Chapter 79: The Tempered Art

Starlight rose behind Lucas, a brilliant glow like the Milky Way streaming from the darkness of Alvado into the night sky. He had no idea what was happening in the square; at this moment, his mind was wholly focused on the opponent before him.

He saw the "marks" engraved upon swords and shields—those subtle notches and the rust of time, all clearly reflected in his eyes. Lucas always paid careful attention to detail, no matter the circumstances. For an adventurer lacking in strength, vigilance over every detail was essential to gain an advantage in battle or on a mission.

When facing a swordsman, one could discern his favored style from the wear on the blade. Those who preferred upper-stance attacks would have more nicks and scratches on the upper part of their swords. Such opponents were typically bold, confident in their strength. Swordsmen who began from the middle stance were more conservative—a style that allowed both attack and defense, favoring those who watched and waited for the right moment to counter. Those who started from the lower stance were inscrutable; resting their swords low, this feinting "boar-tusk" style left their torso exposed, yet the point aimed upward like bait, luring the foe to strike and then seizing the chance for a fatal blow.

Much information could be gleaned through the senses: sight, smell, sound… If one paid close attention to the world, unexpected insights would come. Lucas would always gather and summarize these details in his mind before a fight. Sometimes, these deductions gave him a decisive edge; sometimes, his judgment erred, but he always left himself room to retreat, never letting one mistake lead to utter defeat.

But this moment felt different. Where once he actively observed his opponents, now the swords and shields seemed to speak to him. He instinctively understood how these weapons had been used, the habits of their wielders, even their weaknesses and flaws, without a moment's thought.

He wielded his long spear without adherence to any particular style, batting away the arrows that flew at him. He saw the weaknesses of the four Icelandic knights, and in the brief gaps of their breathing and exertion, he knocked the weapons from their hands.

Lucas could not only see the flaws in others, but also in himself. His spear, companion of many years, bore scratches like the rings of a tree, each marking a battle or training session etched into its surface.

He had not always chosen the spear as his main weapon. He had switched countless times: daggers, longswords, machetes, bows, maces—he had tried every popular and obscure weapon, including hand axes. Although he had spent the most time with the spear, he had practiced and understood each of the others to some extent.

Swords that once felt unfamiliar now brought him a strange comfort, as if meeting an old friend. It was like spotting a childhood companion on a distant street and recognizing them instantly; years of separation had not created a rift, and their presence was as natural as ever, needing no words.

His movements grew more fluid and harmonious, his spear strokes ever lighter and more effortless.

His strength had not increased; his injuries and the poison in his veins still weighed him down. Yet every ounce of power was perfectly placed, every breath and heartbeat utilized. He seemed to merge with the wind, no longer bound by the old schools of spear technique—each variation flowed naturally from his hands. He used the spear as one might use a sword or a hammer; over the past seventeen years he had studied nearly every weapon available on the market. Each one he had learned to a basic competence; even if he lacked a gift for a particular weapon, he had memorized its essentials.

These were skills forged through sweat and perseverance, never forgotten, only set aside. But for the first time, he wielded all his martial knowledge instinctively; his body moved of its own accord, making the optimal choice without conscious thought.

Four knightly swords and four raven shields were each, in turn, knocked flying by the grievously wounded Lucas and his long spear. The knights stared in stunned disbelief, intimidated by this bloodied, battered man. The force from his spear was not great, yet somehow they could not hold on to their weapons—as if the swords and shields leapt from their hands of their own accord.

"Loose! Loose arrows, now!" barked the captain of the warband. Disarmed, unarmored, exposed and vulnerable, the knights felt as naked as babes upon the battlefield. Sensing death draw near, they grew frantic, calling for archer support.

Meanwhile, as they fought Lucas, another squad arrived from the icy plain. Lucas was surrounded, with eight archers aiming their bows at him. He moved as calmly as water, spinning his spear to deflect each of the eight arrows. One he even redirected, sending it flying into the throat of a knight blocking his path. The tall knight clutched at his neck, choking and writhing in agony as he collapsed.

The other Icelandic knights, bereft of weapons, instinctively fell back a step. Fear gripped them; this dying man had shaken them to the core.

But in the next instant, a blazing fireball shot toward Lucas. A mounted knight raised his right hand, branded with a burning sigil, and commanded a fiery imp to hurl the spell. Lucas dodged, but flames still scorched his back, legs, and left eye. His wounds seared, blisters burst, and foul pus sprayed as darkness settled over his left eye.

Lucas snatched up a knight’s sword, slung his spear onto his back, and in a heartbeat switched to sword and shield, closing in on three nearby knights. He pressed the blade to one’s throat, taking him hostage as a human shield. The mounted knight hesitated, then finally lowered his hand, withdrawing the imp.

With his one good eye, Lucas gazed at the sky. The gathered starlight was as beautiful as the "Goddess’s Gown"—the term Nortians used for the most exquisite auroras. He had once been fortunate enough to witness it, but tonight’s lights were even more breathtaking.

The night owls that had circled above plunged toward the snow. The undead, it seemed, were no longer under control.

A vision flashed in Lucas’s mind: Vade loosing an arrow at the ice wolf, that shot which pierced the winter wolf’s eye, and the Viking pirate in the village, slain with an arrow through the eye despite his helmet. At last, he saw it clearly—the techniques of those two arrows had become one, and the two figures fused together in his mind.

"So it was you," Lucas said silently, the mist stone still clenched between his teeth.

He began to retreat slowly, soldiers forming a ring around him.

"Tanian, surrender now!" called the mounted knight from above. "You have nowhere left to run, no way to retreat!"

Lucas looked at the tightening cordon—more soldiers were coming. He edged back to the rim of a slope, where a steep bank lay behind him, blanketed in snow. Beyond that, the pathless forest and rugged mountains awaited.

He had chosen, from the start, the escape route nearest the forest and mountains.

"Surrender, Tanian," his hostage whispered in his ear. "You can’t escape. Surrender is the wise choice. Only by serving Iceland can you live. Lord Raymond values talent—I can plead for you."

Lucas kicked the Icelander in the rear, sending him tumbling face-first into the snow and mud. The man scrambled away, grateful to be alive.

"Loose arrows!" came the order. Another volley flew, the imp conjuring a fireball. They seemed unconcerned with taking him alive; dead or alive, a necromancer could always extract his secrets.

But Lucas paid no heed to the attacks at his back. He turned and leapt down the slope.

The stolen shield he placed beneath his feet, crouching as though upon a sled, and slid down the snowy incline. Though the shield was small, he kept perfect balance, controlling his direction with ease. Every arrow missed; the fireball exploded harmlessly in an empty field.

The Icelanders encircling from afar could only watch helplessly as the man carved a trail through the slope and vanished into the forest—they could not stop him.