Chapter 87: The Dignity of the Country Bumpkin

Hastings was in a state of uncommon excitement. Today, he had witnessed firsthand Shaia’s ferocity on the battlefield; he had seen this brave warrior leap from the camp gates, plunging into the throng, slashing and hacking without regard for his own life, his unyielding, impassioned roar, and the overwhelming force he wielded that swept all before him.

How many years had it been since he’d encountered such a formidable opponent?

At this thought, Hastings felt his entire heart tremble—a thrilling tremor, as if all the strength in his body was about to burst forth uncontrollably!

Kill him! Kill him! Only by slaying such a strong adversary with his own spear could he experience the greatest exhilaration in his heart!

Thus, he never imagined that a warrior brave enough to leap alone into the enemy ranks and fight to the death would play any tricks on him.

Shaia had already retreated to the side, watching Hastings’ movements with eyes that flashed with sharp light. At the very moment Hastings spurred his horse forward, Shaia’s hand swiftly drew forth the fire fork, his eyes instantly turning crimson! The muscles beneath his armor swelled in a surge!

In that instant, everything before him seemed to slow. The world faded from his sight—everything vanished, leaving only a single target.

Hastings!

At this moment, within his vision, he could no longer see anything or anyone else—only the black figure, mounted and spear poised.

In the distorted, slowed perspective, all surrounding sounds became delayed—the howling wind, even the sun’s reflection—but not Hastings. Only Hastings.

To Shaia, Hastings seemed completely unaffected by the delay; his movements unfolded in a cascade of black flames, dazzling and brilliant—so bright, so intense, so swift!

So fast!

The surrounding “slowness” and Hastings’ own “speed” created a strange distortion. Shaia felt his chest swell with breath, his mind clouded. He tried desperately to lock his gaze on the man, but could not keep up with his movements! In a flash, his mind was struck with piercing pain.

Shaia did not realize that in this instant, all his mental power seemed to be drained away. Blood began to trickle from his ears and nostrils!

He exhaled a blistering breath—hot enough to frighten.

No matter… this was his chance! It would last but an instant!

Shaia’s hand shot up, the fire fork drawing a streak of crimson light.

Dragon Thorn!

Hastings’ trident spear descended, the black flames seeming to ignite the air, even casting a shadowy glow.

But in that instant, Hastings, his heart already pounding with excitement, suddenly felt a deep, instinctive dread—a nameless, imminent sense of danger flooded his body!

Killing intent!

Such powerful killing intent—so intense that, in a moment, Hastings felt like a beast caught in a trap. He didn’t need to look; a strange intuition told him exactly where the danger was coming from!

His trident spear, wreathed in black flames, suddenly changed trajectory in midair, the flames sweeping across Sir Bonfret’s helmet and burning the red plume to ash, leaving a ghostly trail of light.

It was pure instinct—a strong man’s reflex in the face of peril. And it caught Shaia off guard.

The crimson light condensed into a line and shot toward Hastings; Shaia nearly screamed with excitement.

Success!

The beam flew like a meteor, nearly striking Hastings at his side! It seemed the god of war would be pierced by Shaia’s Dragon Thorn. But Hastings’ reaction broke all rules of time!

Fast—so fast it was despairing!

His movements were not particularly swift; the spear drew back and forth in the air, each motion clear, each trajectory distinct. Yet, though his movements seemed slow and deliberate, they belonged to another time and space entirely!

His speed… had he surpassed the limits of time?

The crimson line was blocked by the recoiled trident; the red light struck its tip, the black flames churning as if doused with cold water in hot oil—

Boom!

The red light and black flames fused, waves of strange light rippled forth. Shaia watched in disbelief as the Dragon Thorn’s crimson pierced through layer after layer of these ripples, weakening with each breach.

Finally, as the crimson struck the spear tip—

A peculiar cracking sound, faint yet thunderous, echoed across the battlefield, heard clearly by thousands!

With the naked eye, time seemed to distort; the tip of Hastings’ spear—the unknown metal—fractured thread by thread, the fragments rising slowly, and only then did the red light pierce through, finally striking Hastings.

Shaia’s mind rang, as if all his strength, vitality, and spirit had been utterly drained. He fixed his crimson eyes on Hastings.

The red light hit Hastings, and the god of war wore a look of astonishment. He opened his mouth; the armor on his chest was punctured layer by layer, until a hole the width of a finger appeared, and finally, blood sprayed from his chest.

At last…

Shaia’s vision seemed to jolt within its scope; the distortion of time vanished! The surrounding “slowness” and Hastings’ “speed” both disappeared!

Hastings was thrown from his horse, his body flying back over ten meters. In midair, the blood arced clearly onto the ground.

In that moment, Shaia’s heart was seized by a strange, absurd, untimely thought.

The god of war’s blood… was no different from any other—it was red!

Hastings spread his arms in midair, his form like a great bird, not so much struck as gliding by his own will. After flying ten meters, he landed firmly on the ground.

Clang!

The trident spear was driven into the earth. Hastings stood there, his slender, shadowed eyes finally fixed on Shaia, blood streaming from the shattered armor at his chest—though it was scarcely visible against his black robes and armor.

The renowned Odinic general raised a hand and gently touched his chest. The red blood on his fingertips made his lips curl into a strange smile—if it could be called a smile. There was surprise, astonishment, even a trace of delight.

He lifted his eyelids; those shadowed eyes gazed at Shaia’s fire fork.

“It was you.”

Hastings’ voice was terrifyingly calm! Not a trace of anger at the ambush; but Shaia could sense, beneath that calm, a surging tumult!

The numbing after-effect of Dragon Thorn finally faded, but waves of pain swept through Shaia’s body, his arms beginning to crack and bleed, soaking his underclothes. He wanted to tremble, but Hastings’ gaze held him fast. That shadowed stare exerted an indescribable pressure; he felt like a helpless frog watched by a snake—

No! Not a snake—a dragon!

Yes, that was the feeling!

Merely being watched by his opponent, the fearless Shaia felt fear stir within him!

He even—

Damn it! He even “dared” to tremble! He didn’t dare to tremble at all, for he sensed that even the slightest sign of weakness would prompt Hastings to strike and crush him at once!

Could a man’s presence alone be so overwhelming?

“It was you,” Hastings muttered. “You were the one on the battlefield today, the one who hurled the spears. So… you are Bonfret.”

The calm in Hastings’ eyes was slowly torn away, his shadowed gaze ignited, like twin flames!

“You are a worthy opponent—you actually… wounded me.” That mad gaze, paired with his calm voice, made Shaia’s whole body stiffen.

“…Wounded me…” Hastings laughed bit by bit. “But you shouldn’t have ambushed me… Someone as strong as you, yet lacking the heart of a true warrior! Pitiful ant… ant!”

He raised his spear, pointing the tip at Shaia!

In that instant, Shaia felt certain of his death.

His whole body was racked with pain, the backlash from Dragon Thorn leaving him dizzy and weak, drained so completely he could not move a finger!

At this moment, Hastings needed only to take one step, thrust his spear, and kill him outright!

Dead! This time, he was doomed! Hastings was so strong, he was hardly human! Damn it! He wasn’t human at all!! I must have been insane, thinking I could assassinate such a monster.

Shaia raged inside, resigning himself, closing his eyes to await death.

But after a moment, Hastings’ spear slowly lowered.

The flames in his eyes faded; he looked at Shaia and showed a trace of desolation.

“You… are not worthy to die by my spear.”

He turned away, that black figure standing amid the battlefield, before him the dark mass of the Odinic army, blood everywhere. In that moment, though not tall, his silhouette struck Shaia with something inexplicably strange.

This man… simply stood there…

Between heaven and earth!

“You are not worthy.”

That lonely, icy voice, as Hastings strode toward the Odinic ranks. His black horse followed at a slow pace.

Only when Hastings had taken more than twenty steps did Shaia feel the omnipresent pressure begin to lift! His chest released, and he gasped for air; fresh air burned in his lungs!

A surge of indescribable humiliation filled Shaia’s heart.

Yes, humiliation!!

Hastings had spared his life!

He had “spared” him!

Spared! It was spared! The humiliation of being spared!

He hadn’t even deigned to kill him! Not worthy of being his enemy, not even qualified to die by his hand!

Hastings’ words were ambiguous, but Shaia understood his meaning.

You are not worthy of being strong. You are not worthy of an honorable duel.

So, you are not worthy to die by my hand—not here, not now.

“I will kill you,” came Hastings’ distant, soft voice. “But not now, not here. For ‘to die by my hand in a fair duel of warriors’—such honor I will not grant you. You are not worthy of death’s glory in fair combat.”

Shaia clenched his bloodied teeth; he had already spat blood, and could not tell whether it was from the backlash or some other emotion. He held his teeth tight, refusing to let the blood spill, letting it flow at the corners of his mouth.

Hastings returned to the Odinic ranks, and Shaia barely managed to spur his horse, grab Bonfret’s reins, and return.

Just as he entered the camp, before the gates closed, Shaia tumbled from his horse. Slett and Shalba rushed forward to catch him.

Once his armor was removed, they saw his body covered in bruises, blood bubbling from his pores in terrifying droplets that stunned all around.

Shaia bit his teeth; his body finally began to tremble uncontrollably from pain, but he glared fiercely, refusing to lose consciousness.

Slett was ecstatic: “You’re alive! Shaia, you’re alive! You actually wounded Hastings! You wounded him!”

Shaia forced out a sentence through clenched teeth.

“I… lost!”

With a gasp, blood spurted from his mouth, staining his chest. He closed his eyes.

At that moment, for the first time in eighteen years, an emotion he had never felt before filled Shaia’s heart.

That strong man, that black figure, who could have easily torn him apart, and his words—you are not worthy!

Though he had wounded Hastings in front of thousands, why did he feel as if he had been trampled beneath the man’s feet?

He was that strong! Stronger than anyone Shaia had ever seen! Crimson killing aura? No! Dragon Thorn? No! None of it matched him, not even a little! No matter how formidable were the foes Shaia had faced, even the dragon—none had shocked him as deeply as this man in black!

He… was strong! Terribly strong!

So strong that his gaze alone could make Shaia tremble in fear! So strong that, in a moment, Shaia felt an inexplicable admiration for such “strength.”

Such a man, one Shaia even envied for his power, had told him: you are not worthy to be my opponent—not even worthy to be killed by me!

Eighteen years, and for the first time, an emotion never before experienced filled Shaia’s heart—an emotion called humiliation.

A humiliation that tore his pride to shreds.