Chapter 295: Act 62 – The King of the Underground (Thirteen) (First Update) (Seeking Support, Not Seeking Ignorance)
Brendel briefly fell into a daze before realizing that the other party was also a veteran of the November War, which perhaps explained how they knew his grandfather. However, Kuran came from a knightly family, and the disparity between him and his grandfather, Tobus, could be likened to the difference between a noble lord and a commoner—how did they come to know each other?
He momentarily set aside this doubt, as the battle in the arena had already begun. The hellhound seemed extremely displeased with the disappearance of its prey; as soon as Kuran stepped onto the sandy ground of the arena, the beast howled and broke free from its chains.
The iron chains, as thick as an arm, snapped one by one with loud bangs. “Good heavens!” Kuran thought to himself, drawing his longsword and discarding the sheath, just as the enormous beast from the River of Sulfur barreled toward him, dragging countless broken chains and creating a cacophony.
The old man furrowed his brow, raising his eyelids slightly; the dark gray pupils reflected the image of the demon leaping down from above. He stepped back with his right foot, gripping the sword with both hands and roared:
“Get lost!”
A clear shockwave of air suddenly erupted from Kuran’s body, radiating outwards. The hellhound mid-air was directly swept away—the speed of the airflow was comparable to that of a projectile, resembling dozens of daggers rushing outward, traveling approximately a hundred meters before gradually weakening and dissipating.
Before that could happen, the hellhound crashed against the wall on the opposite side of the arena with a thunderous roar, and countless bricks collapsed instantly.
Dust filled the air—
“Damn it—!” Brendel couldn’t help but exclaim in his heart upon witnessing this scene. This was the explosive sword energy of a swordsman, a display of technique. However, to push the wind pressure over a hundred meters, he pondered just how much enhancement that damned core sword technique must have?
In the Amber Sword, any skill is divided into basics and techniques. Techniques are based on fundamental skills or physical attributes. For instance, the White Crow Swordsmanship and direct breakthroughs in actual combat rely on Brendel’s military swordsmanship, while the explosive power and charge depend on strength, constitution, and agility attributes.
The higher the level of core skills, the stronger the physical attributes, and the greater the power exhibited by technique skills. However, reaching a hundred meters with sword energy at this stage was simply unheard of.
He recalled that in past games, when he was at level eighty or ninety, he was about at that level. Yet Kuran was only mid-gold rank, at most just over level forty-five.
At this moment, the hellhound stood up from the rubble, shaking its three massive heads, sand and stones cascading down from its body, looking quite disheveled.
However, in reality, the demon from the River of Sulfur wasn’t seriously injured; the fall didn’t inflict as much damage as crashing against the wind wall would have done—if the massive dog had been standing on the ground, it might have been worse, yet the air resistance was significantly less when in free fall.
Just as it got back on its feet, Kuran was already before it—he didn’t charge but repeatedly leaped from the sand, moving like lightning, covering a distance of twenty to thirty meters with each jump. As the hellhound bared its teeth and lifted its head, its wheel-like large eyes reflected the approaching sword.
There was no room to dodge, not even time for fear.
With a loud bang, everyone watched as the old man leaped high, gripping the sword tightly, and delivered a devastating blow to the very head of the demon from the underworld—the blade pierced through and continued downward, splitting the massive head in two.
As Kuran landed, he swung the sword to the side, black blood painting an arc on the sand. But he quickly stepped back, avoiding the deluge of foul black blood that could have drenched him.
The hellhound slid out from under its weight and crashed to the ground. Yet the fierce beast did not concede; as Kuran retreated, the remaining two heads lunged forward, each spitting a jet of flames.
Although the old man had long been prepared for this move, he didn’t anticipate the fire’s range of attack; it shot across half the arena like a flamethrower—he rolled to the side in a hurry, but a corner of his clothing, along with some hair and beard, was singed off.
This unexpected reaction made him tremble with anger; the beard he had painstakingly grown was his treasure. Kuran let out a roar and charged directly at the hellhound, delivering a punch to the jaw of one of its left heads—everyone heard a sharp crack, yet that was just the beginning; the immense force lifted the monster, which was about as tall as a floor, straight off the sand.
The giant’s weight rushed upward along with its left head, as if it were about to crash down and crush the old man below into pulp.
But Kuran stood firm, his body slightly leaning forward—his right hand swung upward, the sword slicing from the hellhound’s left hindquarters all the way to the right shoulder. With a ripping sound, the massive creature was split in two mid-air.
Black blood rained down like raindrops.
Then the two halves of its body crashed to the ground.
The arena fell into a profound silence—
Yuta, caged nearby, gasped in shock, her emerald eyes flashing with a hint of terror, “Impressive…”
Not just her; the two other boys in adjacent cages were also dumbfounded, mouths agape, speechless. The overwhelming force of the golden-tier was indeed a sight to behold when it fully unleashed.
“He’s still injured,” Xi said, gripping the iron bars with both hands, quietly observing, “Otherwise, he wouldn’t need to go to such lengths.”
Yuta nodded, understanding that with her current level, it was difficult to comprehend, while Xi, having experienced that high level firsthand, had a far deeper insight.
Simultaneously, in another cage, Joeka was whispering to the frail boy beside him:
“Kewen, do you think they will rescue us?” he asked.
The skinny boy shook his head, “Hard to say.”
“I don’t think they will,” Mahler said, his expression complex as he looked outside, “Why would they save us? We’re not related, and this is no joke.”
“What will happen to us?” Joeka probed.
The frail boy shook his head again, “I don’t know.”
“Will we be trapped here forever?” Some had already begun to cry.
“Can’t we think of a way out, Kewen?” Joeka was getting anxious; he certainly didn’t want to be stuck in this hellhole forever.
“I’ll give it a try.” Kewen glanced outside and replied.
“Who are you asking for help?” Joeka inquired.
“Of course, the Chief of Security. I heard no one in all of Toniger can match him!” someone else chimed in. All eyes turned to Kewen, but the frail boy remained silent.
He looked at the arena—
Brendel showed no excessive surprise at Kuran’s victory; rather, he was more shocked by the old man’s injuries. Did a mid-gold swordsman require such elaborate means to deal with a hellhound?
He tilted his head slightly, “How serious was his injury?”
“A thousand troops strike,” Medisa replied softly.
The young man wiped the sweat from his brow, contemplating what kind of monster Kuran must be to survive a thousand troops strike. But Medisa added, “It didn’t hit; he dodged, but was swept by the airflow and crashed into the rocks. I immediately pursued, and he surrendered…”
“The resistance spirit isn’t strong.” Brendel suddenly recalled Kuran’s earlier call to stop, realizing the opponent might have recognized him early on.
He rubbed his temples, questioning how the opponent recognized him. The swordsmanship he employed could be said to be from a different system than his grandfather’s; though there had been reforms in Erluin’s battlefield sword technique after the November War, it had been further streamlined through player reforms.
But there was no time to ponder deeply. The battle in the arena commenced once again as the old man demanded a challenge. The corpse of the hellhound vanished in a flash of white light, and a barrier rose in the southwest, revealing an armored dwarf stepping forward.
As heavy footsteps echoed, the Silver Elf Princess suddenly exclaimed, “My lord, I recognize this person.”
Brendel glanced at the dwarf, clad in thick plate armor, wearing a four-horned barbarian helmet, and shouldering a battle hammer almost half the size of his body, which bore the emblem of a flaming fist, and he too said, “I recognize him. Lord Evarian, this is a very famous lord among gray dwarves; he had once been a slave to the runic dwarves several years ago—but this is just a projection, not the real person.”
He added, “He has about the strength of early-gold tier.”
“Kuran is in trouble now.”
Medisa didn’t respond but curiously glanced at her master. She knew Brendel’s identity as a wandering mage, but a wandering mage was not synonymous with a prophet. Undoubtedly, Brendel understood much knowledge that he shouldn’t have.
The history of the runic dwarves had long turned to dust; let alone humans, even among Bud’s mages, only those old men with white beards and glasses who had buried themselves in the literature could understand some secrets of the Silver Elves and runic dwarves.
But as Brendel had said, Kuran was indeed in trouble.
Evarian might not be as agile as him, but the old man struggled to pose any threat to this fortress-like dwarf. Moreover, Evarian’s warhammer, called Fury, unleashed a firestorm within a twenty-meter radius; Kuran attempted several aggressive strikes but ended up singed and disheveled.
The battle raged on intensely, and everyone—especially the boys in the cages—held their breath in anxiety. In their eyes, this old man represented their hope, yet now this hope was entangled in fierce battle, causing their confidence to waver.
This was only the second challenge.
However, Kuran was finally cornered by Evarian; both fighters seemed to have similar combat experience. Evarian’s projection represented his peak era in the arena, while Kuran was an old veteran who survived the bloodshed of the November War. Yet, the gray dwarf lord clearly had greater stamina, and his excellent magical armor provided him with a significant advantage.
With a roar, this dwarf unleashed his most powerful move; flames erupted from his warhammer and swept toward Kuran like a swinging meteor hammer.
(PS. Seeking support, not seeking ignorance; seeing these results, tears welled up.)(To be continued. For further developments, please log on; more chapters await. Support the author, support legitimate reading!)
