The Last Place Hero's Return-Chapter 141: Interlude – Descendant of the Iron Fist (4)
After completing the ruin expedition, we decided to stay at Berald’s home for the rest of the summer break. It gave us time to both keep an eye on Gilbert’s recovery and digest the insights we had gained from the expedition. In the meantime, Yurina and I thought it’d be best to spar.
She tightened her grip on her sword, fixing me with a sharp gaze. “Alright then, Dale. Let’s begin.”
“Anytime,” I replied.
Her soul stigmata flared, and a suffocating tide of mana surged out of her in great waves. I couldn’t help but let out a small breath of admiration. Every time I saw her, it felt like her power had grown again.
While it varied from person to person, mana growth usually slowed down once the mana level passed a certain point. At the beginning, mana growth was just about filling the vessel, the soul stigmata, with energy. But once this vessel was full, expanding it was necessary, and this was a much harder task.
Yurina, however, seemed to defy that principle entirely. Her vessel seemed bottomless, with her mana swelling dramatically after each spar. Gods really were unfair sometimes. Not that I had much right to complain.
With a clear shout, Yurina pushed off the ground. “Hyaah!”
Since she didn’t need to alter the color of her aura, it blazed in silver, painting streaks of light across the air. Each swing of her sword was so refined that it could draw awe from any looker.
Our blades clashed in a furious storm of steel, and a grunt slipped past my lips. Yurina hadn’t just grown stronger in mana since the ruins. Her swordsmanship had become sharper, more precise.
In my past life, Yuren’s skill with the blade had already been unmatched. But now, it felt like the Yurina in front of me had taken not just one, but several steps beyond that.
I parried her relentless strikes, narrowing my eyes. When I had seen her fight the Guardian inside the ruins, I had my suspicions, but now that I was crossing swords with her directly, I was certain. Yurina’s swordsmanship had changed. Specifically, the form of the Sun Sword Style itself was evolving.
Just as I had once wandered the continent for thousands of years, reshaping the technique into the Ashen Flame Style that suited me, Yurina was no longer bound by Reynald Helios’s creation. She was reshaping the Sun Sword Style into something uniquely her own.
In my past life, Yuren had never done this. He had mimicked Reynald Helios perfectly, almost as if he were Reynald’s reincarnation, as if that were the only way to use the style. There were no deviations and no changes.
But Yurina was different. Though Reynald’s shadow still lingered over her sword, the longer we fought, the more it faded. Stroke by stroke, her technique was transforming into something new, into the blade of Yurina Helios.
At this rate, once she reached the Eighth Form, there was a chance it could not even be called the Sun Sword Style anymore. It could become an entirely new art of its own. Just as I had forged the Ashen Flame Style from the Sun Sword Style, Yurina appeared to be on the verge of creating a sword style I had never seen before.
A low laugh slipped from me. “Heh!”
A shiver of exhilaration ran down my spine, the kind one felt when standing face-to-face with a true genius.
Yurina paused mid-swing, studying my expression. “Hm? What’s so funny, Dale?”
I gave a faint smile and shook my head as if it were nothing. Compliments could drive a whale to dance, but too much praise could just as easily become poison. It was better to push her a little here. Yurina’s growth was extraordinary, enough to remind me why she was called a prodigy even while being disguised as Yuren. But she still hadn’t closed the gap between us. And so, I suddenly pressed forward with a fierce barrage of strikes.
Her eyes went wide. “Hey! D-Dale, you! That’s dirty!”
But her surprise lasted only a heartbeat. Almost instantly, she broke into a radiant grin, swinging back at me with unrestrained joy.
Sweat drenched us as we traded blows beneath the blazing summer sun.
“Whew!”
“Haa! Haa!”
At that moment, Iris approached us, carrying two tall glasses of iced coffee, the ice cubes clinking gently against the glass. “You two should take a break.”
We gratefully took the drinks, cooling down for a moment.
“Ah, thanks, Iris.”
“Appreciate it.”
Iris then said, “Here, use these to wipe your sweat.”
“Iris...”
Coffee and now fresh towels, her thoughtful kindness was enough to leave me wordless.
For some reason, Yurina didn’t look quite as pleased. “Hmph.”
“Thanks,” I said.
After wiping off our sweat, we handed the towels back.
“Berald should be coming down soon, so I’ll leave you to your training,” Iris said, turning toward the mansion.
However, Yurina caught her by the shoulder. “Wait.”
Narrowing her eyes, she glanced at the inside pocket of her priest’s robes. “Why did you tuck only Dale’s used towel into your inside pocket?”
For a moment, the serene, angelic smile Iris always wore twisted into something fierce and dangerous. “Tch!”
But it was gone just as quickly. She tilted her head sweetly and answered with a smile, “Dale’s scent is... a little strong, you see. I thought I’d wash it separately.”
Yurina grabbed the towel and firmly replied, “If that’s the reason, I’ll do it. After all, that sweat came from training with me.”
“Oh my! There’s no need for that. You’re already busy enough focusing on your own training, aren’t you?”
The two of them each clutched one end of the towel I had used, smiling brightly. But though their lips curved into smiles, their eyes were anything but friendly.
“Don’t act like you’re so free, Iris. You’ve been training separately with those... Seven Eyes, haven’t you?” Yurina said.
“Hehe. Even so, it can’t compare to someone like you, Yuren, who’s always pushing your body to the limit.”
“No, things like this aren’t always about what you can see.”
“But you also can’t chase after things that can’t be seen, can you?”
Their gazes locked.
A brief, tense silence passed between them.
Iris snapped. “Argh! Just give it back already!”
“Not a chance! Unless you tell me exactly what you’re planning to do with it, I won’t hand it over!”
The two bickered like children fighting over a toy, raising their voices as they tugged at the towel.
I was wondering how on earth I could break them apart when the mansion doors slammed open, and Berald came striding out into the courtyard. “Brother! Have you finished training with Yuren?”
“Oh, yeah. We’re just taking a short break,” I replied.
“Haha! Then could you spar with me next?”
“Of course.”
I had already decided that during this vacation, I would focus on helping my companions grow, so there was no reason to refuse. And it was not like that would be useless for me, either.
It was just like the old saying “teaching benefits the teacher as well.” Sparring with Yurina, Berald, and Camilla gave me valuable experience that served as nourishment for my growth, especially now, when I still couldn’t fully control the new powers I had gained.
Berald clenched his heavily bandaged fists and let out a sharp snort of excitement. “Hoho! Great!”
“You’re really planning to keep wearing those filthy rags?”
Berald grinned as he repeatedly clenched and opened his bandaged fists. “Haha! These rags are a legacy left behind by my ancestor for his descendants. And don’t underestimate them. They work better than they look.”
“Work better? They’re just dirty strips of cloth.”
No matter how I looked at them, they were nothing more than tattered rags.
“Mm! How should I put it? It feels like my fists are a little lighter when I wear them. I get that kind of feeling from them,” Berald said.
“Isn’t that just your imagination, since they’re supposed to be the Legacy of the Iron Fist?”
“Hehe. Maybe. But hey, it’s not a bad feeling, so why not use them?”
“Fair enough.”
If he liked them, who was I to argue?
Berald flared his mana and shouted, “Alright then, let’s begin!”
I sheathed my sword at my hip and beckoned with my fingers. “Let’s see if you can live up to the title of the Iron Fist’s descendant.”
With a booming laugh, Berald stomped forward. “Wahaha! I like it!”
Thick, earthen-colored aura blazed around his fists. The thunderous crashes that followed hardly sounded like fists clashing; they shook the entire courtyard.
Berald had gotten a lot sharper. It was a shame he had lost his powerful artifact, but his growth was undeniable; even calling it remarkable would be an understatement. Maybe it was because I had heard Gilbert talk about it, but as I watched Berald’s savage punches, I could almost see the image of the Iron Fist himself overlapping with him.
Ryu Jin-Sung, the Iron Fist, was indeed an incredible man. To think he fought demons with nothing but his bare fists wrapped in worn-out bandages. It drove home just how extraordinary he was.
Normally, at that level, wielding a powerful artifact wasn’t optional. It was essential. People said a true craftsman didn’t blame his tools, but that never applied to heroes. The stronger a hero became, the more they needed weapons capable of withstanding their power. Otherwise, the weapon would just shatter the moment mana was poured into it.
Of course, they could reinforce a weapon’s durability with mana, but doing so was a waste of focus. It was far more efficient to just use a proper steel blade than to pump mana into a wooden one until it was as tough as iron. Well, in the Iron Fist’s case, he didn’t use a sword. He fought with his fists.
Still, when I thought about how Reynald Helios, the Knight of the Sun, wielded the legendary sword Dawnbringer or how Baek Seung-Hyuk, the Divine Spear, carried the mighty Dragon-Slaying Spear, the Iron Fist was clearly an anomaly.
He said that those kinds of weapons didn’t suit him, huh. He really was someone with a lot to learn from.
I couldn’t help but smile faintly. While I didn’t necessarily agree with his philosophy, I could respect his conviction. He was a hero who trusted in nothing but his fists and still stood against demons, a warrior who could be called a martial artist in the truest sense. Even if our beliefs differed, I could never belittle such a great man.
As the spar dragged on, Berald’s breath grew ragged. “Huff! Huff!”
“Should we stop here?” I asked.
“No! I can still keep going!”
He clenched his fists tight again and charged.
Seriously, his endurance was as monstrous as ever. I was thinking that he truly deserved the title of the Iron Fist’s descendant when suddenly, a blinding light flared. The grimy bandages wrapped around his fists turned pitch black.
Staring at the pitch-black bandages, I muttered, “What?”
On the jet-black cloth, golden letters began to shine. They were written in the old language of the Republic.
Heaven-Slaying Asura Gauntlet? What the hell is that? I wondered.
Before I could process the thought any further, Berald’s punch slammed into me, blasting me across the courtyard and through the mansion’s wall.
Coughing blood, I lifted my head and stared at the black gauntlet encasing Berald’s fists. “No way! That crazy Iron Fist bastard.”
So when he said those kinds of weapons didn’t suit him, what he really meant was that the one he already had was even better?
