CHAPTER 227: WAR [4]

Karrak’s eyes gleamed red as if the challenge had poured oil onto an already raging fire. His clone grinned the same way, both of them crouching low like beasts ready to tear their prey apart.

"Round two?" Karrak’s voice was a low rumble. "You won’t last that long, human."

"Then stop talking and prove it."

The ground trembled under their charge. I moved first—if I let them dictate the rhythm, I’d be buried under brute force. The Silent Fang thrummed faintly in my hand, whispering like a living thing as mana surged through the blade.

The first strike came from the left—Karrak’s axe whistling through the air. I deflected it with the flat of my dagger, the impact sending a shockwave that numbed my arm. The second followed immediately, the clone’s spear stabbing from the right.

Perfect timing. Predictable timing.

I let the momentum carry me backward, twisting my wrist to let the Silent Fang graze the spear’s shaft—then I slashed upward, tracing a thin, glowing line through the air.

—Phantom Step.

The world blurred for an instant. I slipped past their line of attack, appearing behind the clone. The dagger struck clean through his side. Black blood sprayed out, sizzling against the ground.

But there was no cry of pain.

Instead, both of them laughed.

Their laughter echoed like something primal — deep, raw, and unsettling. The clone, still impaled by my dagger, grinned wide enough to split its face.

"You think that’s enough to kill me?" it hissed.

Before I could pull the blade free, its body began to twist—flesh bubbling like boiling tar. The wound closed right before my eyes, and a second later, the clone’s hand shot forward, grabbing my wrist with inhuman strength.

"Not bad," Karrak said, his real body stomping forward. "But tricks won’t save you twice."

I kicked off the clone’s chest, using the recoil to tear my arm free and put distance between us. The Silent Fang pulsed in warning—its edge humming from overuse. The regeneration I’d just seen wasn’t normal. Not for an demon. Not even for a demon-blooded one.

’He’s feeding mana into the clone, No, calling clone won’t be right...twin demon who’s name I don’t even know.

Let’s call clone as Ravarn spearman.

After all both of them are from Ravarn demon race.

Anyway, Karrak and his duplicate moved again, this time perfectly synchronized. The air cracked from the pressure of their swings—like thunder exploding in my ears. Each strike was faster than before, sharper, more precise.

If I blocked one, the other would strike the moment I committed.

If I dodged, the next blow came from a blind spot.

They were adapting. Learning.

’Fine,’ I thought, sliding my foot back and steadying my breath. ’Then I’ll adapt faster.’

I darted forward—low, quick, unpredictable. The Silent Fang slashed once, twice, then vanished from sight entirely as I twisted mid-motion. Karrak’s axe came down like a guillotine, but the blade met nothing but afterimage.

"Move aside. I’ll handle this."

The Ravarn spearman stepped forward, his wings twitching behind him. They were useless things — vestigial and purely decorative, like a peacock’s feathers, meant only to make him look more intimidating than he actually was.

His stance shifted. The spear angled low, ready to thrust. Typical. The Ravarn race was infamous for their aggressive patterns — long-range jabs, sudden feints, and those damned spear throws when the distance grew too wide.

"This pesky little thing!" he snarled, eyes burning with fury.

Sorry about that.

When the trajectory of every attack is practically drawn out in front of you, who in their right mind would stand still and take the hit?

"Hahaha! Good! If a human brat has made it this far on the battlefield, that means you’ve got some skill! Let’s see how long you can keep dodging!"

It wasn’t hard to tell — his pride was wounded. The more attacks I avoided, the more he lost control of himself. Ravarns were a warrior race, but they were also too easy to provoke. Instead of retreating when things turned sour, they fought harder, desperate to reclaim their dignity.

The chatty one, Karrak, roared as he slammed his axe against the ground, while the spearman behind him watched me with wordless, simmering hatred.

I shrugged lightly. "That’s my line. I wonder how long you’ll be able to swing those weapons."

Karrak barked a laugh, his tusks gleaming. "Do you think I’ll get tired? Not a chance! I’ll swing until you’re nothing but dust!"

"Well," I said, tilting my head, "I wonder if the reason you won’t be able to hold your weapon isn’t exhaustion—but because you’ll already be dead."

That struck a nerve.

I could see it in his eyes — disbelief. To them, humans were weak. Frail. Playthings for sport. The idea that one could stand toe-to-toe with them was simply unthinkable.

But their arrogance was my greatest weapon.

Karrak charged, axe forgotten. The weapon crashed to the snowy ground with a dull thud as he pulled a dagger from his belt. His muscles swelled unnaturally — a burst of strength from their bloodline technique. His roar split the air.

"Enough! I’ll kill you!"

I took a calm step back, my boots sinking into the slushy, trampled snow. The ground was unstable — perfect for missteps.

"It seems," I murmured, lowering my stance, "you’re not the only one with a hidden weapon."

His momentum was reckless, wild. The rage in his eyes made him blind to everything else — his footing, his grip, even the exhaustion creeping into his limbs after missing every strike.

Then it happened.

—Clang!

His dagger spun through the air, gleaming in the pale light before plunging into the snow several feet away.

"...What?!"

He froze, eyes wide with disbelief.

I met his gaze, my own expression calm — maybe even bored. "You dropped something."

The next moment, I was already in motion.

My dagger flashed in a silver arc, cutting through the gap between his rage and realization.

Karrak barely had time to react. He twisted his body, raising his arm to block, but the Silent Fang was faster — far faster. The blade sliced across his forearm, blood spraying out in a dark mist. His roar shook the ground.

"GRAAAH!!"

I didn’t stop. Hesitation against an enraged demon was suicide. The momentum carried me through, a step, a pivot — the dagger reversed in my hand, slashing upward toward his jaw.

—Clash!

The Ravarn spearman intercepted, his spear shaft slamming against my dagger, sending sparks flying. His crimson eyes burned with fury as he pushed me back with sheer force.

"Don’t you dare touch him!"

So that’s how it was — the "clone" wasn’t just a replica, but a bonded twin, sharing pain, rage, even instinct. Their movements grew wilder, heavier, their synchronization blurring the line between two bodies and one mind.

But the longer the fight dragged on, the clearer the cracks became.

Karrak’s swings were powerful but sluggish, driven by anger, while his twin compensated, attacking from the opposite angle — predictable. Every combo, every exchange followed the same rhythm: Karrak overextends, the spearman covers.

’A pattern,’ I realized. ’And patterns can be broken.’

I stepped into the next attack instead of retreating. Karrak’s axe came down, but I didn’t dodge. Instead, I caught the handle with my dagger’s hilt, twisting my body sideways to redirect his strength. The blade whistled past my shoulder, missing by inches — close enough to burn from the friction.

The spearman lunged immediately, his spear aiming straight for my throat.

Perfect.

I grabbed Karrak’s wrist and pulled. His massive frame stumbled forward, his chest colliding with the incoming spear.

—Schluk!

The spear pierced straight through Karrak’s shoulder.

The Ravarn spearman’s face went pale with shock. "K-Karrak!"

Too late.

My dagger plunged into his side, straight between his ribs. The Silent Fang pulsed once — devouring the demon’s mana — and I twisted the blade. Black blood burst out, sizzling against the cold ground.

Karrak’s roar turned into a strangled sound, half-growl, half-gurgle.

The spearman staggered back, his hands trembling as his connection to the other faltered. I could feel it — their link, breaking.

"You..." the spearman rasped, fury and disbelief swirling in his eyes. "You dare—!"

"I told you," I cut him off, voice low. "You should’ve stopped talking."

Before he could recover, I swung the Silent Fang one last time.

The dagger sliced clean through the air — and the spearman’s head separated from his body, landing in the snow with a dull thud.

The body crumpled, collapsing beside Karrak’s half-conscious form. The Ravarn chieftain stared at his brother’s corpse, rage fading into something hollow.

"Ravarn..." he growled weakly, his voice trembling. "...never forgive..."

I crouched down, meeting his fading eyes. "You demons always say that."

Then, without another word, I drove the Silent Fang into his chest.

The glow from the blade faded, drinking the last of his mana until only silence remained.

The cold wind swept through the battlefield, carrying the scent of blood and iron.

I exhaled slowly, lowering my weapon.

"Round two," I muttered, wiping the blade clean, "goes to me."