Episode 79

Hector swung his sword.

The metallic tang of blood mingled with the stench of beasts. The wolf’s mouth was split in half, but it refused to die. Instead, it rolled its eyes and tried to sink its teeth into Hector’s skin.

Danger loomed, but Hector had no strength left to dodge.

“Hector!” Basil’s voice cut through the chaos as he barreled forward, slamming into the wolf with enough force to send it sprawling. The impact cracked the beast’s skull, spraying a foul, bloody mist across Hector’s face.

“Are you okay?” Basil asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Hector managed a faint nod, too drained to speak. He pushed back his blood-matted hair and scanned the battlefield. The pack had thinned—only about ten wolves remained. They weren’t attacking anymore, just watching, as if assessing the situation.

Have they realized my condition? Hector wondered.

He must look pitiful enough for even these beasts to notice. He had lost count of how many he had cut down, but one thing was clear. His body was at its limit, and no amount of willpower could overcome the crushing fatigue.

“Hector Badniker,” a voice called out.

Even without looking up, Hector knew who it was. Charon was still perched in the trees, observing the chaos below.

“Will you accept my offer now?” Charon asked.

What was he talking about again? Points.

Charon had offered to help Hector in exchange for his points. He had the power to make good on his promise. After all, that annoying fellow was a genius.

Hector let out a bitter laugh. He had spent his entire life running from that hateful word—genius. But now, in his final moments, it had caught up to him.

Hector hated geniuses.

***

The first sword Hector ever held was a blunt wooden practice blade, short and light enough for a child to wield. Yet, the moment he gripped it, something felt right. It was as if the sword had melded to his hand. Simply holding it filled him with a sense of purpose, and without hesitation, he swung it.

Though his swings were reckless, his mother was pleased. “Hector is a genius at swordsmanship!”

Hector was called a genius before he even understood what the word meant. The praise thrilled him, and what had started as mere fun soon became a source of pride. Swordsmanship no longer just entertained him—it fed his self-esteem.

He swung his sword with even greater enthusiasm, and his mother applauded every time. However, swordsmanship was no trivial pursuit, especially not in the Badniker family. By the time Hector turned six, he had not one, but twelve swordsmanship instructors.

“Honestly, I wanted to recruit the Swordmaster, but he isn’t swayed by money. Still, these instructors are highly sought after by other families,” his mother explained.

Hector adored his mother. When she fixed him with her piercing blue eyes and spoke, he accepted her words without question.

“You can do it, right?” she asked.

The six-year-old Hector nodded. “Yes.”

From that day on, Hector no longer sparred with peers or straw dummies.

“You’re still lacking! Swing it a hundred more times!” an instructor barked.

“Is this all the Badniker bloodline can muster?” another taunted.

“Young Master Hector, your right shoulder is exposed,” one corrected.

The training was relentless. Blisters formed on the child’s soft hands, and bruises covered his body, never given a chance to fade.

“How is Hector doing?” his mother asked one of the instructors.

“To be honest, his talent isn’t exceptional. His perseverance, however, is remarkable,” the instructor replied.

“That’s not enough. Hector must be a genius,” his mother insisted.

“Madam?”

“Help him create his own swordsmanship.”

“What does that—”

“Don’t you understand? Advise him on the swordsmanship he is going to create. The creator must be my son, Hector Badniker.”

And so, Hector was hailed as a genius, one of the three most outstanding children of the Badniker family.

Except he wasn’t.

In truth, Hector simply enjoyed swinging his sword. He didn’t want to disappoint his mother’s expectations, but he was only slightly smarter than his peers. He was just an ordinary person.

***

The Iron-Blooded Lord, Delac C. Badniker, was related to Hector by blood, but the two met for the first time when his son was twelve years old.

The Afterimage Sword was said to be Hector’s invention, but in truth, the twelve swordsmen assigned to train him had created it.

When Hector demonstrated the technique before the Iron-Blooded Lord, he executed it flawlessly. Yet, as he bowed his head at the end of the performance, an inexplicable sense of shame washed over him.

“Who created this swordsmanship?” the Iron-Blooded Lord inquired.

Hector’s mother stepped forward. “Of course, it is Hector—”

“Stop,” the Iron-Blooded Lord interrupted, his gaze fixed on Hector. “Madam, I wasn’t asking you.”

His tongue seemed to knot itself, rendering him speechless.

A soft but firm hand pressed against his shoulder—his mother’s. “Hector? You must answer him. The family head is speaking to you.”

Hector swallowed hard.

“I… I created it,” he stammered, his voice trembling.

His mother quickly interjected, “Yes, he must be nervous standing before you, family head.”

The Iron-Blooded Lord’s gaze didn’t waver. “Did you truly create it?”

At that moment, Hector realized that his father saw through him. There was no evidence to prove it, but Hector was certain. His father knew he hadn’t created the swordsmanship and wasn’t truly a genius.

Hector’s face burned with shame. It was the first time he had felt such an emotion. His lips trembled with fear. Even at his young age, Hector had heard enough of the Iron-Blooded Lord’s cold, fearsome reputation. He wasn’t the type of man to accept a deceiver as his son.

“Then make it truly yours,” the Iron-Blooded Lord remarked.

At those words, Hector lifted his head. For the first time, he looked directly into the eyes of the Iron-Blooded Lord. Like his own, his father’s purple eyes were cold—an icy gaze that matched the man’s reputation. Yet, within them, Hector detected a faint warmth.

“Hector! Oh gods, the family head has acknowledged you!” his mother cried.

“Well done, Young Master Hector!”

“Congratulations!”

“A genius! My son is a genius!”

The voices of his mother and instructors blurred into the background. Only the Iron-Blooded Lord’s final words resonated in Hector’s mind, searing into his heart like a storm.

“Make it truly yours.”

***

From that day forward, Hector dedicated himself entirely to his swordsmanship. He cut back on rest, meals, and sleep, minimized his interactions with peers, and spent every spare moment practicing. His goal was clear: to grow stronger, refine his swordsmanship, and earn his father’s approval.

Over time, the attitude of those around him changed.

“Young Master Hector’s swordsmanship grows more refined by the day.”

“As expected, it is the family head’s bloodline.”

The swordsmanship instructors acknowledged his progress, and the household staff treated him with newfound respect. Even his maternal family stood taller with pride.

Yet, what pleased Hector most was the increased frequency of his father’s attention—now two or three times a year.

One day, his father summoned him to the fifth floor. Hector was overwhelmed with joy, feeling as though he would float away. After all, few of his siblings were granted access to this place.

Father has approved of me!

The fifth floor, though clearly part of the main house, transformed before Hector’s eyes into a sunset-drenched beach. His father stood on the scarlet sand, waiting.

“Hector.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Someday, I will slay the demon kings,” the Iron-Blooded Lord declared.

Hector shuddered. He understood the weight of those words.

“I know I cannot do it alone. It is a dream even our ancestor, the great hero Black Fairy Kuset, could not achieve,” the Iron-Blooded Lord continued.

Hector remained silent.

“But I can succeed if I have someone to fight beside me. That is why I brought you into this world.”

The admission that his children had been born out of necessity sounded too blunt for a father to say, but Hector felt no shock or sorrow.

“I want you to fight beside me one day.”

Something warm and indescribable spread through Hector, filling his entire body. No matter the reason, the fact that his father needed him filled Hector with joy.

The Iron-Blooded Lord’s ambition soon became Hector’s own. It would be nothing short of a dream come true to stand beside his father on the battlefield, a place where his father needed him.

I can do it.

Hector now saw himself as a genius. His swordsmanship improved daily, and he felt certain he surpassed his peers. He believed he could shoulder the weight of his father’s expectations. But then, he encountered true genius.

“To think the gap would be this wide.”

“As expected, only Heero can be the family head’s successor.”

“Shh…! Madam may hear.”

Hector lost a sparring match to his eldest brother in mere seconds. The defeat stung, but Heero’s words cut deeper.

“How strange. Why does Father place his hopes on someone as ordinary as you?”

The word Hector thought he had left behind came crashing back, clearer and more oppressive than ever—genius and ordinary.

At that moment, he knew that his life would forever be a chase between the two.

***

Hector despised geniuses. He loathed those who mocked hard work in the name of talent. He recognized it as a feeling of inferiority, but so what? What could he do about it?

“I refuse,” Hector declared.

If he abandoned this mindset, he would no longer be Hector Badniker.

Charon tilted his head. “You are going to die.”

“I know.”

“And yet you refuse? Is your pride worth more than your life? I don’t understand.”

Perhaps the pride of someone at the bottom was invisible to an arrogant genius. Besides, Hector had no intention of dying here.

There is still a chance, Hector thought.

While the wolves monitored the situation, he had regained some strength. He quickly outlined his plan.

“Basil.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll create an opening. Use it to escape,” Hector instructed.

With the wolves’ numbers reduced, it was possible. Their encirclement had weakened.

Basil’s face turned pale. “T-then what about you, Hector?”

“I’ll follow… maybe. It’s harder to fight while protecting you,” he replied.

“I can pull my weight,” Basil protested.

“Don’t boast. You’re on the verge of collapse.”

“But—”

“I told you at the start. In this trial, you must obey your leader without question.”

Hector felt a surge of gratitude toward Basil. Even in moments of crisis, the man had never pressured him to give up his points. Hector didn’t know why. Maybe Basil was too kind to voice his thoughts.

Nonetheless, Hector sensed it was respect for his fragile pride. If so, Hector owed it to Basil to respect the life of this hero disciple.

“Understood.”

At that moment, Hector forgot the gravity of their situation and burst out laughing.

Do dwarves cry like this? he wondered, staring at Basil’s tear-streaked face, which looked almost comical.

Hector said, “Basil, being a hero doesn’t suit you. If you survive, consider a different path.”

“Actually, I’ve always dreamed of being a brewer,” Basil admitted.

“Really? I’ve heard that dwarven craft beer is a luxury product.”

“That’s so obvious it doesn’t need saying. I’ll treat you to some next time.”

Charon, who had been silently observing their exchange, finally spoke again. “Hector, are you really going to die over points?”

“It isn’t about the points. I am a Badniker,” Hector stated.

“What does that mean?”

“Badnikers don’t deal with trash.”

Those words didn’t come from Hector.

A loud crash echoed as something plummeted from the sky—a wolf, blood-soaked as though crushed by a rock.

The figure responsible stood before them. His face was as irritating as Charon’s, but at that moment, it was the most welcome sight Hector could imagine.

Hector couldn’t help but laugh.

Luan glanced at Hector and smiled. “Isn’t that right, Brother Hector?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep