Chapter 285: Crushing

Deathlike silence.

Everyone crowding around stared blankly at what was happening in the field, thrown into dumbfounded disbelief.

What just happened?

Why did that Orze suddenly collapse?

And also...

Catching the stench coming off Orze, quite a few people pinched their noses and reflexively stepped back a few paces.

That lion famed for his vicious cruelty... actually lost control of his bladder?

What did Muen Campbell do to him to make him that terrified?

Most of the onlookers were there for the spectacle; with so many people and the distance so far, hardly anyone saw how Muen actually moved. The majority were still stuck in bewilderment and doubt—

—until more and more people noticed Orze’s drifting whiskers and the extreme smoothness of his now-bare chin.

His beard?

Shaved off?

When?

Seeing the white blade Muen was playing with in his hand, many pupils abruptly tightened.

Having your beard shaved off isn’t some terrifying thing by itself—losing some hair or whiskers in a fight is perfectly normal.

The problem was how clean it was.

So clean it looked like the work of a professional stylist; in an instant the mature, steady Orze seemed ten years younger—and not even the skin was nicked.

But to achieve that level of precision, how much time would it normally take? How many instantaneous slashes would be required?

And in that process, how many times over could Orze have been killed?

No wonder Orze was scared into that state.

The horror began to spread, plague-like, through everyone’s eyes.

At the same time, that very horror birthed a fresh doubt.

Since when... was Muen Campbell this strong?

...

Muen paid no heed to the crowd. The handsome face still wore a standard noble’s smile. With impeccable manners, he spoke to the Yellow Sparrows before him:

“Come on. I’m in a hurry—why don’t you all come at once?”

“...Muen Campbell, what trick did you use?”

After a brief silence, Luns barked in a low voice.

Looking at Orze, Luns had felt a flash of shock himself, but after exchanging a glance with the men beside him, he calmed almost at once.

Impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

There was no way this was Muen Campbell’s own power.

A second-year wastrel—dead last across the whole school last term—becoming so strong in just a few months he could one-shot a standout from the third-years?

Unless this guy colluded with an Evil God and got power from it, no novel would dare write something like that!

Magitech gear, an Ancient Relic, or some kind of special item?

Luns’s gaze flickered. For the moment he hadn’t found any obvious peculiarity on Muen himself; only that knife in his hand stood out.

But he still felt his guess was correct.

“Muen Campbell, the Academy may not forbid using items—but acting like this, are you truly worthy of the title ‘heir to a duke’?”

Striding up to Muen, Luns said in a deep voice:

“Wager your family’s name and fight me in a fair duel!”

“Dueling... is really a waste of time.”

Muen let out a helpless sigh.

But Luns didn’t give him the chance to keep complaining. He drew from his waist a gorgeous rapier engraved with golden roses and lilies. One hand went behind his back, the rapier angled down, his legs snapped together—and he shouted:

“In the name of House Rokiel, I challenge you—Muen Campbell, heir of House Campbell!”

“I hope you won’t disgrace the Campbell name. Fight me fairly and justly, with no despicable means!”

“...”

Muen’s mouth twitched.

What the hell—do these people really announce their name before a fight like idiots?

On any other day, Muen would’ve already slashed first. After all, not letting the magical girl transform early is Combat Basics 101.

But the shadows of people around him made him zone out for a second—then he came back to himself.

This wasn’t a fight to the death. Just dealing with a few hot-house blossoms. No need to go that far.

Come to think of it, that “Ao-whatever” just now also spewed a bunch °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° of nonsense before fighting.

Without noticing, had his own mindset drifted this far away from these people?

Sure enough, there’s nothing to learn dueling folks like this. It’s just a waste of time.

Still, if he wanted them to concede...

Muen drew a slow breath, placed one hand to his chest, and, just as impeccably, returned the salute:

“In the name of Campbell, I accept your fair challenge. But I’ll repeat myself: make it quick, please. My time is precious.”

“Don’t worry.”

Seeing Muen return the salute, Luns immediately bared a feral grin.

“I’ll be very quick!”

Quick...

...to end you!

Luns thrust forward.

In an instant, battle aura far more torrential than Muen’s surged; swordlight bloomed like stars.

Rokiel-Style Swordsmanship, Fifth Form—Goddess’s Stars!

“Muen Campbell, look out!”

With the utmost gentlemanly warning, Luns’s eyes were already blazing with certain victory.

If it’s a fair duel, there’s nothing to be afraid of!

I doubt that even as a wastrel, you’d dare ruin Campbell’s name under all these eyes.

Still, to fall to the pride of the technique I’ve polished since childhood—Muen Campbell, you can at least—

Ting.

The suddenly crisp ring of impact froze Luns’s face rigid.

“How... could that be?”

He stared ahead, eyes glassy. Muen had lazily set the pure-white blade crosswise in his hand, precisely intercepting that unstoppable thrust.

But how could that be?

Rokiel-Style was famed for speed like thunder; its downpour of continuous thrusts overwhelmed any opponent.

Yet there was no chance for the downpour to spread—because the very first strike had been lightly blocked.

A fluke?

No. Not a fluke.

Because Muen wasn’t parrying with the flat of the blade—but with...the edge.

Edge to sword-tip.

“This is impossible... impossible!”

Luns’s expression twisted into madness. His tip rolled; the rapier’s point burst again into countless blossoms of steel.

The blossoms glittered—and vanished in a blink.

Because with every bloom of a flower, an even brighter glint blossomed to crush it completely.

The blond man before him seemed almost prescient; every time he set the edge crosswise, it fell precisely across the rapier’s inevitable path.

No one truly foresees the future. Which meant...

My technique... is being crushed?

The swordsmanship he’d learned since childhood—ruining who knew how many wooden swords and cutting who knew how many training posts, sparring who knew how many times against tutors hired by his house—on the plane of technique, was being utterly crushed by this duke’s son who had nothing going for him besides his pedigree?

Why?

This guy doesn’t even swing a thousand times a day!

“Your swordwork’s not bad.”

Parrying as he spoke, Muen offered a sharp review:

“It’s just that your form is drier and stiffer than Professor Prang’s face.”

“You—”

Veins burst in Luns’s eyes; his form suddenly changed.

If technique won’t do it, then I’ll crush him with power!

Luns drew a deep breath. The rapier in his hand erupted with a cutting, icy radiance.

Potent battle aura clung to the blade; a terrifying gust ripped the snow off the ground.

In the instant the artificial blizzard enveloped them, Luns moved. The earth before him split at once, gouged into a half-meter trench.

The fearful swordlight became a blinding meteor, bearing a thousand-jin force straight at Muen.

Third Rank versus Second Rank—advantage, me!

At that very same instant—

Within the chaos of falling snow, Luns saw Muen Campbell finally grow a touch solemn. He raised the pure-white short blade—and from it burst...

Thunder that shook the ears!

...

“W—why?”

Luns finally asked the question:

“Why did you... suddenly become this strong?”

“It’s nothing much.”

Muen shrugged casually.

“Early to bed, early to rise. Train diligently. Look at pretty girls. Try hard to stay alive.

That’s all I did...”

“Is that so?”

What a joke...

Those words—what do they have to do with getting stronger?

Luns glanced at his broken rapier, gave a self-mocking laugh, suddenly coughed a mouthful of blood—then toppled to the ground in a heap.

Without even looking back, Muen stepped past Luns and kept walking forward.

“Next up... is you two, right?”

Looking at Blonki and Doranmus blocking the road, he still toyed with Elizabeth in his hand and showed a mild smile:

“I’m really done with one-by-one. So... this time I’ll challenge you both. How about it?”

“You—”

That arrogant look lit both men’s tempers in an instant. They traded a glance, said nothing, and streaked out from different angles as two afterimages, lunging at Muen Campbell.

Unlike Orze’s inexplicable face-plant earlier, this time Muen Campbell had practically crushed Luns head-on, proving his strength to everyone.

So Blonki and Doranmus both knew they must not hold back. Even if it meant the stigma of many against one, they had to defeat Muen Campbell here!

Blonki was far faster than Doranmus. In just a blink, he closed on Muen.

His hand whipped out—not with a weapon—but with an... ancient-looking hourglass.

Ancient Relic—Serpent’s Eye Hourglass!

Using an item in a challenge like this was despicable, yes—but he was no fool like Luns, who clung to so-called noble codes.

Besides...

You’re the one who started it, Muen Campbell—putting those two down so easily.

A ruthless glint flashed in Blonki’s eyes. Without hesitation, he flipped the hourglass.

The serpent’s eye on its frame flared with a weird, uncanny light.

In an instant—as if a delay key had been pressed—the entire world in Blonki’s sight slowed.

As if time itself had halted.

But he knew it wasn’t time-stop.

Even a precious Ancient Relic couldn’t do the impossible and freeze time.

This was acceleration.

The special force within the hourglass granted him tenfold bodily acceleration, twentyfold reaction acceleration, and fiftyfold thought acceleration!

Add in that his forte was already speed and agility—people called him the Black Serpent—and just in speed alone, not even that First Seat, Fanny Sawyer, could match him!

Excitement flashed over Blonki’s face. Under fiftyfold thought acceleration, even though his own movements appeared slow to his mind, Muen Campbell in his view had become like a photograph formed by a lingering-shadow spell—almost utterly motionless.

So—get on your knees and beg, Muen Campbell.

Blonki slapped a palm toward Muen’s undefended chest.

But in the instant before his palm could touch, he felt a strange gaze.

A gaze—where from?

Blonki jerked his head up—and, horrified, realized that like one of those legends where a ghost clings to a photograph, the Muen Campbell inside the “picture” suddenly came alive.

His eyes rolled toward Blonki. The corner of his mouth hooked in a mocking smile.

“That... all?”

The stretched-out drawl sounded by his ear. Before Blonki could react, a terrifying force erupted against his own chest.

Sometime already, Muen Campbell had beaten him by a step—his palm had landed on Blonki’s sternum.

“Pft—”

Everything snapped back to normal.

Blonki sprayed blood; his aura withered in an instant. The look in his eyes was as if he’d seen a ghost.

Why?

Why could Muen Campbell keep up with my speed?

Don’t tell me—

He remembered Orze’s shaved-clean whiskers. Was that not Muen Campbell using some tool at all—but simply that he himself was that fast?

No time to think. With a feral look again, Blonki raised the hourglass; the serpent’s eye shone with uncanny light once more.

This hourglass... had more than one use!

“Hm?”

Muen suddenly frowned and glanced down at himself.

He... couldn’t move?

This was... petrification?

He looked at the Serpent’s Eye Hourglass in Blonki’s hand and arched a brow in surprise.

“Petrification,” yes—but not true stone. It only locked Muen’s body for the moment.

And using that brief opening—cold burst forth!

From the blind angle at his flank, Doranmus—who’d been waiting—darted out. The dagger in his hand drove straight for Muen’s vital.

Even the onlookers couldn’t help gasping. No one had expected that Doranmus—himself the son of a great noble—was this skilled in assassination techniques... and had never once shown them before anyone!

Seeing Muen frozen and lamb-to-the-slaughter, Doranmus couldn’t help a victor’s smile.

How did it go again? Only the one who laughs last—wins.

So die for me, Muen Campbell!

Belrand does not allow a second—

“Schhk—”

The crisp rip of flesh rang out. Doranmus’s smile froze hard.

He dropped his eyes to the short blade ruthlessly sunk in his own abdomen. His thoughts turned to mush.

“Why?”

He asked the same question as Blonki, who was staring, stupefied, beside him:

“How are you still able to move?”

The Serpent’s Eye Hourglass’s “petrification” wasn’t magic—it was a curse.

But precisely because it was a curse, shouldn’t it be even harder to guard against?

“You’re asking that?”

Muen’s face was calm. He pulled Elizabeth from Doranmus’s belly, then casually gave a parting slash to Blonki, who could still twitch, and said offhand:

“Don’t you know? The higher your Tenacity, the less you get controlled. I just happen to have thicker skin—and higher Tenacity.”

“Ha...?”

Doranmus showed a look of sheer incomprehension, then slowly slumped to the ground. Blood streamed from his abdomen.

Muen’s strike hadn’t been fatal, but it was enough to strip him of all combat ability. Blonki was the same.

And yet, sinking into that powerless daze, he couldn’t help asking the same thing Luns had:

“Muen Campbell... you... you were obviously a worthless duke’s son—so why are you suddenly... this strong?”

So strong—it was monstrous.

Could someone really change this much in just a few months? Or was it that...

...the “you” from before—was all an act?

“A worthless duke’s son?”

Hearing that, Muen chuckled. He suddenly crouched and grabbed a fistful of Doranmus’s hair, forcing their eyes to meet.

His eyes were azure.

Like a lake.

So serene.

Yet Doranmus felt as if he were facing something horrific. Fear warped his features. His body began to tremble.

Because he could feel it... killing intent.

The sort of killing intent a pampered duke’s son could never possess. In the deepest part of Muen Campbell’s eyes, it was as if he could see a mountain of corpses, a sea of blood that choked the breath.

“In the past, I didn’t mind you running your mouths behind my back. First, because some of what you said was true—I had no rebuttal. Second, because back then, I didn’t have the qualification to shut you up.”

“But now, I’ve corrected those failings—and I do have the qualification to shut you up.”

“So...”

Muen gazed at the Doranmus before him. The smile on his face seemed never to fade; his tone was mild, as if confiding to an old friend:

“From now on—when it comes to me, and to the three letters C-A-M-P-B-E-L-L—show a little respect, will you?”

...

The snowfall eased.

The world grew even quieter.

It was as if someone had cast a global mute. All anyone could do was wear a vacant expression to show their shock in this moment.

On one side, in the News Club, Mingot all but tore to shreds the hot-off-the-press draft in his hands. After a long stunned silence, he slowly lowered his head to the mountain of Emiels he’d bet into the book to rig the market. His face turned steadily white.

On the other side, Veil—who hadn’t left—had her eyes about to pop out of her round face.

She looked toward the direction Celicia had disappeared, seeming as if she wanted to shout something—but her lips just worked, and nothing came out.

...

What looked long was actually brief.

To outsiders’ eyes, Muen Campbell had simply chopped vegetables—putting all four of them down.

The four strongest in the entire third year—aside from Fanny Sawyer.

No one had expected it.

Or rather, no one could have expected it.

This absurd dominance made some think of another monster who also made a habit of slapping bystanders in the face.

—The second-year First Seat who could already arm-wrestle with the fifth-years: once a count’s illegitimate daughter, now the undisputed first heir—Ariel Bugaard.

Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to be here; otherwise, people would already be speculating about what a collision between those two would look like.

Another portion of the crowd still couldn’t believe what they were seeing. They kept turning over reasons for Muen Campbell’s sudden surge in strength—still scheming to find some loophole.

...

“Anyone else?”

Muen swept a look around. No one answered.

He exhaled long and shook his head.

“Just four? I thought I’d at least get to fight ten. Guess I’m not very good at putting on a show.”

“But fine. This should buy me a bit of peace and quiet.”

Muen turned back and bid farewell to the upperclassman beside him.

“I’ll head back, then. See you in seven days, Senior Fanny.”

“...”

Fanny’s eyes were vacant; her cherry lips parted wide enough to fit a goose egg.

Only after Muen vanished from sight did she finally come back to herself and show a wry smile.

“Muen... you really are the most surprising one of all.”