Chương 58: Zero Chance

The frail-looking guy charged straight at the Swordsman, closing the distance between them in mere seconds, his light, almost weightless footsteps barely audible against the white emptiness. He leapt and swung his scythe straight for the Swordsman's head — the blade whistled as it cut through the air, and that thin, piercing sound echoed across the boundless white space, bouncing off invisible walls.

The scythe nearly reached its target, but at the very last instant the Swordsman's ponytail gave the faintest twitch, and he simply tilted his head — in that same instant the blade swept past mere millimeters from his face, not even leaving a scratch, only disturbing a lock of his dark blue hair.

The Swordsman caught the scythe by its shaft and yanked it sharply toward himself, dragging the masked guy along with it — the man, unable to keep his footing, went flying backward with a crash, slamming into the invisible floor of the white void, which answered with a dull, booming sound that rolled off into the distance. The blue-haired warrior turned his gaze back to the crowd, but before he could even open his mouth, a furious shout rang out from behind him. — Bastard, don't you dare turn your back on me!

The frail guy climbed back to his feet and charged at the Swordsman again, but the man didn't so much as glance in his direction — as if he didn't even consider his opponent worth the attention. Suddenly the guy's scythe flared with a violet glow, wrapping the blade in a thin, crackling aura that left a faint scent of ozone in the air, like the smell before a storm. Then came the whistle of the scythe again — horizontal this time, far faster than before, trailing a blurred violet streak behind it.

It was obvious: the guy meant to cut the Swordsman clean in half. But at the very last moment, the man dropped low with wild, almost inhuman speed — the scythe sailed right over his head, barely missing his scalp, and a thin lock of hair, sheared off by the blade, drifted slowly down onto the invisible floor. The Swordsman immediately thrust his palm forward, landing a crushing blow straight into the frail guy's stomach — the impact came out dull and heavy, as if his fist had struck not flesh but a sack of sand.

The guy went flying a good ten meters forward, tumbling through the air before crashing down onto the invisible floor with a sickening crunch. The Swordsman turned back to the crowd again as if nothing had happened, as if this had all been nothing more than a warm-up before something far more serious.

The frail guy, meanwhile, coughed up blood, trying to push himself up using his scythe as support, but it suddenly slipped out from under him, and he collapsed to the ground, no longer able to rise — his body convulsing in pain, a dark trickle of blood still seeping from his mouth, running down his chin and dripping into the void beneath him.

The blue-haired Swordsman hadn't moved a single millimeter — he stood there in that same relaxed posture, as though none of what had just happened had cost him the slightest effort, as though those two ferocious strikes had simply slid past him like a light breeze. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

The whole crowd broke into whispers, discussing what they'd just witnessed — the murmurs blending into a single anxious hum, thick with fear and reluctant admiration; someone nervously licked their dry lips, someone else edged backward, trying to put more distance between themselves and the front rows. A few visibly paled, realizing just how foolish it would be to try repeating the fate of the two who'd just lost. In Lloyd's head, though, only one thought kept pounding, echoing through all the noise.

"So that's what level six looks like. Feels like I could never reach that in my entire life..." A wave of gloom washed over Lloyd, heavy and thick, settling in his chest like a weight of lead. But strangely enough, there weren't many like him. More and more Players began stepping out from the crowd, gathering into a single group, whispering among themselves, exchanging short, resolute nods — their plan was clear without a word being said.

If they all attacked at once, perhaps even a level-six Player wouldn't be able to hold back a rush like that. Fists clenched, someone gripped their weapon tighter, knuckles going white with tension, someone's weapon trembled faintly in adrenaline-shaking hands, and somewhere in the crowd came the heavy, ragged breathing of those who'd already worked themselves up to the breaking point, and then a shout rang out. — Come on! We attack together. Let's show this bastard his place!

The crowd surged forward as one wave, dozens of feet slamming against the invisible floor at once, building into a growing, almost deafening stomp, charging straight at the Swordsman — but his face betrayed not the slightest trace of concern, only that same lazy, almost bored calm, as if he were watching children scuffle rather than facing down an attack from dozens of enraged fighters.

Dozens of figures rushed him from every direction at once, and for a moment the white void around them filled with the chaotic blur of bodies, weapons, and flailing clothes — a contrast so sharp against the dead silence before it that it felt almost deafening.

He raised his sword in its beautiful blue scabbard, drawing the blade with one smooth, almost lazy motion — the steel flashed so brightly in the even light that it stung the eyes for a moment — and when the crowd closed in too close, he swung the sword with such force that it sent the entire crowd scattering in every direction, like leaves torn away by the wind.

The gust of wind kicked up by that single swing reached even Lloyd — he threw up his arms and pressed himself harder against the ground, but it didn't help. The blast was so powerful that even he was knocked flat, thrown back a couple of meters, and his ears kept ringing long afterward from the roar of the cleaved air.

Several Players near him went tumbling head over heels, someone slammed into an invisible barrier off to the side and dropped unconscious, and someone's stifled cry was instantly swallowed by the general roar. Lloyd watched the Swordsman, who remained standing there unfazed, as if he hadn't even noticed that he'd just scattered dozens of people with a single swing of his arm, as if the effort had cost him less than a yawn. A nervous smile crept across Lloyd's face.

"Well, lucky me — I'm not among the eliminated. I won't have to fight a monster like that." Suddenly, from among the crowd of eliminated Players climbing back to their feet, another one rose — a man completely wreathed in flame. He clenched his fists, and the fire on his arms flared brighter, burning hotter and hotter, as if feeding on his own rage, casting the white void in an ominous orange glow that sent fresh chills crawling across the skin of everyone watching.

He let out a scream — hoarse, feral, almost animalistic — and charged straight at the Swordsman, showing no sign of stopping.