the sword, the metal repelled it, making the sword feel 'dead' and its weight seeming to increase threefold.
Considered a failed product useless to Aura-system knights, the military discarded those prototype weapons into the scrap pile. They never knew that the metal rejected pure Mana because it was designed to absorb fused blood and Mana.
For a Sanguine Core user like me, that scrap sword was a legendary-grade magical conductor.
My hands sifted through the pile of broken spears and moldy scabbards. At the bottom of the third wooden barrel, my fingers touched a very cold metal surface.
I pulled it out.
It was a bastard sword, a large sword that could be used with one or two hands. There were no luxurious ornaments on its hilt. Its blade was dull black, thick, and emitted absolutely no steel gleam. At a glance, it looked like a charred iron slab too heavy to swing.
"Hah! A very brilliant choice, Cadet Draven!" exclaimed the warehouse guard from his desk, laughing uproariously until his belly shook. "That chunk of iron has been molding there for five years. Too dull to cut meat, too heavy to lift. Very fitting for your status!"
Ragnar massaged his temples. "Kael, do not be ridiculous. That looks more like a giant crowbar than a sword."
I ignored them. With both hands, I lifted the black sword. Its weight was indeed extraordinary. An ordinary knight would run out of energy in just two swings.
However, as I gripped its dull leather-wrapped hilt tightly, a strange sensation spread. The tear wound on my shoulder that had not fully healed began to seep again. A drop of deep red blood slid down my arm, crept to the back of my hand, and finally dripped down right at the base of the sword's black blade.
Hiss...
A very faint hissing sound was heard, nearly imperceptible to normal ears. Yet I could feel it. The black steel that previously felt cold and dead, now suddenly pulsed within my grasp.
My blood seeped into the pores of the metal as if swallowed by the earth, and in return, the sword radiated a warm feeling resonating directly with the Sanguine Core in my chest. This metal was hungry, and it had just found its master.
My lips curved forming a savage smile that made Ragnar unconsciously step back half a pace.
"This giant crowbar is enough, Guard," I said, staring at the black blade that now felt as light as a feather in my hands. "Enough to behead wolves. Or the head of anyone who gets in my way in the forest later."