40. Reserves Against Reserves, Longsword Against Halberd

I'm going to lose.

Shen was able to clearly perceive that this was not self-deprecation stemming from a lack of self-confidence, but rather an honest statement of the facts.

Before Sigismund even stepped into the ring, Shen sensed the approaching danger using an instinct he had developed over the past two years.

In his perception, Sigismund was not a person, but a walking sword.

He walked with his head held high, but only his toes actually touched the ground. His right hand was raised higher than his left and placed on his waist, and even the rotation of his shoulders was somewhat distorted.

Sigismund maintained his walking posture, but he still possessed the habit of being ready to fight at any moment.

Yes, habits.

It was like a ferocious beast.

This is why Shen unusually chose to launch a fierce attack right from the start of the battle.

Over the past two years, his preferred tactic has been to first use speed to maneuver around his opponent, and only after fully memorizing and understanding his opponent's moves and habits will he begin to truly attack.

But he cannot carry this habit onto Sigismund, otherwise he will lose for sure.

Shen wasn't incapable of accepting defeat, but he couldn't accept giving up the chance to win. And now, the battle had officially entered its most intense phase.

Sigismund stood like an iron tree unyielding in a storm, absorbing all of Shen's attacks. No thrusts or slashes escaped his impenetrable swordplay; he used his sword and hands to construct a colossal net, firmly binding Shen within it.

Shen Shen breathed heavily. The murmurs of the crowd below and the sounds of clashing swords had already faded from his hearing, disappearing instantly like bloodstains washed away by raindrops, unable to linger.

His eyes were fixed on Sigismund's wrists and shoulders amidst the high-speed combat, his intuition pounding wildly in his mind.

A fierce and malevolent aura appeared on Shen's face—yes, I may lose, but I won't let you win so easily.

His opponent answered with his sword— Sigismund raised both hands, poised to strike downwards, but his wrists suddenly twisted, delivering a powerful and terrifying slash that forced Shen back several steps, erasing the distance advantage he had painstakingly gained.

"Come on," the Imperial Fists said solemnly.

He stood still, returning to the one-handed sword-wielding posture. His arm trembled slightly, the counterweight at the end of the hilt pressing against his wrist, gently rubbing against it. The calm he had maintained vanished; he stared into Shen's eyes, and nothing else in the world seemed to exist.

"Okay." Shen uttered a single syllable, and the storm returned.

Gliding—once again. The speed wasn't fast, but it was eerily unsettling, like witnessing Ghost traversing a steel jungle.

Alcturo, slowly regaining his senses, took a deep breath and finally understood that his defeat was not unjust. This kind of movement was almost a sure-kill technique for anyone who had never seen it before or could not grasp its meaning.

So, which type is Sigismund?

The lights were blinding, and the sounds of the crowd abruptly ceased.

Shen's wrists were crossed and rested together. In a flash, he passed Sigismund like lightning, carrying a short knife, and the dull thud of steel colliding with flesh rang out.

The dagger flew from his hand, spinning as it slammed onto the wire mesh of the training cage. Sigismund still held the sword with both hands, the blade against Shen's neck, and was breathing softly.

Shen's weapon had vanished. He lowered his head, his expression serious as he looked at his hands. His fingers were trembling, and several were bent.

The Imperial Fists unleashed another deafening roar, no less powerful than the Night Lords' previous one.

"That's terrifying," Sigismund said sincerely. "Even though I was prepared, I had no way of anticipating the angle from which you would attack me. What kind of technique is that, Shen? I beg you to tell me its name."

He seemed to have withdrawn from the fighting state; the extreme focus and ruthlessness had vanished from his eyes. A distinct friendliness appeared in his sapphire blue eyes, and he even sheathed his sword, standing there waiting for Shen's reply.

"It has no name, I'm sorry, Sigismund." The Nostramo smiled palely. "But it's our instructor's technique, and besides, you're really strong."

"Thank you. But I'm far from enough," Sigismund said. "I'm still a long way from what we need to do."

"Stop chatting there, if you lose, come down here," a man in the audience said with a sullen face.

He stretched out his hands and rudely and roughly grabbed the barbed wire mesh, hissing through clenched teeth, "Hey! You, you're called Sigismund, right? I'll fight you!"

Shen sighed.

"That's just how he is," he said to Sigismund, slightly apologetic. "Don't worry about it."

"I won't."

As Shen Mai walked past him, his apology vanished, replaced by a slightly cold smile on his pale face, "No, Sigismund, I wasn't referring to his manners."

He picked up the dagger, walked to the iron cage door, turned back and said one last thing, a sentence that instantly extinguished the kindness in Sigismund's eyes.

"I meant you shouldn't worry about the impending failure."

--

Sigismund observed his opponent and suddenly felt a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Don't get me wrong, it's not because of the weapon his opponent used. Although the chainsaw is not a common weapon, it doesn't mean that its user is difficult to deal with.

Sigismund firmly believed that the sword was the perfect weapon. He believed this because of the dark and deep eyes of his opponent.

There was also a beast-like nature in those eyes. And unlike him, he had acquired this trait later in life and was making great strides toward it as one of his future goals.

His opponent, however, seemed to possess an even more terrifying savagery.

This kind of savagery, as if it wants to completely dismantle its opponent and smash every bone, stripping away all flesh and marrow, devouring them clean.

That's absolutely terrifying.

I am about to face a tough battle. Sigismund thought to himself, feeling not pressure but even a sense of joy.

He welcomes challenges, as does every Imperial Fists. One must face high pressure and be tempered to be able to bear immense weight.

"Are you called Sevatar, cousin?" Sigismund asked, holding his sword in one hand.

"What, trying to curry favor with me?" His pale opponent seemed unappreciative of his kindness, his voice full of sarcasm.

"You don't actually think I'm going to give you a proper introduction before we start fighting, do you? Or are you just incredibly old-fashioned, even going through all the formalities with your opponent before the fight begins?"

"I have no demands of such things." Sigismund calmly raised his hand, holding his blunt sword upright before him. "I simply want to know your name."

"What the hell does that have to do with you?" Sevatar asked rudely.

His words sparked a wave of opposition from the Imperial Fists members in the audience, some of whom even began shaking the iron net and shouting contemptuously at him.

Sevatar looked back with a cold laugh, making the gang hand gestures from Nostramo to each of these men who were far older and stronger than him.

Sigismund finally shook his head.

"Does insulting my superiors, my predecessors, and my brothers make you feel any better?" he asked sternly. "Provocation doesn't work on me, Sevatar of the Midnight Blade. Come, let's fight."

"Oh--"

Sevatar turned her head, grinned, and smiled softly.

"--I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I hurt your fragile heart, cousin. But I believe that when the battle begins and when it ends should be up to me."

The Midnight Blade burst into laughter, while the Imperial Fists glared at them coldly, remaining silent.

Inside the training cage, the battle began silently. Sigismund struck first, his blade flashing through the air as he met a chainsaw halberd that had been prepared beforehand.

The serrated edge of ordinary steel spun, sparking as it clashed with Sigismund's sword. The longer the weapons were in contact, the longer the struggle lasted, the more Sigismund's arm trembled.

The serrations were not only destabilizing his weapon, but also wearing down his strength. Sigismund immediately and warily withdrew, while his opponent remained standing, eyes gleaming, a flawless smile on his face.

"You're so weak," he said deliberately. "With such little strength, you actually think you can beat me?"

Sigismund kept his mouth tightly shut, completely ignoring Sevatar's words. He curled his fingers, feeling the balance of the blade, and took a deep breath. His heartbeat gradually slowed, and his pulse gradually decelerated.

The world fell silent once more, gradually fading into darkness. Amidst the solemn and cold gaze, a rain began to fall. This rain had first fallen when he was a child, on the Innos Plateau of Terra.

In the sweltering heat of summer, everyone in the slums screamed for survival, having been persecuted for a long time by a tyrant who had long since died. But it wasn't just that tyrant who persecuted them; many other gangs did as well.

Sigismund thought of them, of the downpour, of the shantytowns, of the storm.

Then he transformed into a storm.

Sevatar suddenly narrowed his eyes.

"Clang--!" A violent clang of steel clashing echoed between them, and with the sound, Sigismund, who had been holding his breath, finally released it slowly from his lungs through the movement of his muscles.

Time and place no longer mattered; the light overhead remained bright, but it now seemed as scorching as a swirling summer sun. Sigismund continued to wield his sword, without pause.

He wielded his sword as if he were about to kill Sevatar, each strike swift and silent, each blow heavy as a collapsing mountain. The serrated edge and the blunt blade rubbed against each other, fighting each other with the will of their master; the metal hissed and bled.

Amidst the sparks flying, Sevatar stared into his opponent's emotionless eyes and suddenly realized something.

He sneered again.

He brandished his halberd, using two successive traps to force Sigismund to retreat. Sevatar was still laughing, a laugh that seemed unnatural, not befitting someone caught in a fierce battle. But he laughed anyway, and with obvious satisfaction.

"So that's how it is, cousin," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "So you're a madman. What a pity, so am I."

His opponent did not answer, but simply adjusted his stance and stepped forward again. The chainsaw halberd roared incessantly, its attacks wide and powerful. The blunt sword, on the other hand, was very simple and unchanging.

Its master ignored Sevatar's words, and it ignored the serrated cutting. Sparks filled the air between them once more, making everything truly visible.

In Sigismund's eyes, his opponent was ruthless, vicious, swift, and deadly as a scorpion in the desert. He almost thought of Sevatar as the embodiment of lightning or the messenger of a storm.

He realized he couldn't afford to make a mistake, absolutely not—just one mistake would mean certain defeat. His opponents would seize on that mistake without hesitation and turn it into a bleeding wound.

However, in Sevatar's view, Sigismund is not even human.

How the hell is he even human? How can a person be so indifferent, so heartless, so cold-blooded?

He saw no emotion in Sigismund's eyes. When he swung his sword, he was always as powerful and dangerous as the most dangerous Servitor, but he also possessed a quality that Servitor could never have.

--Extremely perceptive.

Sevatar let out a low growl.

"You're insane," he said with satisfaction and disgust, completely oblivious to the smile on his face. It made him look like a wild beast satisfied with its bloodlust. "You should be glad I am too, Sigismund."

Sigismund remained silent; he couldn't hear what Sevatar was saying at all. His world was filled with the sound of rain and lightning from the past.

The blunt sword clashed incessantly with the chainsaw halberd, like a monotonous and irritating melody, extremely intense and terrifying. Within this melody, Sigismund finally understood something for the first time in his life.

He realized his passion and desire for battle long ago, but why did he do it?

Why did he continue to resort to violence and wield this will? The young Sigismund searched for the answer, and finally found it at this moment.

Below the stage, Rogal Dorn smiled, a rare occurrence. He turned to Karyl and said, "He can go to war with me right now."

"Oh?" Karyl raised an eyebrow with interest, and Konrad Curze Curze also turned his gaze over.

"He finally understands what we've been wielding our swords for," Dorn said with a hint of pride.

On stage, Sigismund smiled for the first time. From the moment he saw Sevatar standing opposite him, weapon in hand, he knew that his opponent would not fall easily.

He didn't know Sevatar's full name, but he understood the man. He realized that Sevatar was like him in some ways.

Half a minute ago, there was still a gap between them, because Sevatar understood what he was fighting for before even stepping into the training cage. Now, that gap has been closed.

Sigismund raised his sword seemingly slowly, Sevatar squinted, an imperceptible tremor erupting between their breaths.

This wasn't a feeling, but a crusade against reason, a contempt for anyone unskilled in combat. A third of a second later, the blade slid down. Not a strike, but a fall.

Like an electric shock, like an eruption of flames. Sevatar couldn't help but expose his canines to the air, raising his hand to block, not as if wielding a chainsaw, but as if lifting something.

A third of a second later, in that brief yet eternal instant, their eyes met.

Thank you.

Are you sick in the head?

"Bang--!"

The chainsaw's motor emitted a plume of black smoke, and a pungent, burnt smell began to spread. The serrated blades fell to the ground.

The training blunt sword split in two; it had fulfilled its purpose, and no more Mars would fall from it.

Sigismund took a deep breath and then slowly exhaled. His fingers were trembling slightly, and blood was dripping from them.

Sevatar stared at him indifferently, holding a chainsaw in his right hand, a shallow wound on his chest that was oozing blood.

"Who won?" someone shouted from the audience.

Richter Nair closed his eyes contentedly, exhaling as if he had just devoured a delicious meal. Xianni stared at him with a strange expression, unconsciously taking a step back.

"You'd better not back down anymore," Richter said, his eyes closed. "I don't want to say anything right now, so please let me have some peace and quiet, Xianni."

"Didn't you speak first?!"

At the other end of the crowd, Konrad Curze Curze couldn't suppress a laugh, a bright and unrestrained laugh that was almost unlike his usual subtle and restrained smile—he turned to look at Dorn, only to find that Dorn was also laughing.

"What a magnificent battle," the once stern and unsmiling Stone said sincerely. "I never imagined I'd see this kind of battle of conviction between two recruits. What were they thinking as their blades clashed, brother?"

". ah?"

"Rogal is asking you, Konrad Curze," Karyl subtly reminded his dumbfounded legion commander. "He wants to know your opinion on this battle."

"I—" The Night Haunter blinked. "Actually, I'm more interested in knowing who won. How should that be determined?"

Dorn pondered for a moment.

"How about," he said thoughtfully, "That they draw? Let's not count this battle in the results of this exchange tournament for now, and then have them fight again after they've both grown stronger. We can then include this result in the tally on that day. What do you think?"

"I think it's fine." Konrad Curze Curze agreed after a moment's thought. He was still smiling, and he didn't hide his emotion. Karyl tilted his head back, letting the back of his head touch the wall, his expression calm and serene.

This is the feeling of building something with your own hands and watching it grow little by little.

How wonderful.

I have no past, no memories, but I can still forge new ones.

He lowered his head, looking at the Night Lords, at Shen, at Sevatar, at Konrad Curze Curze —and then he smiled.

Update complete.