Episode 51

Hector looked up at me, dazed. Coincidentally, at that moment, his nose started bleeding.

I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. No matter how handsome a person was, a nosebleed would make them look ridiculous.

“You!” Hector growled, jumped up, and attacked again.

His strikes were fiercer now, but his emotional state made them easier to predict.

I evaded effortlessly and asked, “What is this swordsmanship’s name?”

“Shut up!” Hector snapped.

“So, it is the Shut-Up Swordsmanship,” I remarked with a smile.

Hector’s face flushed crimson.

No matter how talented the Iron-Blooded Lord’s son was, his lack of real experience showed. A simple provocation had shattered his composure.

Honestly, Hector would not have ended up like this if it weren’t for me.

“Are you going to keep dodging like a coward?” he demanded.

“If I was only dodging, wouldn’t your nose be fine?” I retorted.

“Shut up!” he barked.

“I already know its name, so no need to repeat it.”

Just as the veins on Hector’s forehead bulged, a sharp voice cut through the air, scolding, “Hector—!”

I glanced toward the onlookers’ area. A middle-aged man who resembled Hector was standing there.

Is he from Hector’s maternal family? I wondered.

The shout seemed to snap Hector back to his senses. Though still furious, he paused to catch his breath.

This was the perfect moment to press the attack and end the fight, but curiosity got the better of me. “By the way, why do you hate me so much?”

“What?” Hector snapped.

“There must be a reason for your relentless persistence,” I pressed.

Hector glared at me and said, “Don’t you realize your disrespectful attitude is only fueling my anger?”

“Don’t be absurd,” I countered. “You hated me even when I acted meek and submissive,” I shot back.

Hector fell silent.

“Brother Hector, you aren’t the type to torment someone just because they’ve acted a little rudely,” I added. “You aren’t that idle.”

Hector’s glare didn’t waver, but his grip on the sword loosened slightly.

After a brief pause, he spoke in a low voice. “How much do you know about the Great Families?”

The question caught me off guard, but I answered calmly, “They were founded by the heroes who drove out the Dark Church 2,000 years ago and their descendants.”

“That’s the gist of it,” Hector said. “It’s not just the imperial family but also the Goodsprings, the Badnikers, and all the others who participated in the blessing ceremony—whether deeply or superficially. We carry the blood of great ancestors. The blessings are clearer proof of our lineage than anything else.”

“Proof?” I echoed.

Hector suddenly drove his sword into the ground, and the earth trembled violently. “The undeniable proof that we have inherited the blood of great heroes.”

It felt like an aftershock. Thankfully, everyone present knew it wasn’t a natural phenomenon, so there was no panic.

The training ground cracked like parched earth. I kept my balance easily, watching as the ground shook beneath us.

“In the last 2,000 years, no one has failed to receive a blessing—until you, Luan Badniker, came along,” Hector said, flames flickering in his eyes. “Do you know how much humiliation Father endured among the Great Families because of you?”

“Humiliation?” I asked.

“Those lowlives mocked and insulted Father’s lineage,” he spat. “They claimed our ancestor’s blood was thin, that he wasn’t a hero but a mongrel… They spewed such nonsense.”

Finally, I understood. To Hector, the Iron-Blooded Lord was a god—a fanatic’s devotion, not unlike the worship of a false god. And I was the one who had disgraced this so-called god. Now I knew why he was so enraged.

“When I heard of you, I wanted to kill you on the spot,” Hector growled. “I only held back because Father remained silent. Yet you dared to set foot in the main house again with your filthy feet.”

“And yet, I succeeded in receiving a blessing,” I retorted calmly.

“If there is a reason you are still alive today, that must be the only one,” he rebuked.

Hector yanked his sword from the ground, aimed it at me, and charged again.

This time, the sword’s trajectory felt different. I dodged, yet blood spurted from my untouched shoulder. I narrowed my eyes, studying Hector’s sword. I recognized this technique—it wasn’t like the one I’d seen earlier.

The Afterimage Sword, I thought.

This was the sword technique that he had invented when he was around fourteen years old. By infusing the sword with mana and altering its flow at irregular intervals, he generated unpredictable distortions in the sword’s energy. When facing this technique, one had to watch not only the physical blade but also the mana-driven energy it released.

Hector’s movements became faster than before as if he had been blessed. The killing intent contained in the blade also became stronger. It didn’t feel like a sparring match at all.

It’s a tricky technique,

I admitted.

But was it threatening? Not at all.

At first, small wounds peppered my body, but they stopped accumulating once I grew accustomed to his attacks. In short, the concept was clever, but the execution lacked finesse.

While inventing an irregular sword technique was impressive, Hector’s straightforward psychology made his moves predictable.

For the current Hector, this was an early-stage technique. He would’ve been better off relying on his family’s refined, battle-tested swordsmanship. Of course, I wasn’t about to offer him advice.

Once I finished analyzing the Afterimage Sword, I started advancing step by step.

Hector’s expression hardened further. This was likely the first time an opponent had closed the distance while he wielded the technique at full power.

Soon, his strikes grew impatient, his sword betraying his irritation.

When I heard his grinding teeth, I knew the time was right and deliberately left an opening in my defense.

The bait was perfect. Without hesitation, Hector lunged, throwing himself headfirst into the trap I had laid.

I twisted my torso, dodging the strike—not just avoiding it, but trapping his sword between my armpit.

“What?!” Hector seemed genuinely shocked.

Grabbing the sword was risky, like shaving with an axe. Anyone would hesitate. And with the Afterimage Sword still active, my armpit ached from the strain.

I couldn’t hold it for long, so I seized the moment and punched Hector in the jaw while he was stunned.

Did his jawbone break? It certainly felt like it.

Staggering, Hector let out a scream and lunged at me, but I clamped a hand over his mouth and muffled the sound.

People often said that those who wielded weapons fought in close combat, but a sword was a medium-range weapon for someone like me, who relied on bare hands. In other words, Hector was within my optimal range for the first time since the spar began.

I pushed him to the ground, keeping my hand over his mouth. His tenacity in holding onto his sword even in this situation was commendable, but it wasn’t enough to recover his collapsed posture.

Did he read my mind or something? I wondered as he roughly dropped his sword and reached for me.

I struck him with my free hand and pressed harder over his mouth.

He let out a silent scream.

“Feels like your jawbone might come completely off if I add a bit more force. Will you have to eat porridge for a month?” I wondered aloud.

It was an experience worth trying at least once.

Suddenly, Hector’s eyes glowed bright yellow, and he shoved me away with tremendous force.

Is it a blessing? It seems to be a power that temporarily amplifies his physical abilities, but why did he wait until now to use it?

Either he isn’t used to it yet, or he didn’t want to use it on someone like me. Probably both.

The way Hector charged at me reminded me of Hariba—overflowing with power but lacking control. His physical abilities had improved by a level or two, but for me, this made him easier to handle.

Looks like he’s picked up some unarmed combat techniques.

His movements showed he was fighting seriously, but his martial arts training was shallow compared to his swordsmanship.

I dodged his clumsy attacks, landing punches where I could, especially targeting his face.

After a few hits, his vision seemed to blur, and the sharpness in his movements faded. Soon, the fight devolved into an unsightly struggle.

“Solar plexus, waist, thigh, forehead, and waist again,” I taunted, dodging another wild swing. “What are you doing? Your whole body is full of openings. Who taught you to punch so poorly?”

I knew my tone was childish and emotional, but I didn’t care to rein it in. I’d become younger, after all, so acting my age once in a while wasn’t so bad.

By now, Hector looked too pitiful to watch. Blood dripped from his swollen face, and his iron armor, likely belonging to the Iron-Blooded Knights, was dented like scrap metal.

Despite his condition, he managed to exhale strangely, his mouth opening as if he still had something to say.

“Who, are, you…” he gasped, each word labored.

I sighed, wondering, Why does everyone I fight—assassins and otherwise—react the same way?

I slapped Hector hard on the cheek to bring him to his senses, then I grabbed his collar and shook him. “Don’t you know who I am? I am the youngest, cutest son of the Badniker family—the one you completely ignored.”

“You can’t be Luan…” he stammered, his words surprisingly clear despite his swollen face.

His appearance irritated me, so I slapped him again. His eyes still held defiance, so I hit him once more. His black hair annoyed me, so I struck him again.

I diligently took care of him, like offering an extra loaf of bread to someone I despised.

Hector mumbled something through his swollen lips.

I stopped hitting him and leaned closer. “What are you mumbling?”

“C-crazy person… Crazy person…” he slurred.

Though his pronunciation was off, I understood him perfectly.

Being criticized demanded a response, so I slapped him once more. This time, he fainted immediately.

“Good job, Hector,” I said, then corrected myself, “I mean, Brother Hector.”

I tore my gaze from Hector, collapsed on the ground, and scanned the area. The only sound left was heavy breathing.

My eyes found the marshal, Jane, who hesitated before announcing, “The winner, Luan Badniker.”

Should I have expected this? No cheers, no triumphant cries. Just silence—heavy, suffocating.

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