The Hunter’s Guide to Monsters - Chapter 100

Krow tilted his head toward Tharjan behind him. “Why does he look like that?”

Tharjan’s lips curled upward, gleeful. “The last opponent was the favorite to win the tournament.”

Ah, shkav.

He’d been hoping the next opponents would keep on thinking he had the skills of a village butcher.

His lips firmed as he walked up to the platform.

Good things came to an end.

“So,” Dabalt spat. “I don’t know what tricks you pulled, butcher! But they won’t work on me..”

Hah, figured.

If Dabalt was going to be vigilant, he’d just change tactics and stop being so cautious.

“Begin!”

Krow charged headlong like he’d never done in his last matches, hoping to catch the other by surprise.

Dabalt’s eyes widened, but he had some skill.

He dodged, leaped back to put space between them, then dropped into a formal stance to parry Krow’s continuing attack, redirecting the falchion to the side and thrusting into Krow’s guard.

Krow jerked back to avoid that thrust, separated.

The other was definitely trained. Krow couldn’t brute force this, his initial momentum broken already.

They circled, tested.

Dabalt lunged, in a flash closing the distance.

Krow stepped back, knocked the blade away using his offhand gauntlet. He stepped into the opening, was quickly blocked.

They separated again.

Krow feinted, danced away, feinted again.

The point of Morumain’s whirling acrobatic style was finding weaknesses and exploiting them.

Krow didn’t have the incisive eyes of someone who had fought in countless battles.

He was a fighter only by circumstance.

But he could approximate an opening based on the basics and his experiences were often to the death.

With a sword in his hand again, he was more concerned with not instinctively going for killing blows.

He feinted again, flitted away.

Dabalt grunted as his sword struck through air once more.

“Stop running away,” seethed his opponent, lunged again, slicing through Krow’s shirt. Blood welled from the scratch.

Hit and run style, Krow recalled, was always so irritating.

Dabalt smirked at the drop of red falling off his blade. “I got first blood.”

“If you were a woman, that would be significant. Usually they get it younger though.”

The other answered with a snarl and another swift charge.

Krow caught the other’s attack, used his momentum to flip him over.

He stepped back from the wild wide slash.

Dabalt scrambled up, flushed and glaring. “Tricks! Tricks and cowardice.”

If the progression on non-player blade skills followed the same progression as a player, and there was little reason to think otherwise, Krow definitely couldn’t fight head-on.

“Do you think so?” He asked as confused and innocent as he could.

Conscious of being mocked, Dabalt attacked.

Krow evaded, slid under his blade, feinted, then attacked only to be blocked.

Draculkar were known to have sometimes unnatural speed and, even at amateur level, the crowd was treated to a duel that proved it.

That speed had downsides though. Krow could see the sheen of sweat over Dabalt’s features already.

Krow was not unaffected either, but not as much as the other.

Finally.

He could see the advantage that putting most of his points on VIT gave him.

It was just too bad for his opponent that they were both draculkar. Against any draculkar of his level, Krow would be slower but his endurance would surpass theirs by far.

He’d burned energy by not giving his all in earlier fights, and the recent fight against that almost-berserked mafmet. But Krow had an HP-recovery item that was difficult to acquire at low levels.

It helped a lot.

Dabalt grew angrier as Krow flipped and whirled around him, dodging again and again, and yet barely attacking. His swings went wider than necessary, movements fueled by increasing aggression.

Earlier, he’d actually been a pretty strategic fighter. There was little of tactics in his movements now, none of the thoughtful approach of before.

He lunged, overcompensated.

Krow darted in, knocked the swordhand away, leaving the opponent open.

“Butcher!” roared the crowd. “Butcher! Butcher!”

What, really?

Was that his nickname now?!

Startled, he couldn’t avoid the fist that crashed onto his face.

He dropped.

The crowd howled.

“Second blood to me, still,” growled Dabalt. He raised his sword above his head.

Krow kicked him in the knee, rolled away as Dabalt joined his yowl to the crowd.

He scrambled up.

Ugh.

He usually didn’t need the speed, what with being a Sharpshooter and keeping distance in mind always.

But shkav, he’d forgotten how immediate close combat fights were.

Even if he were less skilled than Dabalt, if he had put all his points in DEX, he’d win.

That was not the case.

Krow dodged and whirled, darting in for quick strikes and dancing away again. Shaving away at a draculkar’s endurance should not take this long, weeping graves.

How much had the guy trained? Was he secretly training as an elite in the army?!

Then the blade that whistled past Krow’s ear trembled.

Krow drove his gauntleted fist into the other’s elbow. The sword fell.

“Butcher!”

They stared at each other, the point of Krow’s falchion at Dabalt’s gut. There was a long moment that Krow thought Dabalt was going to use his fists to prolong the fight, those burning eyes held that much rage.

But then Dabalt stepped away, turned, and stomped away.

He didn’t even pick up the sword.

Krow lowered the falchion.

“Winner! Number 157 of Avaldaaaan!”

[You’ve won a single combat challenge against a Lvl 14 fighter!]

Tsk.

He turned to leave.

“Number 157 of Avaldan wiiins the tournament!”

…what.

The referee was kind enough to repeat, to Krow’s disbelieving ears:

“Number 157, my ladies, my gentlemen! Avaldan the blacksmith takes the tournament!”

…that wasn’t right.

There was at least one more fight before the final bout.

He’d counted.

No way.

He’d been planning to lose gracefully after the fight with Dabalt. He was actually surprised they managed to make it to the final leg of the tournament.

After the mafmet player, he knew there was no way this tournament could be won by a non-player.

Against a player, he’d definitely lose in a swordfight.

Something had happened.

He was about to descend from the platform when the referee-announcer cried. “But wait, there’s more!”

A draculkar whispered to the referee, who grandly swept his arm in a wide arc. “A champion has risen among the people, to challenge the winner! Randomly chosen from the masses, a last match of honor and might! Will you watch?”

The audience, bloodthirsty and their stoked fires likely also suddenly clogged by the abrupt ending, bellowed enthusiastic agreement.

“Number 157 of Cerkanst! An honorable challenge has risen. As the honored winner of this tournament, will you meet this challenger?!”

Weeping graves.

Where in that speech was he given leeway to disagree??!

Something had definitely happened.

He could only nod shortly.

The referee smiled at the crowd. “My ladies, my gentlemen! Let us welcome the challenger! Our very own, Kelfort Levrade !”

The named individual strode up the platform, buff and smiling under a helmet that hid his eyes, raised his hands to the crowd.

He was armored well, the sword at his hip carried familiarly.

There was an unmistakable air around him.

A player.

Krow could hear the confusion between the cheers.

Random? Yeah, right.