Chapter 474: What You Can Really Do

“Yaaaa!”

The sparring arena erupted with shouts as the dozen soldiers stepped forward, surrounding Damien from all sides. “We’ll do this together.”

Dust drifted in slow spirals around their boots. The afternoon sun spilled over the courtyard, turning the ring into a stage for a performance they would not forget. At least not anytime soon.

Every eye in the military district was locked on them.

Some soldiers leaned over railings. Others sat on weapons racks or climbed onto crates for a better view. Even instructors paused their drills.

Anyone who didn’t know Damien would’ve thought he was insane.

A lone mercenary… choosing to fight twelve trained soldiers at once.

But those who had seen even a glimpse of him yesterday. Those of them that had watched him and yet couldn’t fathom his speed, his presence, the way demons had fallen before him, those men waited with breath caught in their throats. Maybe this time, they would get to see an easier version that would still end in his victory.

Soon, some were already placing bets on the spar. They were staking as high as five gold coins, each of them placing their bets on whether Damien would win or lose.

Some did bet on who would be the first to land a hit on him while some bet that he wouldn’t get hit.

Others chose a different route. They went for duration of the spar. How long it would take to finish up the spar between Damien and the soldiers. Some said ten minutes and others bet on twenty.

All in all, a lot of people were placing stakes on Damien’s spar. It was a nice legal way to make money. Damien did have another plan though. He just didn’t speak on the bet yet.

Seliah stood at the far edge, palms sweating. She had seen him fight in the field… but this?

She wasn’t sure what they were about to witness. Still, she had the belief that he was going to win.

No one knew who blew it, but it didn’t matter. The moment the whistle sound was heard, the soldiers lunged.

Six from the front, three from the sides, and three from behind.

Coordinated. Swift. Disciplined.

Their commander had clearly trained them well. And for a moment, Damien admired their unity.

But unity wasn’t enough.

The first sword swung at Damien’s neck. His attack was sharp, fast, and clean. He didn’t step back. Instead, he tilted his head barely an inch, letting the blade pass through empty air.

Before the soldier even registered the miss, Damien slid a foot sideways, leaning past the next thrust.

A spear tip stabbed toward his ribs but Damien twisted, letting it skim past his coat.

A heavy axe came down from above and he simply stepped aside.

Bang!

Crrrk!

It cracked the ground where he’d been standing.

To the spectators, it looked like Damien was flowing through their attacks like smoke slipping through fingers, untouchable and effortless.

The soldiers, however, felt something else entirely.

Pressure.

A strange, suffocating pressure.

As if every part of their body was screaming that if they made a mistake, they could die.

It was instinct. Battle instinct.

The kind only awakened from seeing death too many times.

Damien hadn’t unleashed intent. He hadn’t used a single summon. He hadn’t even used mana.

He was simply moving.

Simply alive.

And that alone terrified them.

“He’s right there! How is he dodging everything!?”

A soldier shouted between gritted teeth as Damien slid beneath his swing and tapped the back of his knee with enough force from a single knuckle.

The man collapsed with a grunt.

Another soldier thrust forward, but Damien sidestepped and flicked his wrist, twisting the man’s arm until the sword clattered to the ground and even the man was forced to twist in the same direction Damien had twisted his hand.

Damien’s third victim tried to catch Damien off guard by sweeping at his legs but he failed in a grand manner.

Damien hopped lightly, the foot passing beneath him, then landed on the man’s shin just hard enough to throw him off balance.

But still, not a single strike touched Damien.

Three men down, nine left.

At the edge of the arena, Fenrir watched with a low, almost amused huff. Luton quivered, as if cheering for Damien.

The remaining soldiers regrouped.

“These were feints,” one muttered, breathing hard. “Real attack, now!”

They surged again just as one of the soldiers had stated.

Damien flowed between them.

His expression was calm. Almost bored.

One soldier managed to swing right at his cheek but Damien leaned back, avoiding the blade by a hair’s breadth, then gently struck the man’s chest with two fingers.

Bang!

The soldier flew backward as if struck by a hammer.

He crashed onto the dirt, coughing while the crowd gasped.

“Focus!”

Haldric, watching from the sidelines, shouted at his men. “You aren’t facing a man who’s stronger than you. You’re facing a man who’s better than you! You better adapt!”

Damien’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

Better?

Maybe. But the truth was simpler.

He had fought more.

Died more.

Killed more.

He had lived through battles that crushed cities, forests, willpower. He wasn’t sure even General Haldric would be able to do what he was telling his men if he was the one fact Damien.

These soldiers were trying their hardest.

Damien was only warming up.

Two soldiers used spears simultaneously to pin Damien between them.

He spun, letting their thrusts collide with each other before sweeping their legs out from under them with a single fluid kick.

Two more soldiers tried to tackle him from behind.

Damien ducked, grabbed them both by the collar, and flipped them over his shoulder. They crashed into a pile of sparring weapons with a loud metallic clatter.

That left five.

Their breathing was ragged with sweat dripping from their brows.

Fear flickered in a few eyes.

But desire burned harder.

Those cores—Grade Five essence cores—were worth enough to buy a small room for themselves. Enough to push their cultivation to the next boundary. Enough to secure futures.

It was enough to fight for.

And they needed just one hit.

Just one.

Damien took a step forward but the five each took a step back.

He tilted his head.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly. “Weren’t you eager?”

One soldier swallowed hard. “W-We still are.”

“Good,” Damien said. “Come.”

The five remaining soldiers exchanged glances.

Then, almost simultaneously, they gritted their teeth, lowered their stances, and attacked again.

But this time, they didn’t rush in blindly.

They spread out.

One high and one low.

One feinting while another one was circling.

The last one was timing the others.

This was a proper formation. Their blades cut the air with precision.

Damien smiled faintly. ’Better.’

He met the first sword with a light tap, redirecting it. He avoided the second by twisting his torso. He parried the third with the back of his hand. The fourth he sidestepped, and the fifth he disarmed by kicking sand up into the man’s face.

Then he lightly struck each of them in the stomach, chest, or shoulder.

None fell. But all staggered.

The courtyard roared.

“What speed—!”

“How is he fighting twelve alone—!”

“He’s not even using mana!”

“Unbelievable…”

Seliah watched, stunned. She had followed Damien closely since yesterday, had seen him kill demons effortlessly, but watching him dismantle trained soldiers without even breaking a sweat…

It was breathtaking.

Terrifying.

She whispered under her breath: “What kind of monsters made you into one…?”

At the twenty-minute mark, only three soldiers remained standing.

But they refused to back down.

Bruised. Exhausted. Barely able to lift their weapons.

Their knees shook.

Blood trickled from a lip.

They sucked in air through clenched teeth.

Yet they still stood.

“You can stop,” Damien said, voice low but not mocking. “You’ve already proven yourselves.”

One soldier spat blood to the ground. “Not… until we land a hit…”

Another wiped sweat from his brow. “You said it yourself… twelve cores…”

The third grinned through pain. “We’d be fools… to give up now…”

The crowd erupted into applause, cheers, even laughter—respectful, proud laughter.

Damien nodded.

“Then continue.”

He shifted his weight slightly, ready to resume but then, the three soldiers glanced at each other.

And something changed. Their breathing steadied and their stances lowered.

Their eyes sharpened, no longer clouded by desperation, but clear with intent.

Real intent.

Battle intent.

Damien’s own gaze narrowed. ’Oh?’

They were adapting and even improving.

And something told him that the next exchange wouldn’t be the same as before.

A pressure—subtle but present—rose from the trio.

Not killing intent.

Not bloodlust.

But determination refined into something sharper.

Damien raised his chin slightly.

Fenrir stood up, sensing the shift.

Luton jiggled, curious.

The crowd hushed, feeling the tension in the air.

And for the first time in the fight—

Damien felt excitement stir in his veins.

He slid a foot back, lifted a hand toward them, and smiled.

“Then show me,” he said quietly.

“What you can really do.”

The three soldiers exhaled in unison.

Their muscles tensed.

Their stances changed—deeper, more grounded, more dangerous.

Damien could tell instantly.

They were about to fight better.

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