SMMA 41

Chapter 41

Ancient relics and treasures of such rarity could never be obtained easily.
And this one, already attacked once, was half-shattered.
To be struck again would certainly mean its complete destruction—anyone could see that much.

“Stop him! Protect the relic!”

“I vanish with the night!”

Ihan intoned the chant again. His form dissolved swiftly into shadow. The zealots ground their teeth in frustration.

This priest was proving far too troublesome—first blocking their attempt to slay the sorcerer, and now slipping into invisibility again.

“He fights well. He must be a battle-priest set as the mage’s guard! I will deal with him myself.”

So thought the leader of the ambushers, who ran toward the relic. He dared not leave matters to chance and see the plan ruined.

“Move!”

Even as he sprinted, Ihan hurled the iron marble Professor Volady had given him. Then he chanted.

For newly trained mages, casting spells in the midst of such pressure and desperation was considered taboo.
Even many excellent sorcerers, without intense training, could stumble under tension—spells failed, mana backlashed, sometimes injuring the caster instead.
As for novices, failure was almost guaranteed.

Yet Professor Volady had never given Ihan that warning.

—“If you would be a battle mage, you must endure it. Why need warning for a trial everyone must face? Overcome it yourself.”

Thus Ihan, unknowing of the gamble, dared speak an incantation. And astonishingly, it succeeded.
As Volady had assessed, Ihan was a man who shone brightest when danger pressed close upon him.

Pop!

The iron bead floated upward under a minor manipulation spell. Alone, it ought to have wobbled weakly through the air. But infused with Ihan’s colossal mana, it transcended its petty rank, flying swift and hard.

“Go!”

With a burst of his will and intent, the marble shot like an arrow.
In the darkness, from an unseen hand, the projectile was impossible to evade.

Thud! One of the pursuers fell back, struck down.

“Be careful! He’s using hidden weapons!”
“He’s skilled in battle—stay alert!”

Their blades scraped free as they tightened their guard.

Meanwhile Ihan retrieved the bead, though dizziness burned his skull. His body dashed onward while his mind balanced the marble’s motion separately.

“Concentrate… I must focus!”

For all his madness, Volady’s claim had truth—real battle was the forge of growth.

And Ihan now felt it keenly in his flesh.
Spinning iron in a classroom practice could never compare to this life-or-death control. His senses sharpened with each throw, grab, spin, and strike—his command of magic growing visibly in the crucible of survival.

“!”

Suddenly he tasted blood. Wiping at his lips, he realized a nosebleed was flowing. His mana had not drained—it was the cost of battering his mind too harshly.

Clang!

A flash of steel split his bead apart. The enemy leader had struck perfectly in time.

“Track his steps! Footprints will reveal him!”

“Damn. I was so close…”

Even as the relic gleamed just meters ahead, three opponents stood firm between him and its destruction.

“The scent of blood—follow it!”

Hearing that, Ihan knew time was no ally. Prolonged stalling meant doom. His sword training, though earnest, could never match warriors honed in countless battles.
He must strike first where advantage remained!

Steel flashed. Blood spattered. A zealot fell at his sudden ambush.

“There! He’s there!”

Swoosh—powder spilled from their sleeves, faint dust glimmering. Though Ihan knew not its nature, he understood: touch it, and invisibility would falter.
He rolled without hesitation.

“Damn him!”

Even with the glowing dust scattered, his form stayed hidden. They cursed—this priest was vexing beyond reason.

“Stay calm. As long as you do not ease your guard, he cannot harm you.” The leader’s voice hummed taut with suspicion.

Yes, the boy was invisible. But moving in attack must stir sound—keen enough ears could catch it.

But… silence.
Neither footsteps rang nor blood-scent wafted any longer.

Stab!

“?!”
“You wretch…!”

Another zealot fell, undone by strike at close range.

Then the leader realized: Ihan had hidden beside fallen blood, feigning retreat. The perfect ruse.

Forgetting anger, he marveled.
Here was not simply magic, but cunning in battle itself. A dullard could train forever and never devise such calculation.

“Move!”

“Ah!”

The chant rang—one foe ducked desperately. But the leader barked sharply, “Fool! A false spell!”

Yet too late. The last soldier collapsed.

Now only the commander remained. Instead of rage, he smiled oddly and lifted his sword.

“It has been long since I faced such a foe. I am Garakse.”

Ihan did not answer. The leader only nodded knowingly.

A boy careless enough to lapse into chatter would never have slain so many already.

“You think you are unseen. You trust too much in that feeble magic.”

Clang!

“But I see you already.”

Not mere boast. His blade pressed close with uncanny precision, leaving Ihan startled.

“No concealment hides your breath.”

“…!”

So he tracked by breathing sounds?

Ihan cursed inwardly. True indeed—masters surpassed mortal limits, but this was beyond all expectation.

Garakse’s blade overflowed, hemming in air itself.
This was [Footnote: Hwan-geom (환검 渙劍)]—not “phantasm blade” (幻) meant to confuse, but “scattered blade” (渙), each cut flowing into the next to choke all motion from the sky.

Ihan countered with Blue Rock Sword forms, pressing defense. Yet each meeting of steel proved him weaker. Without invisibility, he’d be felled in moments.

Shockwaves coursed up his arms with every impact.

“This… is what Alarron spoke of.”

Skilled swordsmen infused mana into their blades—not mere muscle, but the power of spirit itself. Flesh transcended, wielded as weapon.

Garakse, too, infused mana in every stroke. No wonder the shocks beat through him.

“Then I will force it in, no matter what!”

Drawing mana like chanting a spell, Ihan pumped it desperately into his sword.

Crash!

“!?”

Garakse reeled at the sudden ferocity.

“What manner of boy is this?”

His technique was fair—good enough Garakse, slayer of imperial bladesmen, admitted it. Worse, his will carried weight.

Many self-proud duelists, when faced with the strong, lunged blindly and were slain in their own arrogance. Ihan, instead, saw clearly, shed all pride, and braced into defense.

Few mortals cast ambition away so cleanly in true combat.

“You are extraordinary…”

Yet he still lacked strength. His swordsmanship, though decent, could not equal one who freely melded mana into blade.

Moreover his style wielded heavy sword forms. Normally sheer weight should overcome Garakse’s scattered blade technique—but here, not even that edge remained.

Until suddenly—strength surged. The boy’s blade hammered with force greater even than Garakse’s.

What?
“Was he concealing himself? For what reason—why such power only now?”

For the first time, doubt clouded Garakse’s poise. What purpose hid behind such gamesmanship?

Even as he doubted, Ihan questioned himself.

Is this even right?

Where orthodox forms balanced attack with defense, he was abandoning all else. Pouring mana, he forsook stance—all his intent now only to strike and strike again.

Could this be swordsmanship?

Truly, it was not.
Proper infusion of mana flowed in cycle—body feeding blade, blade returning body. Circulation kept wear in check.

But stream without cycle? To pour recklessly without return—such madness devoured life, a suicide’s sword.

Had Garakse seen his posture clear of invisibility, he would have known. But unseen, it shook his composure.

Thus instead of seizing control, Garakse was driven back, staggered by blows he could not gauge.

Crack—

“?”

From the boy’s weapon a dreadful sound rang. It was no illusion.

“No…!”

The sword itself faltered, unable to bear the flood.

“What worthless steel they gave me!”

Unknowing blame passed his mind. In truth, his foe’s weapons were high-grade imperials. But Ihan’s torrent exceeded reason—he only cursed the steel.

“Then we end it now!”

Rather than pull back, risking collapse, he hurled everything upon the finale.

With gnashing teeth, Garakse drew his second sword—wrought of Black-Purple Stone** (Heuk-jaseok 黑紫石), which absorbed mana.

(**Footnote: A rare mineral in this world, famed for its resistance to sorcery. Weapons forged from it could drink magical force directly.)

Among duelists, to draw such against a peer was humiliation. But no more could he allow loss.

“I’ll finish this!”

Smash—the shattering noise burst.

And there, as if unveiled, appeared Ihan’s weapon. Translucent flame of mana crystallized, forming the true contour of a sword.

Neither aura (a warrior’s qi) nor spellcraft, but a strange hybrid force.

Boom!!!

Even Black-Purple Stone availed nothing. The torrent collapsed upon Garakse like waves upon rock.

He was drowned.