Chapter 7

The sound of turbulent winds assaulted Jarmarth's ears as he charged forward, an unhinged grin plastered on his face. Before the surrounding monsters could react and swarm him, he swung his battle axe in a crescent motion, aiming for his opponent's neck.

His foe, meanwhile, reacted but only with a delay. He blocked the cruel edge of the axe with the shaft of the scythe. Although his enemy blocked, the force behind Jarmarth's attack did not waver and slammed into the figure, causing him to be thrown back and tumble.

Jarmarth laughed as he took an early lead in this battle and chased after his adversary. With a shout, he commanded, "Keep the small fry off me! I'll end this quickly!"

His soldiers, inspired by their leader's courage and power, felt their blood boil and eyes burn. They too charged, unmoved by panic or fear, and attacked their foes with the ferocity of wild beasts. Grunts, cries, and screams echoed as they struck with gusto.

Jarmarth cared little about how his pawns fared; as long as he could keep this match one-on-one, he was assured of victory. Nevertheless, his gut warned him that whoever this was hadn't truly begun to fight. The scythe wielder quickly recovered, looking uninjured and unconcerned by the previous exchange.

Rather than being disheartened by his rival's rapid recovery, Jarmarth felt even more excited. Once he won this battle, he knew the benefits would be immense. A swing like the one he just delivered would usually sever a tree; the fact that his opponent could block it and remain unharmed meant his vitality was incredible.

Jarmarth was not new to fighting; in fact, he had been born and raised in combat and could already deduce something critical about his enemy. He was a novice, plain and simple. The fact that he would even attempt to use a farming instrument as a weapon was a clear indicator of his inexperience. While the blade of the scythe was sharp, it was meant to cut grain, not people. Therefore, the sharp part was on the inside of the tool, making deadly slashes possible only from that direction. Moreover, unlike a spear or sword, thrusting with a scythe accomplished little more than potentially throwing the wielder off balance. This scythe—or at least the one in this man's hands—was useless.

The only worry in Jarmarth's mind was that his opponent might be some kind of expert with it. Such individuals were rare, but in a vast world, he had encountered a few strong, unconventional fighters. In fact, he recalled a time when he had almost died to a gravedigger wielding a shovel. Thankfully, he observed the way this man blocked, his delayed reactions, the way he recovered, and his lack of counterattacks. All signs suggested that despite his exaggerated vigor, this man was an amateur.

Confidence surged as Jarmarth stomped forward, preparing a vertical chop. His adversary appeared momentarily confused before extending the scythe's handle outward to block again. Jarmarth chuckled at this rookie's inexperience; blocking in such a way would make it easy to cut the long shaft in two. The axe blade connected, and Jarmarth felt numbness rise through his arms. Pain followed as, not only was he blocked, but his foe quickly moved for a counterattack.

"Shit!" Jarmarth exclaimed as he found himself forced to block at an unfortunate and disadvantaged angle. The scythe's blade cut through the axe used to block like air and grazed Jarmarth's chest. Seeing his weapon sliced in a single move, Jarmarth reflexively dodged aside before centering himself to regain balance.

Many questions weighed on him like chains. What was that weapon made of? "Dammit," he thought as his sliced axe blade lay motionless a meter away. Now weaponless and slightly injured, he needed to move fast. Another slash of the scythe came, and this time, instead of blocking, he dodged beneath the swing and charged his enemy.

Much like a bull, his plan was to surprise his opponent with a charge before proceeding to grapple him on the ground. Given that he was clearly more muscular, there was no way his opponent would escape his hold. He closed the distance, grabbing the gnarly wood to ensure the blade would not reach him. He used his full weight to push the man down and attempted to gouge his eyes out with his massive thumbs. What he did not expect was to be shoved back, sending him off balance and stumbling.

Jarmarth felt bruises forming where he had been shoved. By the time he steadied himself, his opponent had already risen to his feet and pressed the attack. Jarmarth's thoughts raced, and he quickly formed a plan. He grabbed his broken axe blade from near his leg, hiding it from his foe's line of sight. Although it appeared he had been thrown randomly, he had positioned himself to retrieve his weapon if his first plan failed.

Unfortunately, the weapon was beyond repair, leaving him with little choice. He gripped the axe blade with his bare hands, feeling it dig deeper into his flesh.

"DIE!" Jarmarth roared like a wounded beast, pouring all his remaining strength into one last attack. His adversary, caught off guard, tried to change direction, but it was too late. The axe blade dug deep into the stranger's right arm, causing him to stumble back and lose his grip on his weapon.

Jarmarth wanted to celebrate, but the effort had drained him. Blood poured from the grievous wounds on his hands. Fighting any further would be nearly impossible. He turned his focus to his still-breathing enemy, knowing the fight was far from over.

Slowly, Jarmarth steadied himself. When he turned, his eyes widened, and his confidence crumbled. His enemy stood, neither out of breath nor showing any sign of pain. The axe blade embedded in his right arm left it hanging limply by his side, barely attached. No blood spilled, and with the scythe firmly gripped in his left hand, the figure appeared unfazed, gray eyes drilling into Jarmarth's soul.