Chapter 30
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Chapter 30: The Sword Matters Not
“Because I’m the seller,” Midi replied lightly.
The old caravan leader responsible for assistance had already stepped aside, as though Midi were the true master of the merchant caravan. The supreme longsword, Blade of Shattered Mind, now rested in Midi’s hands, spinning effortlessly under the black-haired boy’s skilled control like a windmill, dazzling all who watched.
“What does being the seller matter? We’ll decide the buyer after negotiations…” Beryl retorted coldly.
“A seller isn’t just about trading goods. It’s about placing the right item in the hands of the right person.” Midi waved his hand dismissively, casting a glance at the young Elf before continuing, “Though Dylan here is only level 19 and hasn’t undergone transmutation, his talent and potential are exceptional. Whether considering his current level, imminent transmutation, or personal abilities, he’s the perfect match for this Blade of Shattered Mind. Thus, I’ve chosen to sell it to him.”
Dylan was instantly moved—as an ordinary Patrol Team member, he’d never received such encouragement. That a human with no ties to him would defend the underdog so fiercely erased all doubt in Midi’s words.
“What nonsense!” Beryl laughed mockingly. “Dylan has potential? Are you blind or just joking?”
“It’s fact, guaranteed by my judgment as a top Great Swordsman,” Midi stated calmly, his quiet voice carrying clearly to every ear. Against his composure, Beryl’s laughter rang hollow.
“You? A mere level 20 human swordsman?” The Wind Team captain’s anger flared.
“Shall we spar, then?” Midi asked, smiling.
A level 26 Elven swordsman from the Wind Team stepped forward, but Midi halted him with a gesture. “Just you and me,” he said, his gaze freezing Beryl where he stood. “Surely a level 28 archer isn’t afraid of a level 20 swordsman?”
Every word—level 20, melee, human—was a challenge to Beryl the wandering gunslinger.
“Fine!” Beryl snarled, laughter laced with rage. “I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget. Don’t blame me if you end up crippled—not that your complaints would matter.”
Midi raised an eyebrow. “Enough chatter. Begin.”
No formal arena was needed—they simply walked beyond the village outskirts. Thirty meters apart on open ground, with curious Elves watching, the match commenced.
Midi scanned the crowd until he spotted Dylan. The young Elf’s excited gaze confirmed Midi’s plan was working.
“The battle’s started! Where are you looking?!” Beryl roared. In one fluid motion, he drew his longbow and loosed an arrow—a roaring gunslinger’s critical shot.
The spinning projectile streaked toward Midi’s shoulder. Elven spectators gasped, recognizing the technique.
*Clang!*
Midi tilted his longsword, casually deflecting the arrow as if swatting a fly.
“Impossible!” Beryl’s smirk vanished. Only battle-hardened warriors could intercept arrows mid-flight. How could this level 20 human…?
Under his kin’s watchful eyes, Beryl abandoned arrogance. His hands blurred, nocking and firing arrows in rapid succession—dozens raining toward Midi from all angles.
Scattershot—a gunslinger’s wide-range skill. But Beryl, master archer, timed each arrow’s trajectory to converge simultaneously. For Melee Fighters, this meant certain doom.
Whistling arrows filled the air. Yet Midi remained calm, his reincarnated soul unshaken by such petty threats. Past lives had forged ice in his veins.
He shifted with rhythmic grace, never hurried. His blade flicked out at precise intervals, batting aside incoming shafts.
Sword and man danced to a silent melody, effortlessly dismantling Beryl’s onslaught. When the last arrow fell, Midi stood untouched. The ground around him bristled with broken arrows like metallic weeds.
The wreckage mirrored Beryl’s crumbling confidence. Gaping Elves murmured—they’d seen armored human Knights block such barrages with shields, or elemental mages burn arrows from the sky. But never this: a lone swordsman weaving through death itself.
However, Midi moved with a casual ease no one had ever seen before.
"My turn now," Midi declared. Before the words fully left his mouth, he charged forward like a gust of wind.
Beryl spun around to attack again, but froze when realizing Midi could predict his moves. The black-haired boy effortlessly sidestepped every bow aim before arrows flew. Shooting meant wasting arrows, but not shooting meant letting Midi advance unchecked.
Shoot or retreat?
Beryl hesitated too long. Midi was already there.
The boy’s gleaming longsword carried terrifying momentum – like an ice-clawed tiger plunging from snowy peaks, bringing deadly frost to claim its prey.
Beryl abandoned his bow and fled. The Elf darted through familiar woods, leaping between branches and hiding in foliage while firing arrows through leaf gaps.
Even when Beryl desperately unleashed aerial volleys, Midi either dodged effortlessly or deflected arrows with his blade.
Like swatting flies.
With attacks proving useless, Midi closed the distance again. Exhaustion weighed on Beryl after prolonged tree-hopping – that common Elf weakness of poor stamina.
"Nowhere left to run!" Midi shouted, amplifying psychological pressure. He accelerated like a loosed arrow, appearing before Beryl instantly.
The Elf’s heart pounded. Though Midi displayed level 20 speed and power, what battles forged such technique? What carnage shaped this experience?
"Just a human swordsman? Impossible!" Beryl choked on frustration. But truth glared – a sheltered forest hunter versus a reincarnated Demon Swordman tempered in endless bloodshed.
Their difference spanned heaven and earth.
Midi closed in before Beryl could attempt counter-skills. The swordsman flipped his weapon, smashing the hilt into Beryl’s nose. Cartilage crunched. Twin blood streams erupted.
Darkness flooded Beryl’s vision as Midi’s kick launched him airborne. The Wind Team captain tumbled like a broken kite, crashing earthward in a dust cloud. Dazed and aching, his fine armor muddied, pretty face twisted in pain.
"I’ll sell you this blade." Without glancing at his defeated foe, Midi walked to wide-eyed Dylan and handed him the Blade of Shattered Mind.
Dylan stared at the cold metal, overwhelmed by bystanders’ stares and the Wind Team’s anger from afar. Yet fear didn’t come – only awe for Midi’s dominating display.
This was true swordsmanship! The coveted blade now felt insignificant compared to that revelation.
"Don’t waste this good weapon," Midi said, clapping Dylan’s shoulder. "But remember – the sword matters less than strengthening the hand that holds it."
He left then, mysterious and formidable, burned into every Elf’s memory.
