Chapter 67 : Square (3)

What is a Hero?

A hero is described in the sacred texts of the Origin Church as one who possesses divine power, unparalleled courage, and an unyielding will that never falters.

And yet, here stood such a hero—

‘Under mind control…?’

I stared at the hero before me, holding his sword, and struggled to believe it.

How could a hero, of all people, fall victim to mental magic?

Many demons in the past had claimed they would control the mind of the hero, only to end up as mere fodder for his blade.

This was all thanks to one of the blessings bestowed upon the hero by the goddess herself.

The Blessing of Unyielding Will.

This blessing, embedded within the hero, was simple yet immensely powerful.

It kept his mind perpetually clear and sharp, preventing him from ever giving up under any circumstances.

But its simplicity belied its strength.

The blessing had no activation requirements, consumed no mana, and could not be dispelled.

What made it truly overpowered, however, was its sheer breadth:

It nullified anything that affected the mind—sleep, hypnosis, brainwashing, exhaustion, illusions, and even emotions like fear.

No mental influence could penetrate the hero’s psyche.

And yet, here I was, facing a hero with vacant eyes, accusing me of being the “enemy of humanity.”

This wasn’t supposed to be possible.

How had Kairen managed to achieve what even Lilia couldn’t?

I wanted to demand answers from her right now.

But the current situation didn’t allow for such luxuries.

I gripped the hilts of the daggers at my waist.

The hero had drawn his sword, ready to attack me.

Could I block his strikes?

This was my first time facing an opponent like him.

While I had ample combat experience against demons, my battles against humans were minimal.

Until recently, my undercover status meant I avoided fights with humans entirely.

All I knew about him were the rumors:

“He’s incredibly strong.”

“His swordsmanship is unparalleled.”

“Nothing works against him.”

At the time, I had dismissed these as mere hearsay, convinced that as long as I maintained my cover, I’d never have to face him.

But now, here I was.

I drew my daggers, their blades catching the faint glow of moonlight as they slid from their sheaths.

I took my stance, thoughts racing.

Could I do this?

This man had slain the Demon Lord—a feat beyond comprehension.

How could I possibly stand a chance?

I glanced back briefly and noticed a few eyes fixed on me.

Damn it.

The presence of onlookers meant I couldn’t use magic without exposing myself.

That left me with only my swordsmanship.

Facing the hero at half strength was an uphill battle.

I took a deep breath, focusing on the task ahead.

I didn’t need to defeat him. I just needed to hold out until the prayer was complete.

Just endure. That’s all I have to do.

The hero, meanwhile, muttered to himself incoherently, as if consumed by madness.

“Protect Aelia… I must protect her this time…”

I pointed my blade at him.

Then,

“Ah, it seems our challenger is finally ready!”

Kairen’s voice boomed with excitement.

“Let the match begin!”

At her signal, a suffocating silence fell between us.

The air was still.

No sound. No movement.

We simply stood there, swords raised, staring each other down.

It felt as though time itself had stopped.

And yet, within this frozen moment, one thing moved rapidly—

His eyes.

The hero’s gaze darted across my body, scanning me meticulously as if searching for something.

But I couldn’t judge him for that.

I was doing the same, analyzing his every movement, seeking any possible opening.

After what felt like an eternity—but was likely only five seconds—his eyes suddenly stopped moving.

Then, in an instant, he lunged.

The holy sword cut through the air with lethal intent, aimed directly at me.

I quickly read his trajectory.

His target: my left shoulder.

I raised my blade to intercept.

Clang!

The clash of metal echoed as our swords met.

It was heavy—his blade pressing down on mine with immense force.

Tch. Deflecting it is impossible.

I adjusted my blade’s angle slightly, causing his sword to slide off.

For a brief moment, my left hand was freed from the pressure.

I countered immediately, swinging my other dagger toward his waist.

But it struck only air.

He had retreated just enough to evade the blow, his stance momentarily disrupted.

Not bad, I thought.

His quick retreat had left him slightly off balance, giving me a small window.

Without hesitation, I surged forward, closing the gap.

I swung my blade again, aiming for his side.

He turned his gaze and raised his holy sword in response.

Clang!

Another block.

I adjusted my stance and thrust toward his chest.

Thud!

This time, he deflected my arm with his free hand.

Two failed attacks already.

It didn’t matter. If one strike failed, I’d attack again.

I swung once more—blocked.

Changed my stance and struck again—blocked.

The hero, despite his seemingly unhinged state, responded to my relentless attacks with eerie composure.

He blocked what needed to be blocked and dodged what couldn’t.

Though my strikes were continuously thwarted, I didn’t let it deter me.

This was the hero, after all—a man worthy of such skill.

I swallowed my rising frustration and pressed on, varying my angles and stances to keep him guessing.

I couldn’t let him catch his breath.

Somewhere, somehow, an opening will appear.

I unleashed the Blade of the Tempest, Style 2: Storm Strike.

Like a storm tearing through everything in its path, I attacked with rapid, unrelenting force.

I had the initiative now, and I couldn’t afford to lose it.

Slashing, thrusting, striking downward, and slicing upward—I used every technique I knew to maintain my momentum.

But despite my relentless assault, sweat began to bead on my forehead.

No matter how hard I pressed, no matter how varied my strikes, he defended them all with precision.

His vacant eyes darted rapidly, tracking the path of every swing.

It was as if he could read the trajectory of my blade before it even moved.

And in that moment, I realized—

This wasn’t going to be easy.

At first glance, he looked utterly deranged, yet his movements were precise and swift, effortlessly countering my every strike.

Is this instinct? Or is it the result of countless battles?

I couldn’t tell what exactly allowed him to block my attacks so perfectly, but one thing was clear: if this continued, I’d end up destroying myself.

I had created a favorable situation—I was on the offensive, pushing him back.

But the longer this dragged on, the worse it became for me.

With each attack he blocked, my strength waned. My arms were growing weaker from the relentless barrage of strikes.

I looked at him.

I had thrown countless attacks his way, yet not a single one had landed.

‘This crazy bastard…’

Every attack had been blocked. I had switched styles, mixed in feints, and tried to catch him off guard, but it was no use.

The only marks I had managed to leave were scratches on his clothing. My blades hadn’t even grazed his skin.

It was unnerving. His defense was nearly flawless—without a single mistake.

Could a human even achieve this?

He seemed more like a machine.

Whenever I attacked with aggression, he deflected smoothly. When I attacked with subtlety, he responded with force.

It felt as though I was facing multiple opponents.

Every time I changed my style, his defense adjusted seamlessly.

Sometimes he met my strikes with ferocity, other times with gentle precision.

It was as if he already knew every attack I would make.

I realized it with certainty now—his swordsmanship was leagues above mine.

It felt like I was facing an impenetrable wall.

No matter how many times I struck, I couldn’t even leave a scratch.

I couldn’t defeat him with swordsmanship alone. He was reading my every move.

If I wanted to reach him, I needed to use something he couldn’t predict.

Magic.

But… I couldn’t use magic right now.

Damn it!

If this continued, I’d be the one overwhelmed.

My endurance was nearing its limit.

If I kept attacking and ran out of strength, his counterattack could very well kill me.

I aborted my next strike and raised my right foot, aiming a kick at him.

He crossed his arms to block it, using them as a shield.

Using his arms as a foothold, I leapt backward, distancing myself from him.

The force of the kick pushed him back slightly.

Landing successfully, I quickly regained my stance and faced him.

He, too, readjusted his stance, preparing once more.

And with our stances reset, the suffocating stalemate resumed.

I thought as I stared at him.

I can’t beat him with swordsmanship.

The previous exchange had made that painfully clear.

If I kept attacking like before, the result would be my defeat.

Instead, I needed to focus on defense and evasion.

I didn’t need to kill him. While it would be ideal to eliminate him, that wasn’t realistic given my inability to use magic.

For now, I would focus on stalling for time.

If I could hold out long enough, something would change.

The problem was time.

How much longer?

I began counting the seconds that had passed.

Two minutes. The previous exchange had lasted precisely two minutes.

Bliss had said the spell required seven minutes to cast.

That meant I needed to endure at least five more minutes.

Five minutes could be short or long, depending on the situation.

I pointed my blade at the hero once more.

His eyes darted rapidly, searching for an opening.

Five minutes against this monster… It feels impossible.

But then I shook my head, rejecting that thought.

Instead, I resolved myself.

I have to do this.

As I steadied my mind, his eyes stopped moving.

In that instant, I raised my blade.

And then—

The sound of clashing swords echoed across the plaza.