Chapter 13
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Chapter 13: Demon Sword vs. Demon Sword
The clang of blades echoed nonstop, the murderous pressure in the air nearly choking Midi.
After blocking a stab toward his heart, Midi swiftly shifted his dagger to deflect a strike aimed at his abdomen, then raised it again to parry a killing thrust at his throat.
The sword soul stood 16 levels above Midi, wielding overwhelming power, speed, and a lightsaber sharp enough to slice through steel. Midi had no chance to counterattack.
Yet he carried twenty years of battlefield experience from before his reincarnation—hard-won knowledge that far surpassed this assassin’s skills.
At such close distance, he knew the opponent’s instinctive move would be the “Triple Slash”: three rapid strikes chained into one relentless assault.
Under the crushing weight of danger, Midi felt as if he’d returned to his past life as a second-awakened Ghost Cry, a force that once dominated battlefields.
He needed no eyes, ears, or breath—only his body’s primal reflexes. Instinct alone could match such speed.
Next would come “Breaking Army”!
Then “Silver Fall”!
Followed by “Cross”!
Sparks flew as blades collided, the metallic clangs ringing incessantly. In two seconds, Midi blocked over a dozen attacks, anticipating each move.
The sword soul faltered, unnerved by a mere level 19 swordsman’s flawless defense. A tiny gap opened in his onslaught.
Midi should’ve retreated. Though unhit, his palms bled from blocking the level 35 sword soul’s strikes, crimson dripping down his sword hilt.
Instead, cold determination flashed in the black-haired boy’s eyes. He lunged forward.
A 19-level against a 35-level offered no hope of resistance. No amount of skill could bridge that gap. Yet as a former Ghost Cry, Midi understood Demon Swordmen thrived not on defense, but offense.
Blocking endlessly would only lead to mistakes. If the sword soul abandoned technique for brute force, Midi would’ve fallen already. Survival relied on predicting the enemy’s patterns.
Now, he’d attack to defend—to buy time.
Power surged from his legs to his waist, shoulders, arms, and finally his blade. Purple-black light erupted from his left arm, swirling like a whirlwind before coalescing into a cold gleam along his sword’s edge.
Demon Slash!
The true Demon Slash.
The level 35 sword soul’s eyes narrowed. How could a chainless arm unleash this technique? Had a level 19 achieved Ghost Cry transmutation? Impossible. Worse, how had this boy found an opening amid his storm-like barrage?
But it was too late to block.
A vicious glint lit the sword soul’s gaze. Ignoring the incoming strike, he thrust his blade at Midi’s chest.
This was a duel of savagery—ruthless to foe and self alike.
Ghostfire-wreathed weapons crossed midair, each piercing flesh simultaneously. Both fighters grunted, staggering back under the force of mutual blows.
Midi gritted his teeth against the searing pain and rolled backward repeatedly, putting ten meters between them to dissipate the slash’s force. His left pauldron lay in fragments. Had he not wrapped that mysterious chain around his shoulder for both training and protection, his demon hand might’ve been severed. Even so, his bones had cracked, leaving his left arm nearly useless.
This was merely a casual strike with minimal aura. The level gap glared like an open wound.
Yet the sword soul fared poorly too. No matter his superior physical attributes or equipment, taking a direct hit from Midi’s premeditated demon slash while clashing blades had consequences. His chestplate split open, revealing a gruesome wound stretching shoulder to chest, blood flowing like crimson rapids.
Neither flinched.
For Demon Swordmen – all destructive power and brittle defense – bloodshed and near-death encounters were daily bread. Those fearing injury never prospered. True strength came from crawling through corpse mountains and blood oceans.
Today, one would die.
The malignant aura scattered fleeing goblins. Only shivering Cat Demons remained, cowering from the combatants’ intensity.
The ruins fell silent until the sword soul’s voice cracked the stillness: "You fight beyond any level 20 transmuter – closer to 25. Still leagues below my 35."
Not idle talk, but psychological warfare. Fear stems from knowledge – realizing your opponent’s insurmountable power breaks weaker minds.
But Midi had stared death in the eye, held dying lovers, even tasted the abyss himself. Empty words.
"Prove your strength by taking my demon slash head-on," Midi countered flatly.
"What’s another strike?" The sword soul shrugged off his injury. "Your wounds may be lighter, but can you endure?"
A level 35 could absorb brutal hits. For level 19 Midi, even a grazing blow from that greatsword proved debilitating – his pallid face betrayed the strain.
The assassin could play this game indefinitely. Midi couldn’t.
Yet Midi remained composed. The tides would turn soon.
His struggle was solitary. Whether Fina the Queen of Storms unleashing full firepower, or Sigmund and Lilian fighting two-against-one, victory was inevitable.
In his past life, three level ~30 assassins had ambushed them. His companions triumphed while he faltered. Now, despite this level 35 wildcard, trapping the sword soul here improved other battlefronts.
No ambush. One Battle Mage instantly killed. Exposed assassins. A gunner outnumbered. No deadweight.
His allies would shine brighter than ever. Four against one soon.
His mission: maintain this stalemate until reinforcements arrived.
"Struck a nerve?" The sword soul pressed as Midi stayed silent. "Buying time? I’ll admit your battle strength surprises. But when my allies see no victory, why keep fighting?"
Midi’s brow furrowed. A valid point.
His strategy hinged on trusting Fina’s crew. The future Queen of Magic must not just defeat but crush that assassin with firepower suppression for timely reinforcements.
But if level 30 foes chose to stall? Higher levels dragging out battles proved easier than direct combat.
"Your friends’ victory isn’t certain," the sword soul jeered. "I’ll claim quick triumph instead! Then gift your head to little Fina Hamilton!"
His words lashed like steel whips. The iconic lightsaber erupted in brilliance, flooding the ruins before collapsing inward like a dying star – leaving empty air.
"Transparent Sword!" Tension flashed through Midi’s eyes.
