World Awakening: The Legendary Player-Chapter 87: Back To Your Roots

!The black sword slammed into the invisible wall with a loud clang that echoed through the clearing. The force of the impact sent a tremor up Nox’s arm, but Fena didn’t even budge. She hadn’t moved a muscle, just held her hand up like she was stopping a beach ball.

The elves in the crowd let out a collective gasp. They had never seen anyone, let alone a human, force the Elder to actually defend herself.

"Better," Fena said, her voice still calm, but there was a new glint in her eyes. "You have a decent weapon and a little bit of focus now. But your form is still a mess."

She flicked her wrist, and the invisible wall of force didn’t just disappear; it exploded outward. Nox was thrown backward, tumbling through the air before he landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him.

"Your footwork is clumsy," she stated, taking a slow step toward him as he pushed himself up, coughing. "You rely on raw power, but your foundation is sand. You have no balance."

"Shut up," he gasped, getting to his feet. He was tired of her lectures.

He charged again, but this time he was smarter. He didn’t go for a direct attack. He used his Shadow Glide, his movements becoming a fluid, unpredictable dance. He weaved from side to side, his black sword a constant threat, trying to find an angle, an opening.

She just watched him, her head tilting slightly. She was like a statue in the middle of a storm, completely unmoved by the chaos around her.

"You telegraph your attacks a full second before you make them," she said, sidestepping a wide slash that cut a deep gouge in the ground where she was standing. "I can read your intent in the shift of your shoulders, in the way you breathe."

He gritted his teeth and used Void Step, vanishing and reappearing right behind her, his sword aimed for her back.

She didn’t even turn around. A thick, gnarled root shot out of the ground, wrapping around his ankle and yanking him off his feet. He hit the ground face-first.

The elves were silent now. The earlier laughter was gone, replaced by a tense, focused awe. This wasn’t an execution anymore. This was a lesson, and the human, impossibly, was still in the class.

"He’s learning," Mela whispered, her hand gripping the hilt of her own weapon. "Every time she knocks him down, he gets back up, and he’s... better."

Liesa just stared, her mouth slightly open. The arrogant boy she had fought was gone. This was something else.

Nox spit a mouthful of dirt from his mouth and pushed himself up again. He was pissed, yeah, but underneath the anger, something else was stirring.

He was getting better, and everyone could see it.

Fena just stood there, her hands still clasped behind her back. She hadn’t even broken a sweat. She was like a force of nature, and he was just a kid throwing rocks at a hurricane.

"You are resilient, I will grant you that," she said, her voice calm. "But resilience is not victory. You cannot win."

"Didn’t ask," he grunted, and charged again.

He wasn’t just swinging wildly anymore. He was watching her feet, the subtle shift of her shoulders, the rhythm of her breathing. She was a fortress, but even a fortress had patterns. He feinted high with his sword, then dropped low, sweeping the black blade at her ankles.

She lifted one foot, letting the sword pass harmlessly underneath, and then brought her heel down on top of his blade, pinning it to the ground. The casual, effortless strength behind the move sent a painful jolt all the way up his arm.

Before he could pull it free, her other foot lashed out in a simple, elegant kick that connected squarely with his chest. It wasn’t a powerful blow, but it was perfectly placed. The air left his lungs in a rush, and he was sent stumbling backward, his sword wrenched from his grip.

He landed on his ass, coughing and trying to get his breath back.

"You are predictable," she said, not even looking at his sword, which was still pinned under her foot. "You see an opening, and you commit everything to it. A true warrior knows that the most obvious path is always a trap."

He looked up at her, his vision a little blurry.

’This isn’t working,’ he thought, a wave of pure, simple clarity washing over him. He wasn’t a swordsman. He wasn’t some noble knight from a storybook. All that training he’d imagined, all that focus on form and technique, it was just him playing a part, trying to be something he wasn’t.

He was a brawler. A fighter who’d learned to survive by being unpredictable and mean.

He needed something that felt right in his hand. Not a sword. Something blunt. Something brutal.

A slow, humorless grin spread across his face. ’How ridiculous.’

He let the Sunstone Blade dematerialize, its dark aura fading as it vanished back into his inventory. He stood up, relaxed, and held out his hand. The dark energy bled from his palm, swirling and condensing with a low hum.

It wasn’t forming a sharp edge this time. It was taking a familiar, simple shape.

A long, black metal pipe materialized in his grip. It looked just like the one he’d used back at the school, the one he’d bashed those dog monsters with, but this one was different. It was forged from the void, sleek and seamless.

He spun it once, the movement easy and familiar, like he was just spinning a pencil in class. He tapped the end of it on the ground, just to test the weight.

"Hell yeah," he said, his voice filled with excitement. "Now we’re talking."

The crowd of dark elves, who had been enjoying the show, now just looked confused.

"A pipe?" Jor muttered. "He gives up a sword for a pipe? The human has finally lost his mind."

Fena’s calm expression finally shifted. Her eyebrows drew together in a look of pure, academic disdain. She had been teaching him a lesson about form, about balance, about the art of combat. And his response was to summon a crude club. It was an insult to the very idea of a proper fight. frёeωebɳovel.com

The god chat, of course, had plenty to say.

[Baron Von Cynic] Oh, this is just sad. He’s devolved. From a clumsy swordsman to a common thug with a stick. What’s next, is he going to start throwing rocks?

[Lord of Carnage] YES! FORGET THE FANCY SWORDPLAY! THIS IS WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! Get back to your roots, kid! Brawling is in your blood! Crack some skulls!

He didn’t give a damn about any of them. He just hefted the pipe, the weight feeling perfect, natural. He looked at Fena, who was still standing there with that look of disapproval.

"You done lecturing?" he asked, his voice dripping with a lazy confidence he hadn’t felt before. "Or are you gonna keep standing there looking like I just took a dump on your favorite rug?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Your vulgarity is as crude as your choice of weapon, child."

"Yeah, well, let’s see how your fancy footwork handles crude," he shot back.

And then he vanished.

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