NOVGO.NET Chapter 973: Grace of a blade
Chapter 973: Grace of a blade
Arcten’s sword screamed through the air—clean, deliberate, honed by years of battlefield attrition.
Lucavion barely caught the edge of it—his blade sliding along Arcten’s, not perfectly, but just enough to keep from being crushed.
The clash echoed.
The force bit into Lucavion’s arms. Even dulled, the strength behind the blow was absolute. Bone-deep.
But instead of retreating—he laughed.
A short, clipped breath—not nervous. Thrilled.
“As expected,” he said, voice light, teeth bared in a grin, “instructors here are not to be underestimated.”
Arcten’s eyes narrowed. That tone—it wasn’t mockery this time.
It was respect.
But then Lucavion shifted.
A sharp exhale left his lungs—and his stance melted.
No fanfare. No charge.
Just smooth, seamless reconfiguration.
His knees bent. Shoulders dropped. Weight rolled from heel to toe.
Reflexive.
And then—he moved.
Faster than Arcten anticipated. Still within the limits of 1-star mana—but the way he used it…
Lucavion’s feet kissed the stone like wind gliding over water. No rebound. No wasted momentum. He flowed from side to side, movements coiling around Arcten’s rhythm—not resisting it, but spiraling through it.
A flick of his wrist, and his sword traced a tight crescent—redirecting Arcten’s follow-up strike mid-swing.
Arcten’s blade skidded just wide—not deflected by force, but by structure.
What the hell—?
Lucavion didn’t stop.
Even using a heavier blade than his usual estoc, one that was clearly off-balance in his grip, he adapted on the fly—adjusting his center, letting the weight drag him into a pivot that turned into a backhand sweep.
CRACK—!
Arcten caught it at the last second—his forearm absorbing the strike, blade raised vertically to block.
The contact flared in the dome. More feedback.
Another clean read.
Arcten clenched his teeth.
The boy had no business moving like this—not without advanced conditioning, not under suppression.
But it wasn’t the raw speed that disturbed him.
It was the grace.
Lucavion’s technique was loose
, yes. There was too much travel in his arc, his shoulder dipped too early—but none of it mattered.
He knew how to flow around his flaws.
The blade wasn’t an extension of him. It was a partner. He adjusted his footwork around the sword’s weight, not against it. Each movement looked like it should have failed—but it didn’t.
Because he knew how to fail smart.
“How are you—?” Arcten started, breath catching.
Lucavion spun low again, sliding past another of Arcten’s strikes, and came up with a rising thrust that didn’t aim for a fatal point—just centerline destabilization.
WHUMP.
Arcten staggered back two paces.
Lucavion’s blade lowered, his posture slanted but tight.
A trickle of steam curled from the mana around his limbs. Still sealed. Still within range. The suppression bracelet was glowing dimly—working—but clearly struggling.
Lucavion tilted his head.
That same smile returned.
“Don’t worry, Instructor. I’m still well within the boundaries,” he said, voice light.
Then a small chuckle.
“…Though I wonder. How many more of those techniques do you plan on hiding?”
Arcten didn’t answer.
His jaw clenched. His grip tightened.
His pulse, calm only minutes ago, began to beat with an old rhythm—one he hadn’t heard since war. Not training. Not instruction.
Fight or lose.
’This kid—this brat—’
He’d come here expecting to hand out a lesson. A sharp blow. A quiet failure on the record, to pay a quiet price.
Not this.
Not needing to draw deeper. Not needing to fight seriously against someone fifteen years his junior.
Not against a commoner.
And certainly not against a 1-star.
Arcten’s breath turned sharp.
’Cocky little shit…’
He pushed forward—fast. His foot snapped against the rune-lit floor, and mana surged from his core, wrapping tightly around his muscles.
2-star output.
His blade blurred as he dropped into a chaining assault form—one he’d used to cleave through a three-man vanguard at Duskfront.
Strike. Twist. Cut upward. Pull back.
Each movement followed by another—sharp, refined, clean. Years of discipline in motion.
But Lucavion was already inside the tempo.
CLACK—!
The boy’s blade deflected the first hit—not with strength, but with an angled deflection that turned Arcten’s force against itself.
A split-second twist—and Lucavion slipped underneath.
THWACK!
Another hit on the ribs. Clean.
Arcten barely stepped out in time to avoid the follow-up—he could feel the feedback rune flicker in response to the blow.
Then another.
Lucavion struck low—kicked off the floor with a low, vaulting spin, and his blade came diagonally down, catching Arcten on the shoulder guard.
CLANK—!
Again, the feedback lit up.
Another hit.
What the hell is going on?
He should have the advantage. Years of real combat, perfect blade control, a sword better suited for this kind of fight—
And yet—
Every time he moved, Lucavion was already adjusting.
And not from instinct.
The boy was reading him. Step for step. Timing his breaths to Arcten’s swings. Not countering blindly—but dissecting.
Is he baiting me into tempo gaps?
Arcten twisted for a sudden horizontal slash, wide and crushing—designed to reset the pace.
Lucavion stepped in—too fast—and let the heavy blade pass cleanly behind him.
Then—
CRACK!
A jab to the stomach. Quick. Measured.
Arcten doubled back, teeth bared.
He was stronger. His core had more power. His blade had reach.
Yet Lucavion—with a dull weapon and 1-star mana—was cornering him.
Again.
And again.
Why?!
He felt the answer before he admitted it:
Lucavion’s body was built differently.
Every time he reinforced with 1-star output, his motion should’ve been easy to track. But it wasn’t.
The weight transfer through his joints, the elasticity of his muscles—it didn’t match a first-year. Didn’t even match a normal human.
His natural strength… is that it?
No—more than strength. Control.
Lucavion appeared to be stronger than your average 4-star, way stronger, in terms of pure body strength for some reason, yet at the same time he also did have a control over his body with sihc strength.
It was like fighting someone who cheated—not by breaking rules, but by never needing them in the first place.
And worse—
He wasn’t even trying to kill. Just… strip Arcten down.
Which was the correct thing to do in that situation.
After all, his blade was dull, and the kid was aware of it from the start. And it was as if, he was playing under the rules that were imposed on him, unfairly.
Hit by hit.
And Arcten was being dismantled.
Strike to the calf—blocked.
Hit to the ribs—landed.
Blade to the shoulder—missed.
And all the while, Lucavion was smiling. As if he was enjoying this very moment.
Not arrogant.
Just aware of the gap.
Arcten swung again—high.
Lucavion ducked.
Swept under the guard—knee tapped to Arcten’s thigh—
THWACK.
“Dammit—!”
Arcten tried to reset his footing—too late.
Lucavion was already behind him, sliding across the stone with perfect control.
Another hit.
And another.
The dome flared brighter now—runes around Arcten’s body flashing yellow, then red.
The barrier trembled.
’No—’
But the next three strikes came in quick succession.
Shoulder. Flank. Hip.
CRACK—CRACK—CRACK!
The dome let out a warning chime.
Lucavion didn’t stop.
One final thrust—aimed straight at Arcten’s chest.
BZZZZZZZT!
The dome exploded in light as the feedback barrier shattered.
All around them, mana lines dimmed. The rune array dissolved. The air went still.
Lucavion stood with his blade outstretched—its dull tip resting just above Arcten’s heart.
Breathing calm. Expression blank.
Arcten froze.
Not from fear. But disbelief.
His arm ached.
His shoulder burned.
His pride… fractured.
The blade dipped. Lucavion stepped back.
“Sorry, Instructor,” he said casually. “Seems like I passed after all.”
He didn’t bow.
Didn’t gloat.
He just turned away.
And behind him, Arcten stood still.
Sword lowered.
Expression caught between shame, confusion… and something else.
Something deeper.
What the hell is this kid?