Chapter 7: Perfect Mutation

Boldon's trust in Lane stemmed from one simple fact—his apprentice was too "Bear School."

Cold as an iceberg and as ruthless as they come, this was the image Lane projected to his mentor the moment his mutation as a demon hunter was complete.

Most hunters of the Bear School were emotionally detached, ready to draw their swords and kill without hesitation or remorse. Yet, it was this same detachment that kept them indifferent to hatred as well. They cared only for two things: money and physical survival.

For them, these two factors formed the bedrock of their existence—nothing more, nothing less.

Boldon had kept Lane safe, fed him, and taught him the skills of a demon hunter. Though the process was unpleasant and often cruel, it was, in Boldon's eyes, the truth of their world. He believed Lane's thinking mirrored his own: no reason to hate, no emotions to hold on to.

But Boldon had overlooked one crucial possibility.

—What if Lane had kept his emotions all along? What if his mutation was not just successful, but perfect?

The cheap blade whistled through the air.

Boldon's pupils contracted sharply, and every hair on his body stood on end.

No matter how lowly or inexpensive a Weyland longsword might be, any sharp piece of iron had the power to kill.

Lane's timing was so precise that Boldon could hardly believe it wasn't a fluke.

Based on what he knew of his apprentice, the boy shouldn't have had the combat experience to seize this exact moment!

His body was already committed to a forward charge, prepped a split second ago for the final kill on the sword-and-shield soldier.

But now, with his muscles stiff and tense, his body could no longer respond.

Switching from relaxed to action might take less than half a second, but in a sword fight, half a second could mean the difference between life and death.

He had to charge forward. His muscles demanded it. To stop now meant risking a fall, and he couldn't afford that.

This was where an emotionless mind came in handy.

Like a massive, unyielding brown bear, Boldon barreled into the swordsman like a living wall.

And in that same movement, his shoulders shifted, almost as if he were dancing.

The scabbard strapped to his back swayed in tandem with his movements.

With a sharp clink, under Boldon's hyper-alert perception, Lane's Weyland longsword struck against the silver sword's sheath—a weapon designed for slaying monsters!

The impact knocked the blade away.

Had it landed on an empty scabbard, it would've pierced straight through.

But Lane didn't pause after throwing his sword. He charged straight toward Boldon, his intent unmistakable.

Boldon's brow furrowed slightly as he watched.

A demon hunter who had lived for centuries, who had slain countless monsters—Boldon had tried to anticipate and overestimate Lane's capabilities from the start, yet still, he was impressed by his apprentice's audacity.

But that didn't change the outcome.

The determination in the young man's eyes was as solid as stone.

"He's the only one they're after. There's no conflict between us," Lane said, snapping the halberdiers out of their daze.

Seeing the shifting battlefield and the overwhelming strength of the hulking Demon Hunter, the halberdier made his decision. With no other option, he followed Lane, halberd in hand.

A strong enemy can forge an alliance.

Lane's throw was not something to be taken lightly, despite his weakened state from hunger and exhaustion, and the fact that he had just led seventeen sinister ghosts on a wild chase. After all, it was the throw of a Demon Hunter wielding a longsword.

The force of Lane's strike staggered Boldon's bear-like frame.

Yet the sheer experience and combat instincts of a seasoned Demon Hunter were nothing short of terrifying. Boldon didn't fall, despite the sudden disruption to his balance. Instead, he gripped his sword with both hands, lifting his powerful arms high.

He left his torso completely exposed and raised the masterfully crafted Bear School steel sword above his head, shifting his weight forward, every ounce of his strength channeling into the blade.

With a furious downward slash, he bellowed, "Drink!!!"

The sword-and-shield soldier standing before him froze in terror. Boldon's massive form cast a dark, ominous shadow over him, and in that moment, the soldier knew there was no escape.

Desperate, he released his one-handed sword and braced both hands against the remnants of his shield, teeth clenched, as he tried to meet the descending blow.

Even in the face of a strike that most soldiers would never encounter in a lifetime, he made the best decision possible—attempting to block the blade before it reached full force.

But Boldon wasn't an ordinary adversary. The strength of a magic-enhanced, mutant human was beyond anything the veteran could have imagined.

Boom!!!

The soldier let out a strangled groan as his eyes bulged in disbelief. The weakened shield, already compromised, could not withstand the onslaught. Despite using both hands, the shield skewed wildly under the pressure.

Boldon's steel blade scraped across the shield, sending wood splinters and shavings flying, tearing through the emblem of the White Lily of Tamoria.

Then, the blade bit into the chainmail protecting the soldier's shoulder.

His face contorted in agony.

The small iron rings of the chainmail twisted and snapped under the force of the blow, embedding themselves into flesh and bone. The captain of the law enforcement squad could hear the sickening grind of steel against bone, the sound amplified by his very skeleton.

Blood oozed from the wound, staining both sword and armor.

The soldier's shoulder was nearly cleaved in half, leaving only a thin strip of flesh at the armpit to keep the arm barely connected to the body. He was finished.

Boldon's cold expression didn't flicker, not even as the man's agonized screams filled the air. With brutal precision, Boldon pressed down on his blade and yanked it free—not a simple retraction, but a method known as the drag cut. The sound of metal scraping against armor rang out as the soldier's shoulder was completely severed.

The blood, which had already been flowing freely, now sprayed like a fountain.

Boldon hadn't just eliminated a threat; he had delivered a warning to his remaining foes.

And it worked.

Two arrows, fired in quick succession, glanced harmlessly off the armor of his left wrist. Though the force was undeniable, their aim was scattered. The bolts left only a faint white streak on his armor.

This psychological shock would not last. The professional soldiers would soon recover and ready their next volley. But that momentary hesitation was all the time Boldon needed.

Because now, he had to confront his apprentice.

He turned sharply, his eyes cold and resolute.

Both men knew: the other was ready to kill.

Lane, armed only with a hunting knife, charged straight at his mentor, meeting Boldon's deadly gaze without flinching. The aura of a seasoned monster slayer hung heavy in the air, chilling to the bone. Blood from the severed human arm still dripped from Boldon's beard, painting a horrifying picture of the man—a figure who could easily be depicted as the "Enemy of God" in some grim mural.

But Lane's pace didn't falter. Even as the Bear School steel sword in Boldon's hand began to tremble with power, Lane remained undeterred. He held the hunting knife close to his chest, though it was a futile gesture.

In every measurable way—strength, reach, blade length, craftsmanship—Lane was hopelessly outmatched.

He had no chance of surviving this sword.

Compared to Boldon, his swordsmanship was crude, little more than a clumsy imitation. In moments, the cheap cotton armor Lane wore would be sliced apart along with his body.

But Lane smiled.

For the first time, Boldon saw his apprentice smile—and it caught him off guard. The pupils of his cat-like eyes contracted in response.

In that instant, Lane sidestepped with fluid agility, and from behind his back, he drew the tip of a halberd blade!

The halberd had been held by the soldier behind Lane, who was charging forward as well. Now, Lane had adjusted the trajectory of the attack.

The broad halberd blade was aimed directly at Boldon's torso.

As Lane ducked low in his charge, his dagger and hand darted toward Boldon's waist—where the alchemy pouch hung.