Return of the Tower Conqueror

Chapter 242: To Overcome (II

To Overcome (II)

Mastery of anything was a streamlined process, but it was by no means equal-- Sigmund had long since understood that. Even within his own unit, the way he did recon versus other people was quite different. He took far more risks, often sneaking past the so-called 'safe line', and trying to bribe people deemed 'too loyal'.

Others played on the side of caution, threading the line carefully, and some erred even further, bordering the sensation of paranoia with anything going even slightly wrong. This eluded him while meeting other Blademasters before Jamal, as their styles seemed entirely similar to his. Jamal, however, had shaken up his perception of his class.

Unlike him, Jamal fought with more grace; there was the added effect of speed, precision, accuracy, and, all in all, it felt more 'roundabout'. Whereas he would simply pour his Mana into the blade and strike recklessly, Jamal was like an ocean-- pulling and pushing, retreating and striking, all with seemingly perfect calculations. Sigmund knew... he couldn't fight like that.

Not only did he lack the cleverness to process that much information that quickly, but he simply... didn't want to fight like that. Similarly to how he didn't want to do recon 'safely', but always looked for ways to obtain more and more information. Every master of every field is different from another; even something requiring as much precision as heart surgery had its ways to create indefinite 'styles'.

It's within those differences, after all, where all of one's humanity was stored; who people were, their pasts, their presents, their loves, hates, urges, desires, dreams, and hopes. All what made up a person was reflected in the way they track the work-- Jamal, much like his style of fighting, was cautious. It was pointless to ask why. Perhaps because of his upbringing, perhaps because of schooling, or even perhaps due to his racial experiences, or better yet something else entirely. That was his story, just as Sigmund had his.

Experiences not only shaped peoples' personalities, but also how they interact with the world. Sigmund was, if complimented, straightforward; if neutral, he was a bit of a simpleton, and if mean... he was a numbskull. He was certain that if Kramer hadn't taken him under his wing, he'd have long since perished somewhere, to forever be forgotten. And yet, here he was-- fighting a monster that could have, just a year ago, leveled the entire world into ash and dust... and fighting something like that all by himself.

He could feel his heartbeat inadvertently accelerating, but his strikes didn't. After all, this wasn't an inspiring tale, at least he didn't think so. His movement was limited by his stats, but he had already reached that limit. And yet... something was different. The weight of each one of his strikes.

While the black-clad Knight used to easily deflect his strikes and retaliate, Sigmund had noticed that, in the past thirty second or so of the two-minutes-long battle, the Knight had issues with his strikes-- especially overhead slashes supported by momentum.

Again.

The Knight's greatsword bounced back, sparks erupting. This was it, Sigmund knew. This was his path. His mastery of the blade. He knew that 'Blademaster', just like every other class, was a framework. After all, he had the world's greatest example of it by his side -- Cain. There were literally hundreds of thousands of people out there who had classified themselves as 'Elementalists', yet, compared to him, they were jokes. Even before he 'Awakened', none could even copy him.

The reasons were plenty, and talent for certain had something to do with it, but Sigmund always felt it was a bit different than that-- it felt as though Cain had hand-carved that path to suit himself and nobody else. Nobody else could copy it because they weren't him. It was then that he knew he couldn't copy Jamal just because the latter was stronger. He had to make the sword he was holding his own.

Again.

He felt tendons in his shoulder almost rip with how hard he exerted them with yet another overhead swing, but it worked. He managed to push the Knight back. His strikes, Sigmund realized, were growing heavier. Bit by bit. Pound by pound.

It had nothing to do with momentum, or even his raw stats or the sword itself-- it was something far more incorporeal, ethereal. He didn't know what-- he wasn't nearly clever enough to know, but he felt it. He didn't need to think, anyway; his dream of running wild and free, of being unrestrained, was a reality. He didn't need to weave his strikes in-between defenses and strike precisely through the gaps-- he'd simply crush the defenses, overwhelm them, bulldoze through them, just like god intended.

"AAAAAAGGHH!!" he roared as he emptied his canister, but, for some reason, it never seemed to bottom out. He kept flailing about, heaving his sword from above to down below, striking the Knight relentlessly while seamlessly abandoning his defenses entirely.

"... is... is he really a 'Blademaster'?" Senna quizzed, her eyebrows twitching as she glanced at Jamal. "Doesn't he just look like a kid who picked up a wooden branch and started fussing about?"

"Right? Isn't it adorable?" Emma chuckled. "He's winnin', though."

"He's just found his style, I suppose," Jamal shrugged. "Mine's better of course, but his ain't half-bad either I guess."

"Never though I'd live a day to see a grown, six-foot-five black man acting like a common Japanese tsundere," Daniel said.

"What'd you say, you bitch?!" Jamal growled.

"You heard me," Daniel said, not backing down. "If you're gonna act disgustingly, at least have balls to back it up."

"Yo, Yuki, you're Japanese-- was I acting like a tsundere or whatever, huh?!"

"... uh... I... I don't know," Yuki replied. "I wasn't, I wasn't into manga and stuff..."

"..."

"..."

"Dude, why are you even Japanese then?" Daniel said.

"Jesus, I thought you were just joking around," Emma said. "But you actually are a raging racist."

"We should just kick him out," Jamal said. "Watching his face just triggers me. His racism is opening up traumas and such."

"Oh, shut it," Daniel groaned. "Nothing in this world matters, race especially so. I'll make something clear right now-- I hate all of races equally!"

"..."

"..."

"THAT DOESN'T MAKE IT ANY BETTER, DUMBASS!!"

"Ey', should you really be talking about that while Sigmund is putting his life on the line?" Kramer sighed, smiling bitterly. The group had the tendency to, somehow, derail even harder than when Cain was here.

"He's fine," Emma said with a chuckle. "Unlike us, he looks like he's actually enjoying himself."

"... he finally found himself, after all," Kramer said. "I can worry less, now."

"Na, na, you gotta start worrying about yourself, now," Emma said. "He's gonna shoot past you and, before you know it, you'll be lookin' up from the bottom alongside Yuki."

"Oi, why do you people keep dragging me into your horseshit?!! What have I ever done to you?!! You dysfunctional maniacs!!"

From the side, Anna, Izirdul, Sebas, Mina, Elypso, Lek, and Taima stared strangely at the group; though the last three had some experience in the craziness, the former four only had the surface knowledge of the sheer potential. If they told the world that this was the group who was responsible for not only clearing the First Crucible, but were also currently single-handedly going through the roster of the Kingdom's strongest... only lunatics howling at the invisible spirits would believe them, if even them.

Sigmund was entirely unaware of a completely different battle ongoing outside his little bubble; he was too engage, too engrossed in his own reality to care. The grip felt tighter, his fingers wound around the handle perfectly, like it was all part of a well-constructed clockwork, all perfectly in place. Each swing tensed his muscles further, but rather than destroying them, it felt as though he was merely 'reshaping' them, adjusting them to how he wanted to battle.

It wasn't 'faster' that he was thinking, but 'heavier' instead; even if it was just ten pounds, he wanted to add those ten pounds. And ten more. And ten more. And even just one more. Anything.

The swing landed and knocked the Knight further as the dust began whipping out due to their combat. The entire 'arena' was already a mess, and it was impossible to see the two with a naked eye within the storm. Sigmund pressed forward, unchained, roaring a battlecry of his soul whilst swinging the blade with his will.

The Knight hastily raised to block, but was a second too late, with the sword slicing past the parry and landing onto the shoulder pad. However, the latter, as though it was made of paper, snapped and crumbled, the sound of the crackling bone exploding out like a booming thunder. It was followed out by a loud and painful yelp, but Sigmund ignored it; he broke through-- not with skill, not with precision, not with anything but raw, barbaric strength.

Blood poured out, skin making way to tendons, muscles, and even parts of the shoulder's bones, a massive gash staying there in the shape of the Sigmund's blade. He broke through. That was all that mattered, for now.