Episode 55: Jacques Noire (1)
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Damian halted the carriage and began setting up camp.
“Dinner’s ready, everyone,” Victor called out.
Victor had prepared the evening meal, and after the group had filled their bellies, they settled down for the night. Olivia was tucked safely inside the carriage, while the other three laid out their sleeping bags under the stars.
It was deep into the night when a shadowy figure crept toward the campsite, moving so stealthily that not even a whisper of sound betrayed its presence. The campers, lost in slumber, remained blissfully unaware.
The intruder slowly unsheathed a dagger, its blade gleaming menacingly in the moonlight. He counted the sleeping figures: one in the carriage, two outside.
…Two?
“Bored of waiting, were you?”
A voice rang out from above. The intruder snapped his head up.
Perched atop the carriage was someone he hadn’t expected.
“Jacques Noire, did you really want me dead that badly?”
Damian Haxen smirked against the backdrop of the night sky.
“How did you know I was coming?” Jacques Noire asked, his tone even, as if he wasn’t particularly surprised to be caught off guard.
“You shouldn’t pry into others’ secrets so easily,” Damian replied.
“Clever. It’s never wise to reveal oneself to others,” Jacques nodded, a gesture that piqued Damian’s curiosity.
“Strange. I thought you’d be furious the moment you saw me,” Damian remarked, puzzled.
“Why would I be angry with you?”
“Because of me, you’re now hunted by the Order.”
“Oh, that. Sure, I was annoyed, but I’ve decided to let it go. Being wanted by the Order is a hassle, but I can always change my face and flee to the outskirts of the continent.”
Damian’s brow furrowed slightly. To discard one’s identity so easily…
His breathing and tone suggested he wasn’t lying. Jacques Noire was speaking sincerely.
Now Damian understood the unease he’d felt from the start. Jacques Noire was missing something fundamental to being human.
“Then why are you after me?”
“To claim the fortune you possess.”
“…Fortune?”
Damian’s frown deepened at the unexpected claim.
“There’s no point in hiding it. You must have acquired something left by a Master Class. That’s how you’ve become so powerful.”
“I’ve never done anything like that,” Damian replied, incredulous.
“Lying won’t help. If not for a fortune, how do you explain your rapid improvement?”
“I’m just a genius.”
A brief silence fell between them.
Jacques clicked his tongue.
“To hide your weaknesses so thoroughly… Clever. Almost annoyingly so.”
“I’m serious.”
“I was considering sparing you in exchange for the fortune… but if you’re going to be like this, I have no choice. I’ll kill you and take it.”
Jacques discarded his dagger and slowly drew the sword at his waist. Unlike a regular blade, its edge was wavy, like rippling water.
“Treasure belongs in the hands of those worthy.”
He spun the blade, leaving a strange afterimage that lingered before vanishing.
“So hand over the fortune quietly.”
Damian gripped his sword with a mocking smile.
“Not a chance.”
Damian and Jacques Noire charged at each other almost simultaneously.
Their swords clashed in mid-air, neither giving an inch.
They both retreated, and as soon as they did, Jacques lunged forward again, aiming for Damian’s face.
Damian, anticipating the move, easily deflected the attack and countered, targeting Jacques’ neck.
But Jacques smoothly evaded Damian’s strike as well.
Each clash of their swords sent tremors through the surrounding trees.
‘As expected of a top-tier Middle Class. No wasted effort.’
The captain of the Yuran, whom Damian had fought before, was a Middle Class dark mage. His every punch caused earthquakes and shattered the terrain.
Jacques Noire’s attacks seemed less destructive in comparison, but that was deceptive.
Jacques could unleash even greater power if he wished, but he concentrated all his strength into his blade.
The evidence was in the marks Jacques’ sword occasionally left on the surroundings.
Whenever the blade brushed against a tree trunk, the entire tree was sliced clean through, the cut surface smooth enough to serve as a mirror.
This was achieved without even invoking aura.
‘Good thing I cast a sleep spell on the others.’
Damian glanced at his companions, still sound asleep despite the commotion. The deep slumber was thanks to a dark magic spell he’d cast.
Damian intended to keep his true abilities hidden for a while to avoid unnecessary trouble.
He didn’t want his companions to witness his battle with Jacques Noire.
‘I need to move this fight elsewhere.’
Continuing the fight here risked involving his companions.
Damian deflected Jacques’ sword and dashed to the side.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Jacques pursued him. The two raced through the forest, exchanging blows.
In a single breath, they traded dozens of attacks. The sound of their swords slicing through the air was relentless.
‘His swordsmanship is insidious.’
Since the battle began, Damian had been analyzing Jacques’ techniques.
It wasn’t an honest style that sought victory by countering the opponent’s moves head-on.
It was a style that targeted vital points and relentlessly exploited weaknesses.
And this wasn’t merely due to Jacques’ personal inclinations.
It was the essence of the swordsmanship Jacques had mastered.
‘Hmm?’
Damian sensed a significant shift in Jacques’ magical energy. He was preparing a technique.
“Impressive. But this ends now.”
Jacques brought his sword down in a straight line.
The power and magic imbued in the strike were immense, but the movement was large and easy to block.
Yet Damian didn’t block it. He let the sword come down on his head.
As Jacques’ sword touched Damian’s head, it vanished into an illusion.
Immediately after, a real strike aimed for Damian’s neck.
Damian had already realized the first attack was a feint and the second was the true threat.
He raised his blade to block. The force pushed him back.
Jacques halted his attack and stepped back, looking surprised.
“…Unbelievable. A Low Class deflecting my attacks like this.”
Middle Class was a world apart from Low Class.
Their physical abilities and magical reserves were overwhelmingly superior.
But the decisive difference between the two ranks wasn’t just those factors.
It was the depth of their techniques.
The techniques of a Middle Class, who had achieved enlightenment, were far more profound than those of a Low Class.
In ordinary circumstances, a Low Class holding their own against a Middle Class for this long was unheard of.
“And to think you even saw through my ultimate technique.”
The illusion Jacques had just used wasn’t an ordinary skill.
It was part of the ultimate techniques of the swordsmanship Jacques had mastered.
Phantom Blade.
A type of swordsmanship that created illusions using magic to catch the opponent off guard.
Moreover, it was one of the most difficult techniques to learn and utilize.
“I told you, I’m a genius.”
Damian tapped his shoulder with the back of his sword.
During the fight, he had observed Jacques’ stance and the flow of his magic, quickly deducing it was the Phantom Blade.
Once deduced, countering it was simple. He just had to rely on senses other than sight.
“Hey?”
When Jacques remained silent, Damian asked, puzzled.
“…I understand now.”
After a moment of contemplation, Jacques nodded slowly.
“The knowledge you gained from the fortune must be extraordinary. Your rank is Low Class, but your skills have reached Middle Class.”
“Still with that nonsense?”
“You must have acquired an incredible fortune. I’m eager to see what it is.”
A smile crept onto Jacques’ face, like a statue forced to grin, unsettling Damian.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been this excited. I can’t wait to see the fortune you’ve obtained.”
Jacques summoned his magic. Aura began to envelop the blade he held.
“Do you know the crucial difference between Low Class and Middle Class?”
The aura of a Low Class was like a mirage.
The aura of a Middle Class was much denser, like a shroud of smoke.
“It’s the embodiment of aura. Beyond manifesting aura, it’s the ability to transform it. That’s what defines a Middle Class.”
Jacques moved forward.
In his wake, countless afterimages lingered. Astonishingly, the afterimages didn’t just remain; they each darted off in different directions. Some to the left, others to the right, and some even leaped into the air.
The afterimages darted forward, only to dissipate into the air after a short distance.
Jacques Noire circled around Demian.
Dozens of afterimages surrounded Demian Haxen, leaving no visible escape.
“Let me show you my true power.”
One of the afterimages lunged at Demian.
Demian didn’t rely on his eyes. He tapped into his other senses to make a judgment.
His heightened senses told him it was real, not an illusion.
He raised his sword to block the attack, feeling a heavy impact.
But the Jacques Noire he thought was real vanished into thin air.
“Hmm?”
Before Demian could even process his surprise, another afterimage charged at him from behind.
Once again, his senses insisted it was real.
He spun around, slashing at its neck, but it too was an illusion.
”…Oh?”
Demian’s expression shifted to one of intrigue. He hadn’t expected his senses to be so thoroughly deceived.
In his past life, he had faced illusion swordsmen before.
But never had he encountered such a peculiar illusionary technique.
“Impressive, isn’t it? This swordsmanship is something I’ve painstakingly restored over my lifetime.”
Jacques Noire’s voice echoed from amidst the afterimages, which continued to dance around, confounding Demian’s vision.
“These are all fakes, yet real. Your senses won’t discern the truth.”
The afterimages all pointed their blades at Demian in unison.
“This is the end.”
The swarm of afterimages rushed at Demian Haxen simultaneously.
Watching the spectacle, Demian let out a small laugh.
“Amusing, but ultimately trivial.”
To those witnessing illusionary swordsmanship for the first time, it was overwhelming. The miraculous technique that turned illusions into reality was mesmerizing.
Yet, in truth, illusionary swords were not that formidable. They lacked the destructive power of a strong sword and were slower than a swift blade.
A technique that relied solely on surprise attacks.
That was the essence of illusionary swordsmanship.
Fortunately, Demian possessed a technique perfectly suited to counter it.
“You seem quite proud of that swordsmanship.”
Demian ran his palm along the length of his sword, the Celestial Blade. It began to hum, emitting a resonant sound.
“Let me shatter that illusion for you.”
With a flick of his fingers, Demian struck the Celestial Blade.
Dreadful Sword - The Sound of Desolation
A piercing sword cry filled the space, swallowing everything in its path.