Chapter 76: FIGHT! GOOD!

Deep in the corridor, Kargas strapped on his signature weapon, buckling the final strap on his gauntlets. Metal encased his entire fist. Spikes gleamed cold and silver in the firelight. He flexed all ten fingers. Knuckles cracked in a rapid-fire series of pops.

The gauntlets looked like external hammers grafted to his hands, each one the size of a soup pot.

---

The Witch stood ten paces away. She didn't move.

She was looking at her hem. The dust kicked up from her earlier landing had settled on the edge of the skirt. She brushed off a few nearly invisible specks with her fingertip, then finally raised her head and drew the western sword from her waist.

Compared to Kargas's brutal heavy gauntlets, the blade looked like a decorative piece hanging on a noble salon wall.

Kargas grinned.

That healing spell earlier was absurdly strong... but people like that never excel at close combat. Perfect!

"Now we're talking." He slammed both fists together in front of his chest. Metal collided. Sparks scattered onto the stone floor. "I was worried you wouldn't take the bait. Don't care who you are. Healers belong in the back, keeping people alive. I'll break you and that sword together!"

The stone beneath his feet shattered.

Mana erupted from his body—raw, violent release. Crimson flame jetted from his shoulders and elbows, tearing jagged trails through the air.

Seraphina flinched. This guy was definitely not ordinary Mithril. Might even be stronger than the knight commander and Oswald. One paper-thin barrier away from Orichalcum.

"Even the current knight commander," he raised his right fist, crimson mana condensing into visible mass on the gauntlet, "wouldn't beat me in a real fight. I just suck at paperwork. And my enforcement methods get me bad press. That's the only reason I'm not commander. What a shame—Shame about that face—won't be pretty when I'm done!"

Before the last word left his mouth, he'd already become a crimson streak.

Mana detonated beneath his feet, propelling his body forward with acceleration far beyond normal limits. Right fist cocked back. The spikes on the gauntlet screamed as they ripped through air. A strike guaranteed to one-shot anyone below Mithril. Hit anyone and it would pierce armor, pulverize bone, turn internal organs into soup.

The Witch took a step back.

Not to dodge. Her movement was minimal—just a light tap of her toe against the ground, and her body slid back half a step as though pulled by invisible thread.

The hem didn't even lift.

She glanced at the ground. Where Kargas had stepped earlier, there was a small puddle—murky water mixed with moisture seeping down the wall. If she stepped in it, it would splash.

If she'd blocked just now, the water might have splattered on the dress.

Little Uri bought this!

---

Kargas grinned and surged forward with another kick.

She really can't take it head-on. She dodged.

Then she raised the western sword. The motion wasn't fast. Her blade traced a deliberate, silver arc, a slight turn of her wrist snapping it into a guard. The blade traced a silver arc and positioned itself in front of her.

Compared to Kargas's lightning-fast brutal charge, the Witch's swordplay seemed to exist in a slower time stream. Unhurried. Not a trace of killing intent.

Kargas's right fist crashed into the blade.

The expected scene—sword snapping, body shattering—didn't happen.

The crimson mana flare convulsed violently the instant it contacted the blade, like a beast with its throat stomped on, then began to disintegrate. No earth-shaking collision. No roar of mana tearing at mana. Only an extremely light metallic hum.

Kargas's pupils contracted.

He'd used seventy percent force in that punch. Hit the blade like he'd struck a mountain range.

He shook the sensation from his head and launched a three-hit combo. Each strike heavier than the last. Crimson mana exploded in bursts of fireworks down the corridor.

The Witch's form wove through the barrage of fists. She retreated, sidestepped, tilted her head—each motion minimal, each perfectly timed. All minimal motions. But not a single one wasted. Her sword didn't block. Occasionally the flat would lightly tap his wrist, redirecting the punch.

Every earth-shattering heavy blow slid past the edge of her clothing or her hair, smashing into walls. Shattered stone scattered like rain. But not one fragment hit the Witch.

Seraphina sat against the wall base. Her breathing had returned to normal. The warm sensation of the green light coursing through her veins still lingered. Ribs didn't hurt. Abdomen wasn't compressed. Limbs obeyed again. But she didn't stand up.

She was transfixed. Didn't want to miss a single frame.

She watched the silver-haired woman move between Kargas's fist shadows. Her eyes widened further and further. Her mouth opened slightly. Not a single word came out.

Kargas's punches were too fast. So fast her dynamic vision could only capture blurred afterimages.

But that woman—the one who called herself the Holy Sword Witch—every step was slow and crystal clear, yet every step arrived before the fist.

Using slowness to defeat speed.

Impossible.

This wasn't a battle of speed.It was a battle of control.

Kargas was completely trapped in her tempo. Each time he threw a punch, the Witch already knew where it would land, how long the gap before the next strike would be, when his breathing cycle would reset. Not prediction—control. Like an adult humoring a child throwing a tantrum.

She suddenly thought of her cousin.

Estella was strong. Strong enough that just standing there made people feel safe. But Estella's strength was visible—mana, swordplay, speed, and power in perfect combination. Every move was spectacular.

But this woman—so far, she hadn't used any mana. At least, none visible to the naked eye. That western sword was just an ordinary blade. The mana crystal in the hilt was purely decorative.

She was using pure swordsmanship. No—not even swordsmanship. Just the most basic movements. Slash, thrust, deflect, press. Movements any student of the blade, even an apprentice, could perform. But in her hands, these movements seemed redefined.

Seraphina had practiced basic sword forms ten thousand times. Every angle, every application of force, every breathing rhythm—she could recite them all. But what this woman was doing was completely different from what she'd learned. She thought she'd touched the ceiling of basics. Now she realized she hadn't even entered the door.

Kargas took a hit to the back of his neck. From the sword hilt.

A light tap to the most vulnerable spot on his nape. Not heavy. Just enough to make him stagger two steps.

Like scolding a disobedient dog.

Actually, calling it "scolding a dog" was too crude. It was more like calligraphy—wrist suspended in air, brush dancing like a dragon, every stroke controlled to perfection. Not one excess drop of ink. Not one misplaced ounce of force.

Her swordplay had only breath, momentum, and technique—rhythm, direction, and the razor-thin edge of absolute refinement.

No need for mana. No need for battle aura. No need for any flashy amplifications. A sword is a sword. Swing it and that's enough.

Kargas steadied himself and touched the back of his neck. His fingertip found rapidly swelling skin. For the first time, an expression other than his grin appeared on his face. Eyebrows lowered. Pupils contracted. Lips shifted from stretched to pressed tight.

The instinctive reaction of a hunter realizing the prey was far more dangerous than expected.

"No." His voice dropped. Crimson mana flickered on the gauntlets. "You're not a healer."

He re-evaluated the woman in front of him. Black-and-white military-style dress. Slender western sword.

Healer mana usually glowed green or white—soft, non-aggressive. That green orb she'd thrown earlier was genuine healing magic. But a pure healer couldn't take his combo without even breathing hard, much less counterattack.

Unless I stepped in shit and ran into Astral rank. Maybe even Radiance.

And that strike to his neck earlier—she could have used the blade to behead him directly. Instead, she deliberately twisted her wrist halfway and tapped with the hilt. She wasn't trying to kill. Not trying to kill meant she wasn't taking this fight seriously at all.

Kargas drew a deep breath, forcing down the bloody taste in his lungs along with the frustration, then bared his teeth like an enraged beast showing fangs.

"Interesting. This is too interesting!" He shook both arms. Crimson mana surged violently, spreading from the gauntlets to his shoulders, then from shoulders to his entire upper body. The air itself began to feel heavy.

"It's been too long since I fought someone like this! Healer, swordsman, doesn't matter—what matters is you can take a hit! The ones who can take a hit—those are the ones worth smashing! Let's see if you can keep that smug face when I crush your bones inch by inch!"

He raised both fists to his chest, gauntlets facing each other, and slammed them together.

The mana explosion directly shattered the torches on both corridor walls. The brittle sound of glass lampshades breaking amplified several times in the darkness. The ground began trembling. Debris rained down from the ceiling.

The crimson mana had thickened to near-solid density, forming a translucent exoskeleton-like aura around Kargas. His pupils burned in the darkness. His voice roared from the deepest part of his chest.

"Again! Let's see how long you last!"