Chapter 33: Miracle

[Varkas Uhl: 37 Contribution Points Wagered VS Ashe Heath: 2 Contribution Points Wagered]

The Death Match Club was referred to as a cesspit by the inmates themselves. It was already rare for a newcomer to fight in the cesspit for two full days. That his opponent happened to be the "noble" Varkas only made the spectacle more irresistible.

Even inmates with no connection to the Death Match Club crowded into the arena. Spectator seats overflowed, and the doorway teemed with onlookers.

"They're both using swords... a sword duel? Haven't seen a proper swordmaster fight in ages. After every match, the whole arena reeks of that metallic, bloody scent..."

"Human, cut that elf down!"

"What's with that grip? He's never trained in swordsmanship! Don't tell me he picked up a sword just because the elf did and panicked!"

"If you can't use a sword, then don't! Wouldn't a spear be easier to learn?"

"An axe would be better. One good swing and any weapon in your way turns to mush."

"You... what nonsense are you spouting? Spears are clearly better for beginners!"

"I'm not spouting nonsense! Axes are the best starter weapons!"

Ashe found yet another reason to escape from the prison. He would rather endure a barrage of curses than listen to deep-voiced grown men squabble in the delicate tones of tsundere maidens. The mismatch was as absurd as mixing tom yum soup with tofu pudding.

"They're so noisy."

Varkas replied, "That's the cesspit for you. Flies buzz everywhere."

Varkas lifted his iron sword and flicked the blade with his finger. A crisp, ringing note echoed across the ring. "Maggots don't become butterflies. Even a real butterfly is nothing more than a larger fly once it enters a cesspit."

Ashe laughed. "Sounds like you've thought a lot about prison life. Planning to write a book?"

Varkas brushed his fingers along the blade and assumed a flawless stance. "Ashe Heath, my apologies."

The moment the barriers rose around the arena, Varkas struck with lightning speed. His sword seemed to stretch several meters in an instant, slicing through the air toward Ashe.

Despite his vigilance, Ashe couldn't raise his own sword in time to block. He could only dodge, narrowly avoiding a fatal strike. Still, Varkas managed to shave a small chunk of flesh from his shoulder.

Ashe hissed sharply from the intense pain. Before he could recover, Varkas was already upon him.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Rather than retreating, Ashe closed the distance, forcing the fight into deadly close quarters. Pain surged through his shoulder, but his mind remained clear as he analyzed his opponent. Varkas stood ten centimeters taller and had long limbs, giving him overwhelming reach. At mid-close range, Ashe had almost no room to fight back. Only by moving into extreme proximity could he turn Varkas's reach advantage into a liability and prevent him from swinging properly.

"You really haven't learned to use a sword?"

A chill ran down Ashe's spine as Varkas twisted his wrist, switching from an overhand to a reverse grip.

Clang!

Varkas blocked Ashe's thrust and, using his height advantage, slammed his elbow into Ashe's forehead.

The blow nearly knocked Ashe out. Every fibre in his body screamed.

Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!

Just then, the dormant mana in his mind awakened. A cool rush surged through him, snapping his consciousness back to the fight. He regained control of his combat instincts and stepped back decisively.

As his vision cleared, a flash of chilling light filled his view.

Boom!

Ashe scrambled to his feet, refusing to let his back hit the floor. When he saw Varkas's blade shatter the stone wall, a cold fear crawled up Ashe's spine.

Our swords aren't even sharpened! The prison isn't insane enough to give death row inmates real weapons! Varkas slicing a chunk off my shoulder with a blunt blade is already absurd on its own. Even then, I could still tell myself he moved so fast my body didn't react in time. But that's a stone wall. A stone wall! Stop. This isn't swordsmanship. This has already gone far beyond anything swordsmanship can explain.

Ashe murmured, "A spirit?"

Varkas smiled. "Why do you look surprised? Isn't it only natural for sorcerers to use spirits in battle?"

"But the prison hasn't lifted the restrictions on mana—"

"Some things can't be locked down. Even with their hands and feet bound, they still grow wings and fly. The spirits born purely from the knowledge I've mastered remain my power, even without any mana. They turn every ordinary movement of mine into a miraculous moment."

Ashe let out a long breath. Blood from his shoulder injury had soaked through his clothes, weighing him down. He could feel his strength draining, strand by strand, carried away with each drop.

Unlike bare-knuckle fighting, sword duels offered no flashy, turn-based exchanges. Once deadly weapons were involved, life and death came down to a single breath, where the strong prevailed and the weak perished.

Yet strangely, Ashe felt clear-headed. The mana in his mind became more and more active, and the pain in his shoulder receded.

"If that strike had hit a vital spot, nothing could have saved me, right?"

"I don't know. I've never gone all out in a Death Match."

"So I'm the first to make you go all out?"

"And the last."

Boom!

With a casual lift of his blade, Varkas cracked and shattered the steel-hard ring floor. A fissure surged forward toward Ashe like a lunging, giant serpent.

"Is that the Sword Class Miracle, Fissure?"

"He actually used a Miracle!"

"No way!"

The audience erupted in a clamor. They pressed their faces against the invisible barrier, desperate to catch every detail of Varkas's movements.

Iger was no exception. He had seen Varkas fight before and expected him to summon spirits, but he never expected a Miracle, which was on a whole other level.

Every Miracle required multiple composite spirits working together, but merely possessing them didn't guarantee success. It was like how ordinary humans all had the same features, like nose, eyes, and mouth, but one could end up with an angelic face, while the other... might as well have been born face-first into the dirt. Miracles were so rare that successfully casting one was considered a miracle in itself.

Only the most exceptional talents could become sorcerers. Most could never refine their craft enough to summon a spirit, let alone master a Miracle. Even among the gifted, a sorcerer might master only one or two in a lifetime; those below average might never succeed at all.

Miracles were powerful and complex by design. Compared to spirits, their scale was greater, harder to counter, and capable of cross-discipline effects. A Swordmaster's Miracle could heal wounds. A Water Sorcerer's could vaporize an enemy. A Gun Master's could force foes to catch bullets. Among sorcerers, there was a saying, "Spirits are merely extensions of our craft, but Miracles are true impossibilities."

Iger possessed all the composite spirits needed for a Miracle. In theory, he should have been able to summon one. Yet he had never succeeded even once inside the prison. Using a spirit here was like trying to pick your nose with your toes. It was difficult but possible. Casting a Miracle, however, was like applying makeup with your toes, and every stroke had to be flawless, or it didn't count.

Iger watched the ring crumble and felt a pang of pity for Ashe.

He is doomed.

Varkas clearly intended to kill him. Under the crushing force of the Miracle, Fissure, Ashe wouldn't even remain intact. Pieces of him might never be found, and the prison's healers could do nothing about it. In the end, his remains would be handed over to the ogres.

This was the brutal reality of the Blood Moon Kingdom. Beneath claims of racial equality, rule of law, and harmonious coexistence, carnivores still obeyed the cruelest law of all, where the strong prey on the weak. Once the interests of those in power were threatened, even hiding in Shattered Lake Prison couldn't protect the person responsible from them.

What a pity. He is a rather interesting man...

After the Miracle Fissure had gone on for some time, a spectator broke the silence. "Why isn't he dead yet?"

"Even a weakened Miracle should kill someone who can't even hold a sword properly, right?"

All eyes turned to Ashe.

Exactly, why isn't he dead?

The ring lay in ruins. Against Varkas's earth-shattering Miracle, Ashe dodged left and right like a frantic hamster covered in dust. Several times, he barely escaped being crushed into pulp. Still, he kept dodging, every single time. His movements were clumsy at first, but they sharpened with each step, becoming more precise and efficient. His grip on his sword steadied, and he could now block Varkas's strikes. It was almost... uncanny.

A spectator muttered, "This is just like yesterday's Death Match against the Beautiful Beast."

Iger felt it the most. He had personally witnessed Ashe grow in real time. His technique sharpened with every passing second. From a fragile greenhouse flower incapable of even rolling properly, Ashe transformed into a predator driven purely by battle instinct. And now, a second victim appeared.

That monster... Ashe actually learned how to use a sword in the middle of a fight. This is a prison, not a talent cultivation academy, damn it!

Others recalled the crimes that had landed Ashe in prison and connected his astonishing rate of growth to his background.

In the dim spectator seats, Ronna hooked an arm around his boyfriend's neck. He frowned as he watched the two figures in the ring. "The Four Pillars Deities..."