Transcendent Odyssey [Coffeepen]

PREVIOUSLY-

Before him, the new opponent stood at the edge of the arena—silent, poised. Leather armour worn but well-fitted. A bandolier of daggers across the chest.

Two short blades, curved and darkened with use, gleamed in his hands. An orc, yes—but this one didn't move like the others.

This one waited.

A veteran.

Leon stood, still smiling, still tasting the blood behind his teeth.

He raised a hand, fingers beckoning lazily.

"Come at me."

WHAM.

The mercenary orc lunged

------x-----

Leon caught the dagger's arc with the edge of his short sword.

CLINK—CRACK.

Steel snapped.

He stared down at the jagged hilt clutched in his bruised fingers. No weight. No edge. Just the mockery of what used to be a weapon.

CLANG!

He flung the useless hilt to the stone with a snarl.

"Come on!" he barked at the empty sky. "At least give me a new weapon! I've got a busted body and a half-melted toothpick! How do you expect me to beat stronger opponents?!"

The arena offered no reply.

Except for the orc.

In a blink, the mercenary was there, right beside him—silent, fast, and smiling with that same maddening calm.

CLANG!

Another dagger strike.

Leon barely caught it with his short sword's battered edge, his entire body jolting with the impact.

I need distance—

His foot lashed out, smashing into the orc's chest with a sharp thud. The impact gave him space, and he landed a few paces back, knees bent, breath wheezing.

'Threxil.'

No answer.

'Threxil?'

Still nothing.

'THREXIL!!!'

Finally—gravel-throated, dry as rust—

'What?'

'Tell the system to give me a weapon!'

A pause. Then Threxil's voice again, with deadpan disdain.

'Are we some kind of friendly-neighborhood-smithy to you?'

Leon cursed under his breath as he and the orc began circling—tight spirals, low stances, their feet grinding grit against the stone. Predators sizing each other up. Neither breaking eye contact.

'Come on!' Leon snapped internally. 'At least try!'

Threxil let out a long, weary sigh, like a man too tired for the absurdity of life.

'Fine. Let me try...'

DING!

[THE VESSEL HAS REQUESTED A WEAPON]

[DOES THE MENTOR AGREE?]

"Yes,"

Threxil muttered, tapping the spectral screen floating before him.

DING!

[ASKING FOR PATHMAKER'S PERMISSION...]

Leon froze mid-step. 'Pathmaker? Who the hell is that?!'

Threxil coughed softly and looked away, eyes suddenly very interested in the horizon.

'Focus on the arc,' he mumbled.

Suddenly—a blur of steel.

A dagger spun toward Leon like a shard of light. He twisted just in time, short sword clanging as it deflected the projectile.

But the distraction cost him.

WHAM!

The orc's kick caught Leon square in the chest. The breath left him in a single convulsing grunt as his back exploded against the wall of the arena. Stone cracked behind him.

He crumpled, coughing.

'Why is every fight ending with me eating a wall? What kind of conspiracy is this?!'

He turned, panting—and there stood Threxil, completely unfazed, still staring at the glowing system interface like a bored office clerk.

DING.

[THE PATHMAKER SMILES AT THE VESSEL]

[THE PATHMAKER GRANTS THE REQUEST]

[ANALYSING THE VESSEL'S REQUEST]

[PROCESSING REQUEST: 20%...]

The orc advanced again, low and swift.

Leon rolled away just as another dagger swiped for his knees. He landed in a crouch, sweat pouring, lungs wheezing.

"This is a crappy day…" he muttered.

He sprang up—twist, pivot—WHAM—his boot smashed into the orc's face, sending the creature stumbling.

"Come on! Just give me a damn claymore!"

Another dagger cut past his ear, clipping a lock of his hair as it embedded into the wall behind him.

"Even a good dagger would do!"

Still, Threxil hadn't moved. His ghostly silhouette remained fixed, arms crossed, helm tilted in thought. Then, almost to himself, he whispered:

"I think... a short spear would be the best action."

DING.

[REQUEST PROCESSED: 100%]

[THE SYSTEM GRANTS THE VESSEL'S REQUEST]

A glimmer sparked in the air beside Leon's forearm.

There was no weapon.

Instead—a buckler.

A plain, round shield, maybe 45 centimeters wide, materialized with a flicker and clamped to his left arm.

Leon stared at it.

Then stared at the sky.

"...Pathmaker."

A twitch developed beneath his eye.

"…You son of a BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!!!"

His voice echoed through the coliseum.

Even the orc paused.

The buckler was light.

Too light.

It barely weighed more than a dinner plate, and Leon hated it on sight.

But there was no time to argue with fate or ghost mentors.

The mercenary orc was already closing the gap, eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow, both daggers raised. Its movement was different now—less eager, more measured. It had gauged Leon's condition, noticed the limp, the blood loss. It came to finish, not to play.

Leon shifted his stance, flexing the fingers around his shield strap. His breath slowed—

Then hitched.

And changed.

A sudden tremor rippled through his limbs—subtle at first, then deeper. Muscle fibers twitched, responding to something primal, buried beneath technique. Blood surged. Heat built in his veins like coiled fire.

His pupils shrank.

His pain vanished.

And all that remained was forward.

The Bloodgnaw Rhythm had returned.

CLANG!

The orc struck, twin daggers whistling in a crisscross slash.

Leon met the blades head-on.

The buckler barked against metal, deflecting one strike with a sharp parry, while his broken short sword turned the second. Sparks flashed from the impact, but Leon didn't stop.

He pressed in.

Too close. Too fast.

The orc backpedaled, but Leon moved like a lurching shadow. His footwork was wrong, chaotic. His arms swung wide, then snapped tight with unnatural speed. No elegance. Just raw, animal momentum.

CLANK!

The buckler punched into the orc's jaw.

WHUMP!

Leon's shoulder followed, crashing into the beast's ribs like a battering ram. Bone popped. The orc wheezed, stumbling, and slashed low.

SCRAPE!

A dagger grazed Leon's thigh—deep, hot pain—but he didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

The rhythm had drowned it out.

Leon ducked low, then burst upward.

CRACK!

The edge of the buckler rammed into the orc's nose. Blood exploded from its face. The orc reeled.

Leon didn't let up.

He gripped the short sword backward, in a reverse hold, and lunged.

The orc swung high—desperate now.

Leon slipped inside the arc.

Too fast. Too close.

SHLK.

The broken sword stabbed under the ribcage, right below the sternum. Not a deep strike—but accurate.

The orc froze.

Eyes wide.

Daggers clattered to the floor a second later.

Leon grunted, ripping the blade free and smashing the buckler into the orc's throat in one final, crude blow.

The beast fell.

Not dramatically.

Just collapsed—arms limp, body twitching once—then still.

Leon stood over it, panting, the taste of copper rising again. The buckler smoked faintly in the air. Blood trickled down his thigh, warm and steady, but distant.

Veins popped up all over his body. Blood gushed through them as if a dam was opened.

The rhythm still pulsed in his ears.

His teeth were clenched.

His fingers wouldn't relax.

But the fight… was over.

SPLURT!

Numerous capillaries and veins burst all over his body.

He spat blood onto the floor and whispered to no one in particular:

"Short spear… would've been nice."

DING!

[SKILL UPGRADED!]

[BLOODGNAW BREATHING→ BLOODGNAW RHYTHM]

[BLOODGNAW RHYTHM: 64%]

[STARTING STAGE (4/5)]

A tall but lean figure stepped through the archway.

No roar. No theatrics. Just footsteps—measured and calm—echoing across the blood-stained arena floor.

He wasn't like the others.

No bulging muscles. No crude armour or feral snarls.

He wore simple gear—a quilted gambeson beneath a chainmail shirt, and a plain steel helmet that caught the warm sunlight. There were no skulls, no warpaint, no trophies dangling from his belt.

Everything about him spoke of discipline. Of someone learning their craft, not flaunting it.

A warrior-in-training.

Leon tilted his head, dragging his bruised body upright, eyes narrowing slightly.

"…Great," he muttered, a dry laugh escaping through cracked lips.

"An orc squire. What's next, an orc knight?"

The newcomer didn't respond.

He simply stopped ten paces away, planted his boots into the dirt, and drew his longsword with both hands in one smooth motion.

SWING!

The blade sliced through the air as it arced into a high guard. Not reckless—precise. Practiced.

The orc's green lips parted beneath the helmet's lower rim.

"Human knight. Fight. Honor."

His voice was young but steady. No mockery, no rage. Just the words. Just the meaning.

Leon blinked, his smirk fading into something quieter. His fingers curled slightly around the buckler strap.

Then, with a short nod, he stepped forward and gave a shallow bow—formal, but honest.

"…It's an honour," he said, tone level.

"My orc friend."

The squire tilted his head, puzzled, then shook it once with an almost childlike motion.

He bent his knees, lowering into a ready posture—guard tight, blade held at a diagonal, perfectly textbook. Every movement was grounded. Nothing flashy.

Leon exhaled slowly.

No more beasts. No maniacs.

This time, it was going to be a duel.

The air felt different now.

Still bloody, still thick with heat and dust—but quieter. Like the arena itself was holding its breath.

Leon rolled his shoulders once, stretching the tightness out of his back, eyes fixed on the orc squire. This wasn't some frothing brute with rusted iron and blind rage.

This opponent had balance. Restraint. Something taught into the muscle, not just born into bone.

The squire advanced—not charging, but gliding forward on bent knees. His longsword remained raised at an angle across his chest, elbows tight, eyes never leaving Leon's core.

A clean guard. Classic duelling posture.

Leon adjusted his grip on the short sword, lifted the buckler slightly.

CLANG!

The first exchange came fast—faster than Leon expected.

Steel kissed steel as the squire's blade struck from above in a diagonal arc. Leon raised his buckler—not to meet it head-on, but to glide it aside.

The round shield deflected the sword with a quick angle, using curve and timing rather than force.

Leon twisted, slashing at the squire's side with the jagged short sword.

CLANG!

The squire spun his blade around—perfect rotation—and blocked with the flat.

They separated.

Leon exhaled sharply through his nose.

This one knew how to fight.

The orc stepped forward again, this time with two quick jabs—one high, one low.

Leon ducked the first and swept the buckler under the second, guiding the blade away just enough to open a narrow window.

He rammed forward, shield-first.

THUMP.

The squire staggered back two steps, but didn't lose his footing. Instead, he pivoted cleanly, resetting his stance.

Leon grinned.

"Your footwork's too clean," he muttered.

"I should've known you weren't some random squire."

The orc didn't reply.

But his blade lowered slightly, and his shoulders shifted. No longer rigid. Looser now. Breath slower.

Then Leon saw it.

A faint shimmer around the squire's arms—barely there. Like heat waves rising off a forge. The chainmail glinted with that strange distortion. It wasn't aura in the explosive; radiant way Leon used it. It was refined. Contained.

Subtle.

He's focusing aura through the blade.

Leon's grin faded.

The next strike was clean.

No wasted motion. The squire stepped in, sword slicing in a straight, horizontal arc, not too fast, but perfect in angle and weight.

Leon caught it with the buckler, but the impact shook his bones.

'This bastard's amplifying edge control…'

He staggered back, and the squire pressed—three more attacks in rapid succession, all aimed to control distance, to cage him in. The arena walls at his back now felt closer.

Leon ducked another swing and dropped to one knee, using the flat of his buckler to sweep the squire's shins.

THWACK!

It connected.

The squire stumbled. Leon surged upward, stabbing high—

CLANG!

The squire deflected it with a tight parry—but Leon used the moment to ram the buckler into the orc's chest.

THUMP.

The squire fell back, grunting. His aura shimmer stuttered—momentarily disrupted.

Leon was on him before he could reset.

He feinted left—then rolled under a counter swing, driving his buckler into the orc's elbow with pinpoint force.

The chainmail dented. The blade dropped.

Leon didn't kill him.

He could have.

Instead, he stepped in and locked the squire's wrist with his own, spinning the blade from the orc's hand with a twist.

CLATTER.

The longsword fell.

Leon placed the rim of the buckler against the orc's throat—just firm enough.

"Yield,"

He said, voice low, but calm.

The squire looked at him for a long moment—then bowed his head once.

Respectfully.

Leon let go.

He stepped back, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his jaw. His buckler was scuffed and cracked. The short sword was nearly toothless. But he'd won.

Not with power.

But with experience.

And adaptation.

He turned toward the arena's far wall, voice ragged.

"…Someone better give me a damn scabbard for this shield at this point."