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Chapter 68: Once Again, the Boy’s Resolve Was Broken
“…The rain has stopped.”
Torchlight illuminated the dark clearing. Around twenty men from the underworld had surrounded Zizek and me in a tight circle.
I calmly waited for Zizek, staring at the wavering shadows.
“Come at me with everything you’ve got from the start—an ambush, a strike meant to kill in one blow, a desperate charge, or even a sacrificial attack. I don’t care what you try.”
“No need. I already know that such desperate measures would be meaningless against you.”
The look in his eyes told me he understood well that clumsy tricks would only provoke my anger. This was the judgment of someone with experience.
‘This guy… He’s definitely not just some random street thug.’
I had a hunch and decided to ask.
“Did you ever serve under someone? Learn the sword that way?”
“…Something like that.”
His reluctance to explain further made it easy to guess that those memories were not pleasant.
Zizek leaned forward and extended his sword in front of him—a stance ideal for quick and powerful strikes.
A typical underworld swordsman.
Aura gathered along Zizek’s large blade.
It was crude and a bit unstable, but there was no mistaking it—that was sword energy. Reaching this level meant he had attained the Third-tier.
For the leader of a local fifth-rate organization , that wasn’t weak at all. In a place like Grunewald, even the back-alley criminals had to maintain a certain level of skill.
‘Let’s see how good he really is.’
I poured mana into my bracelet. It transformed into a sharp, gleaming sword.
“How much do you think that artifact is worth?”
Zizek echoed his subordinates’ sentiments.
“You could probably fund a group twice the size of ours just by selling that bracelet.”
I imbued the blade with just the right amount of mana—no more than needed. Just as Ulbhild had held back during training.
“Sorry, but I have business with that spider tattoo of yours.”
“You’ll explain after the duel?”
“Then I won’t hold back.”
In an instant, Zizek closed the distance, his blade thrusting toward me.
His opening move was a quick, light stab designed for speed.
As I deflected the tip of his sword and moved in, Zizek deftly retreated, using nimble footwork to regain distance.
That single movement made it clear—this man had plenty of real combat experience.
‘His sword is pretty sturdy.’
Weapons of this type often lacked durability, but as expected, Ulbhild’s gift was on another level.
Even with only a moderate amount of mana infused, the blade felt solid, showing no signs of breaking.
Zizek gathered his strength and unleashed a fierce flurry of strikes.
Yet, an attack that couldn’t even tear through the wind had no chance of touching me.
Swish, swish, swish, swish.
I moved effortlessly through the gaps between his strikes, as though I were riding the wind itself.
There was no trace of Grunewald’s techniques in my movements. This was purely the martial arts of Karzan.
‘The difference in physical ability is undeniable.’
I possessed the bloodline of Grunewald, a renowned martial clan, and my body had been tempered with the mana refined through the Eternal Ocean Chain Technique, an exceptional cultivation technique.
When comparing Karzan to swordsman of the same tier, the difference in speed and strength was on an entirely different level.
‘Still, he’s holding up better than expected.’
Zizek had sharp reflexes and exceptional vision. This wasn’t a strength born of talent for martial arts or an affinity for mana—it was something else entirely.
Zizek blocked a casual strike from my sword, his stance wavering. The impact forced him back three steps, and I immediately pressed forward to seize the offensive.
‘He’s holding out well.’
The strain was clear on his face; his lips were set in a tight, stubborn line.
His swordsmanship lacked a proper foundation, yet there was something raw and refined about it, honed through countless battles.
It was unpolished but sharp, inefficient yet unpredictable.
‘This one has the potential to become stronger.’
If he consumed the right spirit medicines and mastered a proper mana cultivation technique, his growth could be significant.
Of course, whether he was worth such investment remained to be seen.
‘Let’s push him a little further.’
I began to mix in the subtleties of the Scarlet Cloud Ghost Path. My footwork became more elusive, the distance between us more complex and bewildering.
The angles of my sword strikes grew intricate, and Zizek’s movements became increasingly flustered.
‘A good movement technique is just as important as good swordsmanship.’
I subtly hooked my foot behind Zizek as he retreated. Even while his balance was severely disrupted, Zizek managed to backflip and scatter his sword’s energy through the air.
“That was impressive.”
Had I approached recklessly, I might’ve taken an unexpected hit. As a last-minute improvisation, it was more than decent.
“However, your blade wavered, and your strike was imprecise. The idea was good, but you rushed it.”
“…I’ll keep that in mind.”
Still, Zizek was clearly gifted when it came to combat.
‘This one’s too talented to waste away in some back alley.’
I couldn’t help but feel like I’d struck gold.
A man who had risen to the top of an organization with his own strength—someone like that was worth taking in. His judgment and temperament, too, seemed promising.
“Sorry to interrupt mid-fight, but can I ask you something?”
Zizek looked frustrated as if his pride had been wounded.
“Are you currently fighting me with mana at roughly the same level as mine?”
“…Then why is the gap between us so overwhelming? Is it because of a difference in understanding martial arts?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. This young man from the underworld carried a pride that reminded me of my younger self—the pride of a former Karzan.
“You thought that as long as your mana was similar, you wouldn’t lose in a fight?”
Kid, the confident fool you are now—that’s who I used to be.
“How should I describe it? At one point, I thought exactly the same thing.”
I pointed the tip of my sword toward Zizek.
“That’s why it’s so important—meeting someone who can utterly break you and show you what you lack.”
“You don’t have enough mana? Your martial arts are incomplete? Then don’t complain—scrape together whatever money you can and buy better spirit medicines. Seek out a proper master to teach you better techniques, or train relentlessly and turn your fighting experience into your own strength. Have you ever made that kind of effort?”
Zizek’s face shifted—first with realization, then with shock.
“That’s the wall that’s been holding you back.”
Those with true talent only need a single piece of advice to make great strides.
Watching Zizek’s expression, I raised my sword high.
“I’m ending this fight with my next move. Give it everything you’ve got to resist.”
Depending on how he responded, I would decide Zizek’s fate.
After watching the duel between Allenvert and Ulbhild—
Barclava had thrown himself back into martial arts training, pushing harder than ever before, sweat dripping down his face.
‘This is more enjoyable than I thought.’
It felt almost laughable—how pathetic he must have been, living all his life doing nothing but what his elder brother demanded.
Now, for the first time, Barclava was wielding a sword of his own volition, and it was liberating.
Even if he couldn’t grow stronger as quickly as others, simply walking down the right path filled him with pride.
‘Yes. It’s time for me to stand on my own, like Sister Ulbhild. If I build my skills, Mother and Brother will surely be proud of me.’
Even after grueling training, when Barclava sat late into the night cultivating his mana, he felt no fatigue.
It was an admirable sight indeed, but...
“Sir Barclava, Young Master Verdzig came to meet you.”
His brief moment of hope wavered like a flickering candle at the arrival of an unwelcome guest.
Verdzig opened the door without so much as a knock or a word of permission.
“I heard you’ve been meeting with Allenvert.”
Why did his graceful, silent steps feel so ominous, like those of a reaper?
Barclava froze like a mouse before a snake.
“Were you cultivating just now?”
“No, no. I just finished.”
Verdzig—beautiful like a jewel yet dangerous like a predator—reached out and caressed Barclava’s cheek. Barclava flinched, trembling like a leaf.
“And yet, why haven’t you greeted your brother?”
A chill ran down Barclava’s spine as he hunched his shoulders like a scolded child.
“G-greetings, Brother.”
“Barclava, Barclava… my dear little brother.”
Verdzig whispered softly into Barclava’s ear, his voice as insidious as a snake’s hiss.
“…I can’t help but worry. Have you perhaps been harboring insolent ambitions? Do you want to become like Ulbhild?”
The way Verdzig’s voice laid bare Barclava’s foolish hopes made him squeeze his eyes shut in desperation. He wanted nothing more than to escape from this man’s grasp.
That was, perhaps, an impossible dream.
Verdzig clicked his tongue as he looked down at his brother, so easily conquered by fear.
He had come here to personally straighten out Barclava’s foolish dreams.
At the same time, a small part of him had felt curiosity—perhaps even hope—upon hearing that ‘Barclava’ seemed to be undergoing some kind of change.
But once again, Verdzig found himself disappointed.
‘If you had been able to overcome the fear I instilled in you, I might have thought differently of you.’
Just as Allenvert had done, after all.
Of course, it wasn’t easy. Verdzig had spent years carefully controlling and taming his younger half-brother since childhood.
‘I turned this boy into a fool.’
…Yet, even so, he couldn’t help but find it pathetic.
How could it not be so? Allenvert, breaking free from the shell of his seven years of seclusion, had displayed something fascinating right before Verdzig’s eyes.
A younger brother who, despite knowing the gap in their power, still put on his bravest front! Even his eldest brother, Karl, held some level of fear toward Verdzig.
‘If you had shown even half the courage Allenvert did, I might have given you a chance to prove that resolve.’
But that fleeting spark of resolve had been extinguished like a candle in the wind that was Verdzig.
With a gentle smile, Verdzig ran his hand along Barclava’s cheek.
“It seems you’ve managed to overcome a small wall these past few days.”
Barclava flinched as though that hand were a blade.
“It’s something worth celebrating. Watching their duel must have benefited you as well.”
“But I hadn’t expected to hear about your visit from someone else’s lips.”
Barclava replied immediately.
“I’m sorry, Brother.”
“There’s no need to ask for your reasons.”
It was as good as saying he already knew.
“It’s natural for someone your age to question things and wrestle with uncertainty. But adolescence, for all its chaos, ends far more quickly than you might expect. The world doesn’t change so easily just because your heart wavers a little.”
Barclava wanted to say that wasn’t true. Like Allenvert, he, too, wished to act of his own volition.
Yet when faced with Verdzig’s snake-like gaze, the words circled in his mouth and were swallowed back down.
“I will keep that in mind, Brother.”
Once more, the boy’s resolve was broken—easily, like a flower’s fragile stem.
“Very well. For now, train as you wish.”
With that single statement, Verdzig redefined all of Barclava’s efforts thus far.
His training was no longer something he did for himself—it was now permitted by his brother, a granted freedom under supervision.
Realizing this, Barclava’s gaze turned hollow once more.
‘I won’t stop you from trying to become strong.’
Yet, in the end, Barclava would never escape his grasp. Verdzig had confirmed that once again.
“I’ll take my leave now.”
“Safe travels, Brother.”
As Barclava bid him farewell, Verdzig felt two conflicting emotions settle within him—
One was satisfaction,
And the other was boredom.
‘People truly don’t change so easily.’
Which was precisely why Allenvert’s transformation remained such a source of interest for him.
Returning to his private quarters, Verdzig checked the time. Midnight was fast approaching.
‘The boy must be asleep by now.’
As was his habit, Verdzig’s thoughts drifted to Allenvert.
…Of course, Allenvert, like a fish in water, was currently upending the underworld with his actions. Not that Verdzig had any way of knowing this.
‘In just a few days, Allenvert has gained quite a lot.’
By defeating Keseg in their duel, he had proven his talent, and as a result, had begun receiving martial instruction from Ulbhild.
‘That’s quite the fortuitous encounter.’
Ulbhild, after all, possessed martial prowess second only to Verdzig himself among the direct line of the Grunewald Clan.
Under her guidance, Allenvert had learned the Scarlet Cloud Ghost Path, refined his martial skills through sparring, and was now steadily advancing.
So what would he pursue next?
‘It seems he has an interest in the underworld as well.’
The Mask of Aminicrus Verdzig had presented during their private meeting was a bait of sorts—to observe Allenvert’s movements and decisions.
The fact that he hadn’t touched the mask spoke to his perceptiveness.
‘But is that really all there is?’
Could Allenvert really just leave such an item untouched? Perhaps only until he found a way to resolve whatever unease it caused him?
‘The boy doesn’t have the luxury of time.’
Diagnosed with a terminal condition, Allenvert was not in a position to simply bide his time and quietly gather strength like some patient fisherman.
‘At least, that’s not what I would do.’
Verdzig trusted his own instincts.
Beyond his genius-level intellect, he possessed an unrivaled sharp intuition and an uncanny sensitivity to the flow of events.
And so, he felt the need to confirm one thing.
“…The mask I gifted to Allenvert.”
The words were spoken softly, almost to himself, but a reply came at once.
“Yes, my lord. What would you like to know?”
“Have you been tracking its location?”
After a brief silence, a slightly unsteady voice emerged from the darkness.
“I will confirm it immediately.”
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