Pick Me Up!

Vol 2. Chapter 2: Side Story – Aaron – The Sword Waiting to Be Drawn (2)

Rals’ eyes went wide.

He hadn’t seen it wrong.

That guy’s beat-up, worn-out blade had blocked his well-forged steel axe.

What the hell?!

He had definitely felt it.

That violent shockwave that spreads when raw power collides head-on.

In that case, the weaker side should have shattered.

But the man held his slanted sword steady—without so much as a flinch.

It’s just a fluke!

In a fierce exchange like this, deep thinking was a luxury.

If the Seventeen-Strike Combo could be stopped just once and that was it, it wouldn’t be called a finisher.

“Uraaah!”

Rals poured his strength and weight into a diagonal slash that hammered toward the man’s body.

“Four!”

Clang!

A blue spark flew.

It had been deflected again.

What an idiot!

Sure, maybe he blocked it once by luck.

But how long could his luck hold?

The difference in strength was undeniable.

The quality of their weapons wasn’t even comparable.

Which meant only one outcome remained:

That rusted sword would soon be crushed entirely.

“Five!”

Clanggak!

A clear ring sounded again as sparks exploded.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder.

A direct clash between weapons—this was one of the moments they longed for the most.

And what they desired next, of course, was one side’s defeat—and death.

“Raaaah!”

“Six!”

Clang!

Rals swung the axe with each shout, his giant muscles bulging.

Sweat, mixed with sand, sprayed out forcefully.

Whoooosh!

The whooshing sound of the swings was downright murderous.

It felt like the very air in front of him was being shredded by his pressure.

“Seven!”

Clang!

The man blocked it.

Rals swore this would be the final blow, again and again—but nothing changed.

“Eight!”

“Uwoooaah!”

Fwhoooooosh!

The eighth strike.

A powerful spinning slash—one of the most damaging in Rals’ arsenal.

Even that—

Clang!

Was blocked.

With an expression that didn’t change.

Only then did Rals realize something was wrong.

What the fuck... What the actual fuck!

By now, that guy should’ve been a pile of meat.

But the man was perfectly fine.

Compared to Rals, who was drenched in sweat, he looked almost serene.

“You son of a bitch!”

Was this a joke!?

Rals’ face flushed red with rage.

So it wasn’t luck, huh?!

The guy was using a special technique.

Rals had faced opponents like that a few times before.

He’s using deflection!

A technique where, in the moment weapons clash, one slides their blade diagonally to disperse the impact.

It took immense training and natural instinct to pull off.

Even if the guy was worn-out, he was a high-rank gladiator.

He must’ve had some secret technique.

“But that won’t matter!”

“Nine!”

BOOM!

Rals brought the axe down with all his might.

The force was now so intense it no longer made a clear ringing sound.

Now, it sounded like something was breaking.

“Tricks won’t work in the face of raw power!”

“Ten!”

BOOM!

He struck again.

“Die!”

“Eleven!”

BOOM!

Again.

“Hahahahaha!”

“Twelve!”

BOOM!

Rals’ signature technique as a high-rank gladiator—the Seventeen-Strike Combo—grew stronger with each hit.

By the tenth blow, the combo devolved into pure downward strikes.

But each one carried the weight of a mountain behind it.

“You’re holding out pretty well!”

“Hahaha! Chop him up! Kill him!”

“Rals! We believe in you!”

The audience erupted.

The thrilling clash between the man's overwhelming slashes and the sword-wielding opponent was more than worth the fortune they had paid to enjoy.

But in their minds, the outcome was already decided.

Before long, that axe would split the guy’s skull open.

BOOM!

“Thirteen!”

“You’re at your limit now, aren’t you?!”

Drenched in sweat, Rals taunted.

Even if it was deflection, it wasn’t invincible.

If you kept applying greater shock, it would break down eventually.

“Fourteen!”

“You can’t even talk anymore, can you!”

BOOM!

His muscles screamed.

His body was begging him to stop as pain surged through his nervous system.

But he didn’t stop.

“URRAAAAAHH!”

“FIFTEEEEEEEN!”

This was it.

The final strike.

It was called Seventeen-Strike Combo, but it never went that far.

No one had ever made it to the fifteenth hit.

Some dodged, some tried to run, but in the end, they were caught—and their heads split open within fifteen blows.

BOOOM!

The axe exploded downward.

Sand, sweat, and blood flew in every direction.

And in that moment, Rals felt it.

The man’s corpse—split in two.

“Huff... huff... You held out well, I’ll give you that. But still... huh?”

Rals rubbed his eyes.

It wasn’t a hallucination.

The man who should’ve died was still standing.

“There’s two more left, aren’t there?”

The man spoke in a low voice.

“I’ll take them.”

Rals’ jaw dropped.

His brain started to misfire, unable to process the impossible reality before him.

Am I seeing things?

No.

The brute shook his head.

The guy was absolutely standing there.

Still bleeding from head to toe.

“H-how...?”

As Rals caught his breath, things he’d ignored in the heat of battle started to surface.

Why is his weapon still intact?

Maybe once, sure.

Twice—maybe luck.

But luck doesn’t repeat itself.

Not this many times.

Deflection! That’s it—he used deflection...!

But was it really?

His cooling mind shoved reality in front of him.

Deflection was a technique that involved sliding the blade at the point of contact.

But that guy had done no such thing.

Instead, he’d thrust his blade forward and collided head-on with the axe.

That’s not deflection.

Even the sound was different.

If it were deflection, it wouldn’t make that sound.

Then what was it?

How did he absorb the shock held in the axe blade?

Did he just take it straight on?

Impossible.

If so, both he and his weapon should’ve been destroyed.

......

It made no sense.

It defied reason.

Even if he didn’t know the formal laws of motion and reaction, Rals had instinctively learned the principles of force through years of training.

The transmission of force and its counteraction.

When weapons clash, there is always a consequence.

So where had all the force Rals poured into those blows gone?

Rals looked down at the man’s feet.

“...No fucking way.”

The sand beneath the man’s feet had not shifted in the slightest.

Since the flurry of downward strikes had begun, the man hadn’t moved from his spot.

The laws of force had been broken.

It wasn’t deflection.

What the man used was likely something far beyond what a technique like deflection could even touch.

The man had taken Rals’ combo head-on, yet somehow nullified the shock that should’ve ripped through his body.

And without snapping that chipped iron sword.

How... did he do it?

Rals didn’t know.

Was it a technique?

A bodily ability?

Or maybe—some kind of magic?

The only thing certain—

Was that the outcome had been decided long ago.

The moment he realized that, Rals’ face turned pale.

“What are you doing, you bastard! He’s on the verge of ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) death!”

“Kill him! Just kill him already!”

The spectators screamed in rage.

To anyone watching, the match was clearly Rals’ overwhelming victory.

He, aside from the sweat, was completely unharmed. His opponent was drenched in blood.

To anyone watching, the winner had been determined.

“Y-you... insolent...”

But Rals knew.

He knew how meaningless those injuries were, despite how dire they looked.

Among all the scratches covering the man’s body, not a single one was fatal.

Blood flowed.

But that was it.

No tendons were severed. No bones were broken.

Among all the cuts, not a single artery had been struck.

Only veins were bleeding—minor wounds that could be healed with a little treatment and rest.

That unnaturalness meant only one thing.

Rals had done the same before.

When your opponent was too weak, ending the fight too quickly bored the crowd.

That’s why he’d deliberately taken injuries before, to stage a more dramatic match.

But being able to pull off such a calculated performance...

That meant the gap in skill was enormous.

Like an adult toying with a child.

“Ghhk!”

Rals stumbled.

So I... was just a plaything to him?

“You bastard... you piece of shit...!”

Rals glared at the man.

But in that man’s eyes—there was no emotion at all.

“Kill him! Just finish it already!”

“Are you insane?!”

“End it!!”

The spectators shouted and cursed.

But Rals ignored them completely.

This was probably the last moment of the life he’d lived.

Whatever those damn pigs were shouting—it didn’t matter.

“...I see.”

Thud.

Rals dropped his axe.

His fighting spirit had long since vanished.

Now that everything had become clear, he almost felt relief.

“If you’ve worked that hard... and ended up stronger than me... then there’s nothing I can do.”

Rals let out a bitter smile.

“Before I go, just tell me one thing.”

“What is it.”

“That technique. What’s it called?”

Someday, he’d die to someone stronger.

That was the fate of all gladiators.

Rals had always been prepared for it.

It had simply arrived sooner than expected.

“It was a magnificent move. How long did you train for that? How many nights did you vomit blood in practice? That’s incredible.”

Rals smiled faintly.

They were in the same arena.

He had a rough idea of the life that man had lived.

Sold into the arena as a slave in childhood. Forced to do menial tasks while training, then eventually pushed into the arena as a fighter.

A life that wasn’t uncommon.

Rals was no different.

They’d barely spoken, but the two of them had grown up in much the same way.

“Heh. Were you secretly training at night? Part of your strategy too, I bet.”

He felt a sudden surge of respect.

He’d thought that man never trained at all.

And yet he’d been hiding such skill all along.

He got me.

All those close victories must’ve been staged.

It was intentional, no doubt.

You probably didn’t even sleep.

Staring at the stars ‘til dawn. Training in secret where no one would see.

Hands bloody, calluses never even getting a chance to dry.

That’s what effort looked like.

And effort never betrayed you.

That was Rals’ life creed.

If he died in battle, it would be to someone who had trained harder.

There’d be no regrets.

It would simply mean his effort wasn’t enough.

Deflection isn’t an easy technique.

Rals knew that well.

Gladiators who weren’t born with raw power honed their techniques to the extreme.

They were called technical-types.

Even among them, those who could freely use deflection were exceedingly rare.

But to wield something far superior to deflection like that?

He couldn’t even imagine the blood-soaked training behind it.

“...Technique?”

The man muttered.

“That wasn’t a technique.”

“...What?”

“A technique is something you learn, right?”

“Wh-what are you talking about?! That move was... incredible! You can’t just do that! It’s something you work for, for years—!”

“I didn’t train for it.”

The man replied calmly.

“It was my first time trying it. Seemed to go alright. You said it was called deflection? Well, let me correct you on one thing. That wasn’t a technique. I didn’t learn it. I didn’t train for it.”

“......”

“I just did it. Because I could.”

Rals stood there, frozen.

The man’s words echoed in his skull like a low hum.