Dung Beetle didn’t know the first thing about swordsmanship.

The only blade he had ever wielded in his life was a kitchen knife, and even then, he’d never used it to harm anyone.

The swordsmanship he knew was limited to what he’d seen on TV—actors with fake swords—and the elf’s swordsmanship he had witnessed once.

He had only imitated the form, without understanding how to move mana or grasp the profound truths hidden within swordsmanship.

Despite all this, Dung Beetle prepared himself for swordsmanship.

His instincts urged him, whispering that he should stop using kicks and punches and instead cut his opponent’s throat in one swift move.

The men threatening Jang-man, with guns aimed at him, had no reason to be spared.

Dung Beetle raised his hand, mimicking the elf’s stance from his memory.

His poor control over mana was compensated by Pahyanggyul, and the empty skill was filled by his innate talent.

"Raaagh!"

Before Dung Beetle could fully prepare, the brute named Mortimer rushed at him. As his appearance suggested, Mortimer fought like a seasoned brawler.

'Both aiming for the neck.'

Without a word, Dung Beetle swung his hand.

Mana tore through the air. Hands met, and the clash of superhuman bodies followed.

Thud!

The first strike was a draw.

Dung Beetle’s hand didn’t cut Mortimer’s throat but slashed across his chest. Mortimer’s hand failed to grasp Dung Beetle’s neck, instead only tugging at his jacket.

'Too short.'

Perhaps because he used his hand instead of a sword, the distance was lacking, causing him to hit the chest instead of the throat.

'But the attack worked.'

Blood poured from the long horizontal gash across Mortimer’s chest. Mortimer looked down at his wound in shock, then back at Dung Beetle.

Dung Beetle pulled back, resetting his stance with his hand still raised.

The other gang members reached for their guns, but Mortimer raised his hand to stop them.

"Mortimer?"

"Strong. Run. Call for help."

At Mortimer’s words, the balding man with the M-shaped hairline scowled.

"What are you talking about? You can’t beat a kid like that..."

Before he could finish his question, Dung Beetle charged again. Mortimer, too, lunged forward to meet him.

Whizz!

Mortimer didn’t aim for Dung Beetle’s throat this time, but his right hand. It wasn’t a fight-ending move, but a clear attempt to stall for time.

But Dung Beetle was already familiar with Mortimer’s moves.

His golden eyes traced every movement of Mortimer like a glowing line.

A simple attack, relying on size and brute strength. Compared to Seti’s Feather Step or the elf’s swordsmanship he had once faced, this was no more than a child flailing their hands.

The only issue was that Mortimer was too tough.

Now that Dung Beetle knew he could cut through that toughness, Mortimer was no different from a fish flopping on the cutting board.

As Mortimer’s hand came down, Dung Beetle slipped through the opening and swung his own hand.

Shing!

The upward slice of his hand met Mortimer’s right arm. The sharp mana coursing through his hand cut through skin, muscle, and bone in one clean stroke.

Thud.

Mortimer’s severed arm fell to the ground, followed by a gush of blood.

"What...?!"

The Blue Rats were stunned. Both Dung Beetle, who had cut the arm, and Mortimer, who had lost it, stared each other down, preparing for the next clash.

'This time, the neck.'

With the intent to kill, Dung Beetle summoned the power of Pahyanggyul once more.

Whizz!

An unfamiliar swordsmanship flowed through his raised hand. The surging mana pushed the air aside again.

But before the next strike landed—

"That’s enough."

Dung Beetle’s hand stopped cold.

 

A voice, its source unknown, echoed through the bar, causing the atmosphere to drop several degrees.

The Blue Rats, who had been ready to flee, and even Mortimer, who had braced for death, froze in place like a paused scene in a film.

Like mice caught in the gaze of a snake, they couldn't move. Their eyes darted wildly, but none dared even open their mouths.

In the chilling silence, the only one who could move, even just to turn his head, was Dung Beetle.

'What… is this?'

He instinctively pulled all his mana to the surface, but it only resulted in a massive backlash, pressing down on him harder.

"Whoa, you’re still able to move?"

From the broken bar door, a casual, almost carefree voice drifted in from the alley.

Even without seeing them, Dung Beetle knew. The owner of that voice was the source of this sudden, terrifying silence.

Gritting his teeth, Dung Beetle turned to face the voice’s owner.

And the moment he saw them, he unknowingly swallowed hard.

…!?

Walking toward the bar from a distance was someone all too familiar.

A sleek, honey-colored ponytail tied up high, a face so youthful it was impossible to guess her age, and most notably, the signature eyepatch over her left eye.

Everything about her matched the image he had seen on TV documentaries.

Frea Khan.

The Holy Sword, Savior of Melbourne, Guardian of White Fire, Australia’s pride… and one of the ten strongest people on Earth.

What was someone like her doing here, in a place like this?

Dung Beetle’s mind struggled to catch up with the situation as Frea Khan leisurely entered the wrecked bar.

She glanced around the mess, then hopped up onto the counter, which had somehow remained intact.

"Wow. Superhumans these days are full of energy. Picking fights in the middle of the city, and in broad daylight, too."

Her unhidden amber eyes shifted between Dung Beetle and the Blue Rats.

After a moment, her gaze lingered on Dung Beetle before turning to the gang.

"Hey, rats."

At her single word, the pressure crushing the Blue Rats vanished.

Regaining control of their bodies, they scrambled back, some falling onto their backsides while others stared wide-eyed at Frea Khan.

Ignoring their panic, she raised a finger and pointed at the balding man with the M-shaped hairline.

"You, what’s your name?"

"Wo-Wollard, ma’am!"

"Good. Wollard, I’ve got a question for you."

"Y-Yes! Anything, ma’am, ask away!"

Though trembling in fear, Wollard bowed repeatedly. But the moment he heard her question, his back went stiff.

"What’s your boss been thinking about lately?"

"Wh-What?"

"You know, Ben. Your rat boss. What’s going through his head that he’s sending his people to places like this?"

"Uh, w-well… I don’t… I’m not in a position to see him often, so…"

"Don’t know?"

Apparently dissatisfied with his answer, Frea Khan frowned slightly. And in that instant, Wollard’s right arm fell to the ground with a thud.

The attack was invisible.

Only Dung Beetle, sensitive to mana, had sensed the end of the attack, an overwhelming swordsmanship.

"Hiiiii!"

Blood belatedly poured from the severed arm. Wollard clutched at his shoulder, screaming in horror.

"Wollard. Tell your boss something for me. During the academy entrance season, he should just lie low like a dead rat."

It was an outright threat, but coming from Frea Khan, Wollard didn’t dare question it. He only nodded furiously.

"Tell him straight, if he doesn’t want to see a trail of funerals. Got it? Now, get out."

At her command, Wollard, Mortimer, and the rest of the Blue Rats rushed out of the bar in a panicked stampede.

Just as the last of them was about to exit, Frea Khan suddenly called out to them.

"Hey! Don’t forget to take your arms with you. Ask your priest, I’m sure it won’t be too hard to reattach them."

At her signal, Wollard’s severed arm and Mortimer’s arm, which Dung Beetle had cut off, floated up and flew into their arms. They fled even faster after that, disappearing into the market streets.

Once their footsteps faded into the distance, Frea Khan turned her attention to the still-frozen Dung Beetle.

"Hey, which martial school are you from?"

The pressure on Dung Beetle vanished with her question. As soon as the foreign mana lifted, his own mana settled back into place.

"...What do you mean?"

Dung Beetle responded humbly, without thinking. He couldn’t help it; she wasn’t just stronger in skill but in presence.

"Martial school, I said. Which one did you learn?"

"..."

"Your killing intent was pretty intense. Based on your age, you’re probably not from the Zhugashvili school. Did you come from beyond the dimensional rift?"

Killing intent? Martial school? Zhugashvili? Dung Beetle frowned. It was all gibberish to him.

"I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about…"

"Come on, you don’t have to hide anything. With my reputation, do you think I’m trying to bully you? I’m just curious."

"..."

"...?"

A brief silence. Their eyes met.

Frea Khan’s brow furrowed, and she suddenly raised her hand, her fingers forming a particular shape.

It was a sword seal.

Unlike Dung Beetle’s hand strike, this was the true form of a sword technique meant to be performed barehanded.

Seeing the confusion on Dung Beetle’s face, she raised her eyebrows again.

'What the hell is this guy?'

And in the next moment, she swung the sword seal.

A blade of mana surged from between her fingers, slicing through the air.

“?!”

On instinct, Dung Beetle raised his hand to block her strike.

Clang!

The force of her mana strike made his fingers feel like they were about to shatter. The impact traveled from his hand all the way down to his feet.

He nearly lost his balance, but managed to stay upright, glaring at her in half-shock, half-confusion.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Frea Khan didn’t answer.

Instead, she scrutinized him with a puzzled expression, then swung the sword seal again as if testing something.

Clang!

This time, Dung Beetle deflected her attack more smoothly, without even a tremor in his knees.

"..."

Her sole eye, the only one visible, grew colder.

At first, she had merely wanted to reprimand a junior superhuman. After all, she didn’t like the sight of someone recklessly picking a fight in the middle of a city, dripping with killing intent.

But now that she was facing him, she realized this guy’s talent was no joke.

The fact that he had overcome her earlier pressure and managed to move was no fluke. The mana flowing through his body was not only pure but almost transparent.

Running into someone like him, in this place, at this moment, couldn’t have been mere coincidence. Frea Khan didn’t believe in such things.

So, she had approached him and tested his swordsmanship.

Her intention had been to gauge his skills and identify his background. After all, martial arts, by their form alone, contain countless details.

But when she saw his moves, all she got was more confusion.

"Hey, who the hell are you?"

"..."

"What kind of human uses elf swordsmanship?"