Frondier released Antero’s throat and bound his body with Heukcheon.
Having lost Pegasus, Antero couldn’t stay aloft in midair.
“Khak! Khak! Ugh...”
Once his neck was free, Antero hacked out a harsh cough and glared at Frondier.
Two shots to the face had completely changed his appearance.
Even so, he hadn’t lost his hostility yet.
Honestly, that alone was impressive.
“Y-you son of a bitch... If I’d brought enough artifacts, the likes of you would have—”
“You still have more?”
He already thought the man had plenty dangling off him, and yet there were more to dangle.
“How about always being fully armed for things like this?”
“When would I have the time to get every magitech weapon approved one by one! We get authorization for the bare minimum necessary armament and use that!”
At Antero’s shout, Frondier’s lips thinned.
'...I’ve already seen three magitech devices on him, and that’s the bare minimum?'
He also thought:
'Magitech weapons need approval, huh. Since he’s a royal knight, it must be state authorization, naturally.'
He didn’t know whether all magitech devices were state-controlled, but at least for Paladins, it seemed each device had to be individually authorized.
'A peculiar system.'
From Frondier’s perspective, Antero relied on magitech for a considerable portion of his strength.
He turned spare mana into aura without much trouble, and he’d mastered that odd movement method using the back-mounted artifact called Pegasus.
If he originally had items that compensated for his tendency to pour too much aura into his weapon, for his sloppy defenses, for his loose tension that made him drop his weapon easily—then it made a kind of sense.
'But those crucial magitech devices aren’t privately owned—they belong to the state.'
In effect, a share of one’s personal power was subordinated to the nation. The analogy wasn’t perfect, but it was like shackling heavy fetters to the limbs of Falind’s Zodiac and letting the imperial palace keep the keys. Something like that.
'The performance of these magitech devices is excellent—just as Arald predicted. Because they’re so good, people grow even more dependent on them, and since the state controls those devices, if you want to get stronger, you absolutely have to be loyal to the state. The more you pledge, the more magitech they’ll hand out, so you’ll obey even more. Whoever came ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) up with it at first—who knows—but it had to be someone shouting long live the king.'
From what Frondier knew, aside from Atlas where he currently taught, most educational institutions had students learn magitech usage early. He hadn’t understood that at first, but now he did.
Artifacts with performance this high—students whose growth isn’t complete could never overturn this power gap.
At a place like Constel, you could surpass it handily by focusing on individual growth—raising aura and magic and everything in between—but even the shortest path took at least a year.
While everyone else surges ahead with artifacts equipped, you’d give that up and sacrifice a long period for the sake of personal growth that might or might not succeed. An ordinary person would never choose that. Besides, there might already be no one left who even knows how to become strong that way.
'I thought Atlas’s combat or magic level lagged behind Falind’s, but on this continent, they’re actually ahead.'
Any weapon or tool becomes familiar with time. If you start learning young, you’ll feel like you’re growing fast in the moment—but things designed for singular purposes like magitech devices don’t have a long road to mastery.
In other words, anyone can reach that level, and the gap in skill will narrow.
By contrast, Atlas’s students proceed to graduation without magitech. So after graduation, when they do learn magitech, they’ll hold an overwhelming edge over students from other schools.
“...Even so, you’re weak.”
Frondier said it while looking at Antero. He spoke so flatly that for a moment Antero didn’t realize the words were about him.
“A low average level—fine, that can happen. But even among that average, you’re paltry.”
“W-what did you say...!”
“I can’t see you as one of the twelve who guard a nation. If other middling fighters used the same magitech as you, what would make you better than them?”
“Shut up! What I use is top-grade! Ordinary people aren’t even allowed to lay hands on it!”
“...Not being allowed to touch it doesn’t make you stronger.”
If everyone relies on magitech, they’ll still find the outliers who are strong despite that. And with only twelve slots, all the more so.
Yet this guy is a Paladin? If Atlas’s promising Ias had this level of armament, how would he be any different from you? No—at least sixty percent odds Ias would beat you straight up.
'And no matter how stupidly oblivious you are, you’re spouting this nonsense now?'
Whether he had all his armament or not—even if, hypothetically, with full kit he might beat Frondier—that assumption meant nothing here.
From the very first exchange, when Frondier slammed him into a wall with Heukcheon, he should have felt the disparity.
Even if he didn’t then, he should have during the corridor fight, or when he was thrown, or when he dropped his sword, or when he got pummeled barehanded without a shred of aura.
Even if he still didn’t understand—then now.
Seeing himself unable to break Heukcheon’s bindings no matter how he strained—he should grasp the situation.
And yet—
“Untie this right now! I’ll kill you! You fucking son of a bitch!”
“...”
Antero kept raging. When begging for his life wouldn’t be enough.
'Does he seriously believe I won’t kill him?'
Killing a Paladin would obviously endanger Frondier. In truth, Frondier didn’t intend to kill Antero. His careful restraint was exactly for that reason.
'...No. Even if he believes that, he should still be feeling plenty of fear of pain and despair.'
Everyone Frondier had fought was like that. The higher the arrogance, the greater the humiliation of defeat. Antero should be no different. Frondier was sure of it.
But he wasn’t. Antero seemed not even to realize he had lost.
As if the fight weren’t over.
As if, with a body groaning under Heukcheon’s hold, he could still do something.
'...Is he hiding something?'
Frondier’s eyes lowered.
Frankly, if there were still something he hadn’t brought out by this point, that would be the strange part—but Frondier couldn’t abandon his nature.
“Fine. Let’s take this to the end.”
Ssssss—
Heukcheon spread in all directions. A vast black platform formed in the air.
It was an absurdly excessive courtesy for Antero, who couldn’t fly. Frondier released the Heukcheon binding Antero, and Antero stepped onto the black platform Frondier had made for him.
The platform was wide enough to serve as an arena for the two of them.
“I need to be convinced you’re a Paladin.”
“...I’ll kill you.”
As expected—Antero was still brimming with fighting spirit.
Even with this difference in ability, his eyes overflowed with killing intent.
'There’s definitely something. For him to still think of charging in with such a gap—there must be.'
Tap!
This time, Antero charged again.
But he’d already used his spare mana, and he’d dropped his sword earlier—so bare hands. Pegasus had been smashed by Frondier.
In other words, this time he was rushing Frondier with nothing but his unassisted body, without a single magitech aid.
Unless you were a ten-year-old kid, you’d clearly know how hopeless this was.
So he had a move.
Something.
Whoosh!
Frondier dodged the honest straight punch—
Thud!
—and kicked him in the gut.
“Grk...”
Flump.
And Antero sank to his knees.
“...”
Frondier watched in silence. Antero showed no sign of getting up.
It hurt, and he couldn’t breathe, so he had not the slightest will to rise.
Frondier was not his sparring partner. He was Antero’s enemy.
Yet in front of that enemy, getting hit in the gut, he simply lay there groaning in pain.
'...I once gave Pielot a sharp scolding the first time we met. I still worry that habit might resurface.'
Compared to this spectacle from Antero, Pielot hadn’t even been whining. He’d been a warrior with high spirit.
'...No.'
Thud!
“Puhhak!!”
Frondier kicked Antero’s jaw up. With his guard down, several teeth snapped free.
'There has to be something. This makes no sense.'
Frondier deployed even his instincts, scrutinizing Antero endlessly. He wondered if he was caught in an illusion—if his entire domination of Antero was false, if he was actually dancing to the man’s magic.
Thud! Thud!
“Ghk! Gk! Kugh!”
Antero made every kind of strangled noise as he took the hits.
Frondier struck mechanically, without killing intent or fervor.
'There’s something. There has to be a trump. A way to overturn this flow. Something befitting a Paladin.'
By now Antero’s face was beyond recognition, his legs trembling. Even if he wanted to do something, the damage was too heavy for him to act.
More than anything, whatever move he had, he should have used it long ago.
But nothing like “spare me” or “forgive me” came crawling out of Antero’s mouth.
Frondier hadn’t been expecting that anyway.
He only wanted to understand the broken logic behind Antero’s actions.
Thud! Thud!
Only after quite a beating did Antero’s trembling lips part.
“...Str...ange...”
“What?”
He had clearly said something. For Frondier, it was a very important hint.
Frondier strode up and grabbed his jaw.
“What did you just say?”
“...It’s... strange...”
That was what Antero said.
That it was strange.
Words wildly out of place for the current situation.
But at this point, they were welcome to Frondier.
Even Frondier couldn’t understand Antero’s words and actions. If he could just make sense of this, Antero could babble nonsense and it would be fine.
“What’s strange?”
“...I... should be... winning...”
He should be winning. A peculiar turn of phrase.
He must win, and losing is “strange.”
For some, it could sound arrogant, but in this situation, it couldn’t be arrogance.
In other words, Antero was genuinely finding it strange.
'No strong person can be certain of victory—especially when facing a tough opponent. That’s nonsense.'
Yet Antero was certain—of victory.
For Antero, victory wasn’t a question of difference in ability. It was simply something that had to be.
'All right. This time something’s coming!'
Swelled with that expectation, Frondier waited for Antero to act.
“...”
Antero merely said that—and stayed still.
“You little—”
Frondier raised his fist again. Maybe a few more hits would make it come out? He looked at him like a capsule toy machine that had eaten his coin.
[...Dammit.]
And then, a voice came from Antero’s mouth.
Along with a curl of purple heat-haze.
[Enough. At this rate you’ll really die.]
It was Antero’s mouth speaking, but the voice was entirely different.
Antero slowly got to his feet, as if everything so far—the massive damage, the collapse—had been a lie.
Frondier, seeing it, slowly stepped back.
An enemy who, after being felled, rose again exuding new power. In game terms, Phase 2.
And as he faced him—
'As expected!'
Frondier smiled pale and wide, a look close to rapture.
