Disaster-Level Player Is Too Good at Broadcasting-Chapter 52: «How A Story Devours [1] »
The blade descended in a lethal, vertical arc, aimed directly at the center of the bedroll where Kang Min lay. It was a strike meant to kill in silence, delivered with the weight of a seasoned executioner.
SHUCK.
Instead of the wet tear of flesh, the blade slammed into a thick, prickly rind. A pineapple, which had been sitting innocently on a small wooden table across the tent, was suddenly halved by the steel. In the same heartbeat, Kang Min appeared where the fruit had been, his body already coiled like a spring, his hand reaching for the mercenary blade leaning against the tent pole.
[Skill: Exchange is in use!]
「"That’s a waste of a good fruit,"」 Kang Min rasped, his voice cold and alert.
The assailant didn’t pause. Clad in heavy, dark-enameled armor and obscured by a thick black cloth wrapped around his head and neck, the figure spun with predatory grace. He swung a heavy longsword in a horizontal sweep that hissed through the air, seeking to cleave Min in two.
Kang Min’s fingers closed around his hilt. He didn’t have time to unsheathe it properly; he brought the scabbard up to catch the blow. The impact was thunderous. The force drove Min’s heels into the dirt, but he used the momentum to roll backward, his blade finally clearing the leather sheath with a sharp shink.
The fight turned into a blur of high-speed choreography. The assailant moved with an agility that defied his heavy plate armor, his strikes coming in a relentless, rhythmic sequence. Kang Min parried a high thrust, ducked under a returning slash, and lunged forward with a counter-stab.
The armored figure twisted mid-air, his boots catching the center pole of the tent. With a powerful kick, he launched himself toward the ceiling, his sword cutting through the canvas.
RIP.
The support ropes snapped like harp strings. The entire tent groaned and collapsed inward, a mass of heavy fabric and wood falling toward them. Kang Min didn’t wait to be buried. He slashed a jagged hole in the side of the falling tent and dived through, rolling onto the gravel of the main camp.
He came up in a crouch, and his breath hitched.
The quiet, disciplined camp of the Mercenary Knights was gone. In its place was a landscape of hell. Tents were being consumed by brilliant, roaring flames. Screams echoed through the night air, mixed with the guttural roars of Dusk-Eaters that had somehow bypassed the perimeter. Men were running in every direction, their shadows dancing grotesquely against the firelight.
The armored assailant stepped through the ruins of the collapsed tent, his blade resting on his shoulder. He moved with a terrifying calmness amidst the chaos.
Kang Min’s eyes tracked the figure, but his gaze snagged on the man’s right hand. It wasn’t covered by a standard gauntlet. Instead, it was encased in a glove of white leather and silver filigree, glowing with a soft, honorable light that seemed to pulse in opposition to the destruction around them.
『The Right Glove...』
Kang Min’s heart hammered against his ribs. That was the glove Varkas had been buried with. The symbol of the protector. The half of the fable that was supposed to be sealed in a frozen tomb with the buried body of the great swordsman.
「"How do you have that?"」 Kang Min demanded, his voice dropping an octave, his blue mana beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes. 「"That glove... you shouldn’t have it.... Who are you?"」
The individual didn’t answer. He lunged again, but this time his speed was doubled. The Right Glove left a shimmering trail of silver-blue light in its wake, enhancing the man’s strength to a level that felt mountain-breaking.
Kang Min met him head-on. He used Exchange twice in three seconds—first swapping his sword with a falling ember to change the angle of his attack, then swapping his own position with a discarded shield to avoid a killing blow.
The blades clashed in the center of the burning camp, a frantic, sparks-flying dance of steel. Kang Min was pushed to his absolute limit. His 20% unsealing was screaming under the pressure, his muscles vibrating with the effort of holding back a force that felt like a natural disaster.
『I’m still too slow!』 Min thought, his teeth bared in a snarl.
He saw a opening. It was a risky, desperate gamble. As the assailant swung the silver-glowing hand in a backhand strike, Kang Min didn’t block. He leaned into the blow, letting the wind of the strike graze his cheek, and lashed out with a horizontal sweep of his own.
His blade didn’t hit armor. It caught the black cloth wrapped around the assailant’s head.
SHRRRIT.
The fabric fell away in two clean pieces, fluttering down to the blood-stained gravel like the wings of a dead bird.
The man stopped. He didn’t retreat. He simply stood there, silhouetted against the roaring inferno of a nearby supply wagon.
He was smiling. It wasn’t the smile of a cold-blooded killer, but a wide, manic grin of someone who had just found something incredibly precious. He lifted the Right Glove, covering the lower half of his face for a moment, the silver-blue trail of mana lingering in the air like a ghost.
Slowly, he lowered his hand.
「"I knew you were interesting from the moment I saw you in that courtyard,"」 the man said, his voice smooth and filled with a terrifying warmth. 「"You’re quick to catch on, Kang Min. Most people are too busy dying to notice the details."」
Kang Min’s grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles cracked. The firelight played across the sharp, familiar features of the man standing before him. The same flint-colored eyes, the same short-cropped hair, the same aura of absolute command.
「"Commander Kaelen,"」 Min whispered.
The leader of the Mercenary Knights Corp—the man who was supposed to be the shield of the capital—stood amidst the burning corpses of his own men, wearing the very relic Kang Min had come to find.
