Chapter Twenty-Seven: Char’s Trident of Fire

The knight captain rebuked his companion, and the man’s face flushed red and purple with humiliation. Yet he seemed to greatly fear the captain, not daring to utter a word in protest. Kneeling on the ground, he gritted his teeth and tried to rise, but instead stumbled and fell again.

The captain’s expression darkened further as he noticed this, riding forward a few steps. He was about to speak harshly, but after a careful glance, he sighed. “Enough, so you’re injured. Get up on your own.”

It turned out this fellow had been injured earlier when Shaya knocked him from his horse. The force of a galloping steed was tremendous; only a brute raised in the wild like Shaya would attempt such recklessness. The impact had sent the horse tumbling, and as the knight fell, one of his legs became caught in the stirrup. Luckily, his horsemanship was exceptional, and in a desperate struggle he freed himself, but his foot was crushed and broken. Shaya’s savage blows with the axe had kept him down, but the injury to his leg was partly to blame.

Moreover, after being thrown from the speeding horse, the knight’s shoulder was torn open, the flesh lacerated—this was a minor injury, considering his thick, supple leather armor. Had he worn iron, the shock likely would have shattered bone.

Seeing his companion was wounded, the captain let the earlier humiliation slide. After all, each of their company was a warrior of some renown, and to be so soundly beaten by a wild demon hunter was a blow to their reputation.

He looked up at Shaya again. “To withstand my sword, you’re stronger than I thought.” He prided himself on his rank—a blade broken by a country youth was already a shame. Sheathing his sword at the saddle, he sized up Shaya’s broad-shouldered, rugged frame, the fierce light in his brow. The killing intent in the captain’s heart faded somewhat: a youth this robust, if brought back and properly trained, in less than three years would make a formidable weapon indeed.

Yet the thought soon passed. The mission entrusted to him allowed no survivors among those who crossed their path; already, they’d slaughtered a goblin tribe with whom they’d parleyed—what mercy then for a wild youth?

His brows knitted, the chill in his eyes returned. “Unfortunate. Your luck has run out.”

Shaya was glaring at the half-shattered axe in his hand, heart aching with loss. He was dirt poor, had trained with an axe for over a decade without ever wielding such a fine weapon. Since acquiring this war axe, he’d been overjoyed, never letting it out of his sight, even while he slept. Now, suddenly broken, it was like a pauper who’d briefly tasted wealth only to be ruined again—his anger was more intense than ever.

The captain’s words, though they held some grudging praise, sounded to Shaya like someone slapping you twice and saying, “Your skin is pretty thick.”

Such an insult was unbearable.

His character was half mountain-folk’s honest boldness, yet growing up on the Wildfire Plains and mixing with the folk of Wildfire Town, he’d acquired a streak of cunning and ferocity—a blend that made his seemingly guileless nature hide a wild, stubborn edge. Now, his fighting spirit was fully provoked.

The knight captain had already taken another weapon from his saddle—a short-handled mace, its wooden haft ending in a large, iron-capped head bristling with sharp spikes, the favored weapon of heavy cavalry, ideal for those of great strength.

He circled on horseback, then with a whistle, charged again. This time, crouched low, he raised the mace high and brought it down towards Shaya’s skull. If struck, even armored, Shaya would be flattened.

Seeing the attack, Shaya’s pupils shrank; he spun and slid backward, breath coming in short gasps, darting three or four steps away. As the horse closed in and the mace whistled down, Shaya suddenly leapt—a clean, swift movement, like a rabbit springing or a fish arcing over water, his body bowing beautifully in midair.

With a hiss, the mace swept past his head, the wind drawing two or three bloody lines across his cheek. While airborne, Shaya drew the pitchfork from his waist and thrust!

A dull thud—the mace missed, but the horse crashed into him, sending Shaya flying again. However, his pitchfork struck deep into the horse’s neck. With a scream, the horse collapsed after a few staggering steps. The knight captain, his riding skills superb, reacted in a flash—he kicked free of the stirrups, snapping one, and leapt clear, avoiding being crushed, though he landed awkwardly, rolling before standing.

Before he could steady himself, Shaya lunged, pitchfork stabbing for his throat. The captain, battle-hardened, drew a short sword and parried.

The sword was sharp, its edge flashing with a burst of gray battle energy. It clashed with the pitchfork—clang!

Shaya’s arm was jarred violently. A shard of metal spun into the air and fell with a clang. The captain’s confident expression changed abruptly—a black streak flashed past his neck, a spray of blood bursting forth.

Staggering in pain, he dodged aside, muscles tensed to the utmost. This desperate lunge had consumed all his strength; the pain in his neck nearly made him faint, but a quick touch confirmed the wound was shallow. In his hand, however, only the hilt of his fine sword remained—the blade buried in the earth. Before him, the youth still gripped the unremarkable blackened pitchfork—unharmed.

The captain was stunned.

So was Shaya.

Clashing head-on with the captain’s battle aura, his arm was numb and he had to switch the pitchfork to his left hand. Yet, incredibly, his battered old pitchfork had snapped the enemy’s fine sword in half!

“Damn!” The captain was truly enraged now. Any notion of sparing talent vanished. To suffer defeat twice in a row—and to be wounded by this wild youth! Had his reflexes not been quick, he’d have lost his life here.

“Boss, catch!” The earlier chastised knight shouted, tossing his own sword, which the captain seized. Burning with shame and fury, he roared and charged. Shaya, still dazed, was half-crippled from the horse’s blow; even his monstrous physique could barely endure it.

Now, the captain thrust with the new sword, gray aura flashing. Shaya came to himself just in time, raising his pitchfork to block.

Clang!

The captain’s swordsmanship was fierce and unrelenting; each stroke was a gray blur of flashing energy, stabbing, slashing, hacking, sweeping—a storm of blows.

Under such ferocity, Shaya seemed like a wooden post. His skills were half-baked at best; faced with a full, deadly sword technique, he was little more than a target.

And yet, something strange happened.

Clang! Clang, clang!

The captain attacked wildly, Shaya at first barely coping, nearly skewered several times. But after three or four exchanges, Shaya’s expression grew strange. The captain’s face was twisted with rage, but every move he made was deftly parried by Shaya’s supposedly clumsy pitchfork.

No matter how frenzied the captain’s assault, he could not break through the pitchfork’s defense.

Shaya, too, was bewildered, his eyes growing quizzical.

This guy… is he toying with me? Why is his technique so… familiar?

Wait—this thrust, isn’t it exactly the way the old man taught me to poke charcoal?

Huh? That chop—wasn’t that how he taught me to split firewood?

And this stomp—he taught me to pound meat just like that!

And this slice… why, that’s just how he taught me to shear sheep!

Shaya was on the verge of collapse. Every one of the captain’s attacks was a move he’d practiced thousands of times: poking charcoal, splitting firewood, pounding meat, shearing sheep… These motions were second nature, performed even in his sleep! The captain’s every strike might as well have been rehearsed with him; even if Shaya’s reactions lagged, a glance was enough to predict the sword’s path. A casual sweep of the pitchfork turned aside any lethal thrust.

Meanwhile, the captain himself was nearly unraveling.

His battle aura surged; he fought to the edge of terror.

He burned with shame, unleashing the deadliest sword technique he’d ever learned from a military master, a set that had seen him through countless life-and-death struggles—a technique with which he’d slain many formidable foes.

Yet against this youth, it was as if he were seeing ghosts. No matter how vicious his moves, the boy fended them off with ease. Worse, the longer the duel, the more relaxed Shaya became—sometimes the pitchfork was already waiting to block before the sword even struck!

At last, the captain could endure the fear no longer. He shouted, abandoned all technique, and with all his strength brought his sword crashing down.

Clang!

Blade met pitchfork; both men trembled and froze.

Now both were gasping for breath, Shaya’s face flushed, the captain’s ashen. Their weapons locked, and then—a crisp crack—his fine knight’s sword shattered into seventeen pieces! Shaya’s pitchfork, still blackened and unremarkable, was untouched.

They stared at each other. Shaya couldn’t help but wink and mutter, “Say, brother, did you also spend your days at home poking charcoal and pounding meat? You seem pretty good at it…”

The captain’s face contorted at the words, blood surging. He staggered back several steps and spat a mouthful of blood.

As his opponent coughed blood, Shaya remained baffled. Seeing the captain unarmed, he didn’t hesitate—he lunged with the pitchfork.

But the captain seemed stupefied, staring at Shaya as if he’d forgotten how to dodge, his gaze fixed, speechless.

Just as the pitchfork was about to strike, a twang of bowstring sounded from behind.

Whoosh!

A sharp, shattering sound—and Shaya grunted, dodging, but a black arrow slammed into his shoulder, the fletching still quivering.

In the distance, the third knight, cold-faced, held his drawn bow, two more arrows nocked and aimed at Shaya.

“Boy, drop your weapon and back away—slowly!” he ordered.

Shaya gritted his teeth, hand gripping the arrow’s shaft. He raised a fierce eyebrow and was about to pounce when another arrow thudded into the ground less than an inch from his toes.

“I’ll only say this once. Step back.” The third knight’s gaze was icy, devoid of warmth.

At that moment, from the west bank of the river, hoofbeats echoed.