Chapter 4: The Two 'Bears' of the Sword

The strategy for turning a one-against-many fight into a series of one-on-one duels was simple in theory—keep moving, stay on your feet, and never let them surround you.

Sins weren't powerful monsters. A calm, brave farmer with a pitchfork could survive an encounter with a single Sin. Their claws might be sharp enough to burrow into the earth, but the farmer's pitchfork had reach, and that advantage could save his life.

But Lane had seen enough battles in this magical, medieval world to know the truth. In combat, the odds changed drastically when the numbers shifted.

An opponent you could easily defeat one-on-one could overwhelm you in an instant when it became two-on-one.

And the one getting overwhelmed—was always you.

For humans, even demon hunters, the tendons and veins lie just beneath the skin, a few millimeters of fragile tissue. Claws, blades—it made no difference. A single scratch became a wound, and a wound hampered movement. From there, it was a downward spiral: hesitation, more injuries, and finally, the inevitability of a sl*t throat.

Lane had never let it get that far, and he didn't intend to start now.

Even though the Bear School's mutant hunter formula focused on physical strength and resilience, and its swordsmanship style was aggressive and solid, Lane knew that brute force wasn't enough. He had to stay mobile.

Seventeen sinister ghosts howled through the mist, their jagged claws gleaming in the half-light. Behind him, his teacher's gaze was cold, devoid of warmth. He was being tested.

Lane's only option was to move—fast. He had to be twice as quick as the ghosts to avoid being surrounded.

Was that even possible for a starving, weary young hunter?

Not only possible—Lane made it happen.

With a sharp stomp, his thin cowhide boots dug into the soft soil, launching him forward. The ground exploded in a spray of dirt and weed roots as he surged sideways, like a wild bear charging through a gap.

Several of the carrion-eating creatures immediately shrieked and scrambled to pursue him, but they couldn't match his explosive speed. In a straight line, they were left behind, their snarls fading as he outpaced them with ease.

However, some of the evil ghosts, from the back of the pack, had taken a shortcut through the fog, now cutting off Lane's escape route. Five of them, their twisted mouths reeking of decay, still had strands of rotting flesh hanging from their grotesque teeth.

They crouched eagerly, claws scraping the earth, anticipating the taste of fresh prey.

Yet Lane's expression remained unchanged. It was as if he were armored in the finest steel, not cheap cotton, and as if the sharp claws before him—capable of tearing through the earth itself—were mere illusions.

The demons' jaws stretched wider as the scent of his blood drew them closer, their hunger boiling over. But just as they lunged, driven by primal instinct, Lane moved.

His hunting reflexes kicked in, and he leapt, body twisting mid-air with cat-like precision. As he soared above them, his eyes dilated, focusing with pinpoint accuracy.

"Quen!"

The spell ignited with a bright, magical hum. The protective shield formed around him in a sudden flash of orange-yellow light. Under normal circumstances, the seal remained invisible until struck, shattering upon contact. But Lane had learned an advanced trick from the Bear School—creating a visible spherical barrier that enveloped him completely.

It wasn't sophisticated magic by any means, more of a novice's spell compared to the grand sorceries of wizards. The shield would likely absorb one solid hit from a demon, no more.

But Lane wasn't looking for full protection. He was looking for an opportunity.

As he landed, the shield hadn't yet fully formed, leaving a gap near his feet—a perfect setup. His timing was impeccable. Just as the demons lunged at him from mid-air, they hit the half-formed barrier.

The ghosts, accustomed to pouncing with deadly precision, stumbled. Three of them misjudged their landing as the shield interfered with their momentum, tripping them mid-flight. The grotesque creatures tumbled over each other, crashing into the horde behind Lane in a chaotic heap of snarling limbs and writhing bodies.

The loud crack of the shield shattering rang out in the valley. Even though the three ghosts hadn't struck him directly, their collective impact was enough to overwhelm the barrier.

Lane hit the ground lightly, but two of the remaining scavengers were still coming—claws outstretched, mouths gaping. They didn't care about their fallen comrades; their eyes were locked on him, eager to be the first to sink their teeth into his flesh.

But Lane, now without his shield, met their ferocious gaze without a flicker of fear. In fact, his amber eyes held a cold, predatory glint.

The Quen seal had never been about defence.

With a sharp crash, the remnants of the orange shield burst outward in kinetic fragments, catching the two demons mid-lunge. Their bodies jerked, stance disrupted as they were thrown off balance.

And then, the flash of steel.

A single deadly arc of his blade sliced through the air.

The sound of steel cutting through flesh echoed as Lane's sword struck true.

The blade sliced through the air, cold as ice, striking with lethal precision.

Lane held the cheap Weyland longsword close to his face, the blade angled at a peculiar slant, ready to pierce. As he thrust forward, the sword met resistance—it felt like stabbing into thick, cooked leather.

If only it were silver. The demons' flesh, resistant to normal steel, would have parted like softened meat.

Yet, even with the cheap steel, Lane's strike was unyielding. The blade tore through the first ghost's stomach with sheer force, as if fate itself guided it, driving the tip of the sword through the second demon's jaw, straight into its brain. To an observer, it may have seemed like a lucky blow from a frantic swordsman, driven by adrenaline.

But beneath the appearance of chance was pure skill. Lane's control, his timing, and the precision of his thrust were flawless. The only flaw came at the last instant—the jarring impact sent a shock through his hand, his grip slipping as the sword's crossguard jammed into his palm.

With a harsh kala sound, the crossguard loosened. The cheap wooden hilt cracked under the strain. Lane's hand split open, blood seeping from the wound.

He'd lost his only weapon.

Fifteen sinister ghosts still surrounded him, regaining their footing and readying for another charge.

Lane's body seemed to relax, the tension in his muscles unwinding as if the fight was already over. He dropped the sword, leaving it embedded in the skewered bodies of the demons.

He didn't need to look behind him; he heard what he was waiting for—a sound almost too quiet to notice amidst the clamor of the approaching ghosts. The light, silent footsteps of a master swordsman.

Out of the mist, behind the remaining ghosts, a towering figure emerged. Bordon.

Cold. Silent. Deadly.

He moved with the deliberate power that defined the Bear School. No precision, no finesse—just raw, unstoppable force.

With a flash of silver, Bordon's sword tore through the mist. Unlike Lane's calculated strikes, Bordon's swordsmanship was brutal and overwhelming. His silver blade slashed through the mass of demons with terrifying ease.

Pfft!

The sound of blood spraying mingled with the sickening crunch of bones being shattered.

Four ghosts were cleaved in half at the chest, their bodies collapsing in a heap. The fifth demon was struck with such force that the sword became lodged in its sternum, but Bordon's strength ripped through it, the blade tearing out through the back of its skull. In one devastating motion, the sixth demon's head was split open.

The remaining demons, backs exposed, were defenseless against the onslaught. To Bordon, this was nothing more than routine work. A few more swings, and they were gone.

Lane had played his part perfectly. He'd set the stage, and Bordon delivered the final act with ruthless efficiency.

Every ounce of effort Lane had put into this battle had paid off.