Chapter Fifty: Instincts Awakened

Become stronger?

The young Glorifier stared blankly at his bloodstained hands, clenching them—then releasing. There was no sense of reality. Though he longed for strength, yearned to grow through combat, he had never imagined that his advancement would come so swiftly, so unreasonably—swinging his sword, again and again; fighting, again and again. When the underground monsters attacked, he unsurprisingly found himself in a bitter struggle, overwhelmed by an endless horde, a sea of crimson as far as the eye could see.

It was an overwhelming disadvantage.

He was not a Swordsman of the Order, possessed neither refined swordsmanship nor experience in battle formations. Under the monsters’ assault, he was utterly beleaguered. Within mere minutes of being surrounded, wounds already marred his body, yet he could do nothing but grit his teeth and endure.

Though things diverged from his expectations—he could not even glimpse the movements of the girl amidst the throng of monsters, forced to respond passively to that relentless, tide-like onslaught, treading the tenuous border between life and death—he could not deny that the terror of this life-or-death struggle was the finest fuel for progress and growth. In the midst of battle, he could feel himself improving, sense himself breaking through old shackles and stepping into a new realm.

Yet—

As the fight continued, he realized it was mere wishful thinking, a… delusion. Progress and growth could be seen and felt, but this almost conjured speed was beyond comprehension, utterly absurd. His fundamentals were shaky, he had never received systematic training—yet in a matter of minutes, perhaps a dozen, he underwent a transformation as fearsome as a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. The scattered sword skills he could barely wield before, now, under this apocalyptic elevation, coalesced into something almost masterful. Though the structure of his techniques was not yet apparent, there was already a natural fluidity resembling that of a true master.

This was not reasonable.

It was, in fact, deeply unreasonable.

He was a complete novice in swordsmanship, lacking solid basics and systematic training. No matter how astonishing his talent, it was impossible to leap past the stages of proficiency and mastery, and straight into the realm of the masters.

Unless…

Amy narrowed his eyes, a shadow crossing his brow.

This was not growth, nor progress.

He flexed his sword hand, as if trying to recapture that earlier sensation. Sweat stung his eyelids, blood dyed his vision red, unprecedented cruelty numbed his heart, and then—

Some instinct was awakened.

Yes, awakened.

He remembered the feeling: his body’s instincts took over, and before his mind could even begin to think, the sword in his hand had already given him the answer. Ten minutes into the battle, the one fighting those monsters was no longer Amy Ulysses, but that extraordinary combat intuition, that primal battle instinct—yet such intuition, such instinct, could not arise from nothing. At the very least, it could not, in the absence of any training, conjure up the skills of a sword expert or master from thin air.

Therefore—

The young man exhaled a long breath.

The combat intuition he had always trusted might have nothing to do with intuition at all, but was merely a shallow manifestation of a battle-hardened instinct slumbering deep within his body. In his struggle with the monsters, he had misunderstood: what he gained on the edge of life and death was not progress or growth, but awakening—the terror of mortal peril had roused the battle instinct that had always lain dormant in his heart.

Just as in those previous ambushes—even when locked in close-quarters with the infamous Fog Night Butcher, a master of the curved blade, he had not been at a disadvantage. Previously, he had attributed this to his abnormally sharp combat intuition. Now, it seemed more likely that in the face of mortal danger, his body’s latent battle instincts were triggered in a stress response. Unfortunately, the stimulus of single combat was not intense or sustained enough to fully draw out his potential.

The monsters’ siege, though perhaps less deadly than a duel with the Fog Night Butcher, far surpassed it in duration. Under this constant, high-pressure assault, mere “intuition” was insufficient to cope. Naturally, he required greater power, and then… in the exhaustion and numbness, the instinct for slaughter was awakened, and the course of battle was instantly rewritten.

One sword stroke after another—

There was no need for a second stroke. Though the Glorifier wielded only a short sword ill-suited for the battlefield, the sword’s chilling brilliance wove a net in an instant, and then, uniformly and in unison, swathes of monsters were suddenly struck motionless. Next… the world was dyed red with blood.

Ten, twenty, thirty—?

The numbers no longer mattered. The monsters fell in droves, their lives reduced to insignificant, powerless variables. The youth felt nothing, no pity—he simply swung his sword in silence, harvesting those pitiful souls one by one.

That was not him.

Without a doubt.

Even a youth who had just experienced extraordinary growth could not, as he had, in the blink of an eye unleash thirteen dazzling sword arcs, slaying every foe around him without flaw or opening. That chilling, transcendent display was as dreamlike as the deeds of the black sorcerer Alfred who had once claimed his life—unbelievable, even in hindsight.

Incomprehensible, unacceptable.

Yet undeniably, it was absolute strength.

However, despite harboring such superhuman power within his body, the Glorifier could not feel any joy. As the ancients said, there is no love without reason, nor hatred without cause. The inexplicable power within him could not be without origin; correspondingly, somewhere along the unfathomable river of fate, there must be a hidden hand, manipulating his life from the shadows.

The greater the hidden power, the deeper the darkness behind it, and the slimmer his chances of breaking free from fate’s shackles.

So, so—

To become the chosen one, to shatter the will of the heavens—

To become strong—stronger still.

His fist clenched unconsciously. Once more, Amy reaffirmed his resolve, then let out a soft breath, wiped the dark, clotted blood from the short sword “Darkblood,” and slipped it back into his sleeve. He looked up at the girl approaching him, her gray-white robes as immaculate as ever. “Mia…”

He worked his parched lips, momentarily at a loss for words.

“You,” the Swordswoman of the Order looked him up and down, her delicate brows deeply furrowed. Her dark eyes met his emerald ones without flinching. “Something is wrong with you.”

The Glorifier was silent.

What could he say? What could he possibly say? Anyone who had witnessed his final, breathtaking swordplay would find it unbelievable—after all, to unleash thirteen orderly strikes in a frozen instant, cutting down every enemy without flaw, was a swordsmanship, a sword art, utterly beyond human comprehension.

Yet he had so easily reached a goal countless others could only dream of.

And all he had done was allow his instincts to awaken.

If he spoke the truth, it would likely be taken as a joke. No… perhaps it would be seen as a grave insult by those who held the sword sacred.

So, the youth remained silent.

Unexpectedly, Millie showed little concern for his explosive display at the last moment, merely shaking her head slightly and fixing him with a deep, dark gaze as she spoke, word by word: “Do not covet power that does not belong to you, Ulysses.”

“Those who play with fire shall be consumed by it.”

Amy echoed softly, his heart filled with bitterness and gratitude.

Frank advice is hard to hear—the ancients left this adage. Though her words were harsh, they were undeniably sincere. This unexpected concern, this care free of self-interest, moved the youth; yet alongside his gratitude, an even greater bitterness welled up within him.

Has it become so obvious?

Even a mere acquaintance like the Swordswoman could instantly see that he harbored power not his own.

What a wretched feeling.

The Glorifier narrowed his eyes.

“I hope so.” The girl cast him a long, searching look, then nodded politely—without hesitation or delay, she turned away, her golden hair fluttering in the wind. “I don’t want to see a companion fall on the road ahead—even if only a temporary one.”

She placed emphasis on the word “temporary.”

The Glorifier remained silent.

A reply? What could he say? A simple “thank you” seemed far too feeble—and to respond with “I’m flattered,” even with his limited experience in social affairs, Amy could sense that such levity was wholly unsuited to conversation with this girl. At this moment, perhaps silence was the best answer.

Perhaps the only answer.

For actions often speak louder than words.

To prove himself worthy of the Swordswoman’s trust, he must become someone who could be relied upon.

With this in mind, he set out once more.

No matter how thorny the path ahead, by the sword, he would cleanse all his foes.

Was this a touch too melodramatic?

Of course… not at all! Facing the sea of crimson eyes glaring from the darkness, the young Glorifier smiled easily, and then, as if it were only natural, raised his sword—resumed the slaughter.

For here, all was real.

Once again, blood dyed the world red.