A martial art refined to its zenith appears, to the untrained eye, much like a dance.
“Wh-what in the world was that?! How did you dodge THAT!?”
“The shield was surely torn away, right?”
“Idiot, your body was pushed back. You deflected the sword with a kick, didn’t you?”
“That’s not something a human could do, right? That’s either a goblin or a dwarf’s trick, isn’t it?!”
“Are you serious?! There’s no way someone could do that!! They’d just get blown away and die!!”
Those who could not keep up with the movement, those who could barely catch a glimpse, and those few able to follow the flow—all reacted differently, but all shared the same clammy palms as they watched the dance unfolding in the courtyard.
A dance of sword and shield, or rather, the deadly art of combat carried out with wooden weapons that could nonetheless cause fatal harm.
The use of dual blades, while not unheard of elsewhere, remains rather uncommon in the Western regions of the central continent.
This is due to the fact that in close quarters combat, the standard methods involve wielding a longsword with both hands, or utilizing a shield alongside a regular sword.
Wielding a sword in one hand is undeniably difficult, requiring sufficient strength and physical core even when it’s the dominant hand. Thus, wielding two blades at once presents an almost incomprehensible degree of difficulty when considering practicality.
The sword in the off-hand provides neither the freedom of the main hand nor the protection that a shield would. Hence, such a style has little chance of being popular. The advantages of wielding two blades are simply too few.
With one hand, the sword lacks the force needed to push aside a shield, and the left-hand blade lacks the defensive capabilities of a shield. It also struggles to parry the full force of a two-handed sword swung with both hands. Technically speaking, this style results in incomplete actions on all fronts.
At best, dual blades offer flashy aesthetics and an intimidating presence when swung with vigor. Therefore, it never gained traction in the Western region.
Nevertheless, what one sees is merely the surface, the tale of a race ill-suited for dual-wielding prowess.
“Aaaaaah!!”
A heavy, rough voice reverberated through the air, tingling the eardrums of all who heard it. With a cry of determination, dual blades were swung—but not simultaneously. Just when the longsword in the right hand swept with precision, a glint from the left blade filled the gaps left by changing stances, erasing any openings.
The left blade complemented the masterful right, its fleeting flashes reminiscent of a circular dance. Every movement became an attack, a defensive stance, and a follow-up in one seamless flow.
The technique of dual blades wasn’t merely about doubling the weapons and increasing the number of strikes. It was creating an unbroken series of attacks through the complementary use of both swords, transcending the reliance on sheer volume of strikes.
The powerful but elegant right-hand sweep would disrupt, tilt, and cleave through a shield’s defense. The left-hand blade would exploit the opportunities created by the right while simultaneously covering potential weaknesses.
Many had fallen quickly to this unfamiliar swordplay, fooled by the spectacle of it. Those who managed to endure for a while were crushed before they could devise any counterstrategy. A well-reasoned technique unfamiliar to many is inherently lethal in any first encounter.
“So… how the hell did you dodge THAT!?”
“From where I’m standing, I can’t see a thing!! What happened!?”
“Didn’t he just step on the mistress’s sword to evade?!”
“Huh?! It looked like he just slipped through or something!!”
However, amidst the storm of slashing blades, the diminutive swordsman armed with sword and shield stood firm. Blocking, evading, and occasionally being sent flying, only to roll and stand again, deflecting follow-up attacks with acrobatics and body techniques.
With agile footwork, the swordsman danced in the shadow of the blades, weaving through their lingering afterimages. The shield, nearly silent despite its contact with the blades, deflected attacks as though merely brushing against them.
Not once had this swordsman been struck squarely. Moreover, there was no sign of any weakening. His figure seemed intangible, like a heat mirage, rejecting every blow. From certain angles, the attacks appeared to “slip through,” an illusion that might seem more magical than martial.
The retainers, well-versed in their leader’s exceptional skills, were filled with an unusual tension.
For a novice adventurer to possess such skill was unprecedented. However, as they were still humans, a single error could easily lead to death, resulting in an indescribable tension blending anticipation and dread.
Amidst all this, one spectator remained impervious to such tension.
The female spider-person had commandeered a barrel as seating and occupied an advantageous spot in the courtyard. In one hand, she nibbled on a strip of dried meat filched from the tavern, its salty flavor far from gourmet, yet she still chewed thoughtfully while observing the proceedings.
While the onlookers were enthralled and tense, she understood something clearly.
That the petite swordsman armed with sword and shield was composed and unfazed.
There had been no lethal blows, though painful strikes had certainly occurred. Though he tumbled several times, it was all carefully planned breakfalls, dissipating any force into the ground. Superficial bruises or abrasions aside, no significant harm was evident.
Most notably, observe the subtle crescent curve at the corner of his lips, unnoticed to him. Whether he realizes it or not, the fervor of battle ran through him, a telltale sign of a battle maniac.
The young woman had witnessed this stance several times before: that proud posture demonstrating to oneself the fruits of countless training sessions. His fighting wasn’t so much about enjoyment as it was reveling in his own progress. Though his fighting style sometimes seemed precarious to watch, it was undeniably entertaining.
What about the ogre, then? While she too had managed to evade a clean blow, her pursed lips bore clear signs of frustration. Despite relentless attacks, it was evident in her body language, as if caught in a deadlock, unable to find a way in.
More so, there was the simmering anger at the shallow cuts left by the occasional swings, resembling worm-like trails on her skin.
The match continued because both saw it as far from decisive, though each harbored reservations as a swordsman. In their minds, these superficial wounds carried more weight than they perhaps should—especially if they knew it shouldn’t have happened in well-armored combat.
“Seems fun, doesn’t it?”
Muttered softly by the spider-woman, her face hinted that the spectacle made sense to her. Having lived life as a hunter herself, she appreciated how such displays of skill, even the struggles leading to eventual triumph, could be a source of joy.
This pleasure wasn’t something one could achieve by merely picking on weaker foes. Knowing one’s boundaries while hunting for a living didn’t stop the thrill of “realness.” The intensity of life felt far more vivid when hunting a wolf with great effort than when simply shooting at a hare in the field.
And he, here in this moment, was fully engaged in battle. She couldn’t help but feel a tinge of envy.
“Wh-what!?”
A particularly loud clash echoed through the courtyard, stunning everyone. The ogre’s strike had shattered and sent the little warrior’s shield flying.
This, everyone surmised, would shift the tide conclusively towards their leader’s victory.
“Ah… we had far too much fun, didn’t we, Erich?”
But it wasn’t so simple. What flew through the air wasn’t merely the shield but also, shortly after, the ogre’s short longsword, deflected from her left hand. In the briefest of moments during an otherwise seamless attack chain, a quick strike like a snake’s tongue struck her hilt with great force.
Seeing both weapons disarmed, both parties leaped back, establishing distance and glaring at each other. However…
They both simultaneously lowered their swords. Excitement quickly turned to bewilderment among the spectators. Surely the battle wasn’t over yet! Both still retained their primary weapons.
But only the hunter and a few silent observers noticed something crucial: the implications of having one’s weapon taken away mid-battle, especially in such a formal setting, were tantamount to defeat. This wasn’t a simple deathmatch but a contest with established rules.
At this moment, both combatants recognized their mutual failure…
It may sound embarrassingly obvious, but losing after gloating too much carries a particular sting.
As I cradled my throbbing left hand, I gave the required salute by tilting the wooden sword towards my forehead.
There’s one excuse: This. It’s ignoring the fundamental composition of combat when you ban magic outright. Sure, it might feel like gloating if the restriction came from the magical master, but what choice did I have? If there was any gloating, I insist it was about execution rather than effort. Facing a dual-wielder for the first time, I thoroughly tested the limits and was giving it everything I had.
Also, I did manage that final strike, that “disarm,” even if only momentarily.
Still, the first weapon I lost was mine, making it a loss, no matter the spin.
“Magnificent, Erich.”
The ogre, Lord Lorans, gave his sword salute and continued with an almost disbelieving tone,
“Your victory, Sir.”
“What?!”
What on earth did he just say?!
As I let out a baffled exclamation, Lorans extended his left hand, displaying a couple of fingers—his pinky and ring finger—awkwardly twisted in directions they shouldn’t naturally bend.
Ah, crap. Looks like in trying to cleanly strike the hilt, I ended up getting his digits tangled up as well.
“Seems like I’ve dislocated some fingers. They’re not broken, but I’ve been hit square-on.”
It appeared during my disarm technique, the dislocation had occurred. Thankfully, I let go of the shield just before it would have caused my hand severe damage, so I was unharmed.
“But I lost a weapon first, and my left hand is numb, so it’s out of commission for now. I lost, no doubt about that.”
My left hand was completely numb, rendering it temporarily unusable. Attempting a switch to dual wield or retrieving the shield was nearly impossible, given how uncertain my fingers felt about even knowing there were five of them anymore.
“You fool, the pinky finger is crucial for grip. In this state, you’re unable to wield a sword properly until it’s set back in place. You’d hardly afford me the leeway to fix it during combat. The outcome of a single sword duel was already decided earlier. I won’t expose myself to such an ugly display.”
“But this numbness won’t wear off quickly either. I’m far from capable of continuing a fight while carrying a paralyzed arm in the mix.”
An absurd back-and-forth of arguments ensued, where each side presented their justifications for claiming defeat, much to the confusion of the spectators, who struggled to intervene with any clarity.
Neither wanted to call it a draw, for as swordsmen, let alone as the proud “Warrior Race,” the concept left a sour taste.
Even in real combat, there are instances where battles just fizzle out. But in a clear-cut, one-on-one contest, where victory is determined by unspoken mutual strikes, settling things amicably doesn’t quite sit right. Especially not when you have a distinct first and a distinct second—there’s no ambiguity there.
Such rigid adherence to these rules is quintessentially the spirit of swordsmen, but especially so for the highly esteemed ogres of the “Warrior Race.” Victory might not hold much weight for them, but they’re downright annoying about defeats, you see.
Because, well, they grow stronger by accumulating victories.
Ultimately, no conclusion reached, and immediate rematch seemed unlikely.
“…Then, it can’t be helped.”
Lorans flashed a sly smile, running a sweaty hand through her hair.
“Let’s decide this some other way.”
“Another way?”
Wondering how a sword contest would conclude without a sword, I tilted my head curiously, just as Lorans opened her mouth with evident delight, though she paused mid-sentence, visibly startled.
“…Apologies, you’re Erich, are you not? From the Königsstuhl Manor?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, that’s correct, just as I mentioned earlier.”
Her normally bright azure skin darkened perceptibly—a blue akin to a stormy night sky instead of the clear heavens indicating her earlier excitement. Fingers grazing her chin, she muttered something under her breath, seemingly struck by some troubling realization. I even hallucinated seeing a dice rolling in her head for a moment, though it was nothing particularly unsettling, right?
“…Do you know Lauren of the Gargantua Tribe?”
The strained words, as if squeezed out of an iron press, contained the name of someone familiar.
Oh, Lauren! The very same ogre who helped me during the helmet-breaking festival. She was the first ogre I ever met in this world. Eliza still treasures the pearl and plans to eventually use it as a focus for her magic when she’s ready.
Oh, hey, speaking of which, she declared herself a member of the Gargantua Tribe in her earlier introduction. So Lauren must be from her hometown. Funny how these connections happen, isn’t it?
Thinking about the old days and reminiscing about Lauren felt nice, but the more we talked, the worse her complexion grew. Hmm, what could be the matter?
“Wine, then!”
“Eh?”
“Let’s settle this over wine!”
Before I could fully grasp her sudden exclamation, her massive hand clamped down on my shoulder, dragging me toward the tavern despite my protesting legs digging into the courtyard.
“Kevin!”
“Huh?”
“Get wine ready, and bring out the best stock we have! And don’t worry about the cost—this ogre is treating everyone!”
“Huh? Wine? We’re talking wine, right?!”
“Yes! None of the usual cheap stuff! And Ebbo, get the appetizers ready! Not the usual tavern grub—buy fresh meat from the market stand outside! Anything meaty will do!”
““Understood, sir!!””
Coins from her money pouch—apparently in ogre scale—were tossed in the air and caught hastily. The group of adventurers took off to carry out the orders, while anyone with free hands was yelled at to spruce up the place quickly. It all felt surreal. What just happened?
Before I could gather my bearings, Margit leapt spider-like toward me, latching onto my neck despite my sweat-drenched form.
“Well, aren’t we just lucky to receive free wine?”
“But, that’s…”
“She’s the unmoving boulder type, isn’t she?” Margit leaned over me, resting her chin on my shoulder, addressing Lorans behind me with a knowing smirk. Something about my ear accessory jingled softly, and I felt a shiver down my spine…
The spider-people’s quick, bounding steps brought Margit nearer. She draped herself around my neck, her tone light, yet her implication not so much…
[Tip] Within ogre culture, there’s a strong tendency to seek mates with robust traits.
[Erich] Engages in hitbox fraud.
My movements, whether efficient dodges or merely illusions created by fast strikes, left onlookers baffled…
I am eternally grateful for what I learned upon checking Amazon’s bestseller rankings—Vols. 2 and 1 of my work topped the Overlap Bunko rankings at 1st and 2nd place, respectively. When I received a message from my editor, my first thought was, “Am I dying tomorrow?” But thanks to your immense support, the answer is a resounding no. Thank you very much.
With this momentum, the release of Vol. 3 would certainly be something to look forward to.
*Note: Lorans’ name was mistakenly written as Laurens and has been corrected accordingly. It’s quite annoying when male and female names are so similar that they slip in my head.
