Julian von Weber's world had been completely overturned twice in the past thirty seconds.
The first ti was when that cha descended from the sky and crushed Konrad.
The second ti was when he discovered his sword couldn't cut through it.
That's right; even if he painstakingly managed to strike the opponent, the force would vanish upon impact.
It was as if it were being sucked away by sothing.
His first round of a three-hit combo—thrust, slash, and cleave.
All of them either missed or were effortlessly neutralized.
The straight thrust was avoided with a half-step sidestep.
The horizontal slash was evaded by leaning back.
The full-force cleave was taken head-on by a forearm, which didn't even adjust its angle.
One could even say it didn't even tremble.
It was practically telling him in the most blunt and crude way: your attacks are completely insufficient.
Julian grit his teeth.
He didn't believe it.
In the second round of attacks, he changed his rhythm.
It was no longer the standard three-hit combo; instead, he doubled the speed of his thrust, cutting into a horizontal slash before the opponent could react.
Thrust—slash.
The interval between the two strikes was compressed to the limit.
The tip of the sword grazed the opponent's chest armor, producing a piercing sound of tal grinding.
It grazed!
Julian's heart rate accelerated.
But he imdiately realized sothing was wrong.
Because at the mont his sword tip touched the armor, the cha's body slightly rotated at an angle.
It only turned about five degrees.
Just enough to turn a direct hit from the sword tip into a glancing slide.
The force was perfectly deflected by the curved surface of the armor.
Not a single shred of effective damage was dealt.
Julian's back began to sweat.
But he still continued to attack.
Third round.
Fourth round.
Fifth round.
He used every move he knew.
Standard combos of Cross Fencing.
Variable-speed Thrusts taught by the instructors.
A feint followed by a backhand slash that he had devised himself.
He even used kicks, which were rarely seen in competitions.
But every single attack was neutralized.
It couldn't even be called a sophisticated parry.
It was simply... avoided.
Or blocked.
Or flat-out tanked by that layer of armor.
The opponent's response was outrageously simple.
Evading when necessary.
Blocking when necessary.
And tanking with the body when blocking wasn't possible.
No redundant movents.
No fancy techniques.
Just like a wall.
You could strike a wall a thousand tis.
The wall won't fight back.
But you also can't cut through it.
Julian's breathing grew increasingly rapid.
Sweat poured down his back, absorbed by the seal around the Spinal Interface.
His arms began to ache.
Sustained high-intensity attacks were draining his stamina.
The temperature of the cha's Steam Boiler was also slowly rising—the cooling system's indicator light turned from green to yellow.
But he couldn't stop.
Because stopping would be equivalent to admitting he was powerless.
Sixth round of attacks.
Julian adjusted his strategy.
He no longer pursued speed and instead began to probe.
Using light, probing attacks to touch various parts of the opponent, observing the reactions.
Left shoulder—the opponent slightly turned aside, letting the sword tip slide past.
Right knee—the opponent lifted a leg, parrying with the calf armor.
Head—the opponent tilted its head, the blade grazing past the side of its ear.
Waist—the opponent took a half-step back, just out of attack range.
For every probe, the opponent responded with minimal movent and minimal amplitude.
Not a single shred of energy was wasted.
Julian's brow furrowed tighter and tighter.
He was looking for a flaw.
Any flaw.
A sluggish joint.
A weak defensive area.
A gap between movents.
But he couldn't find any.
This cha's defense was like a net.
Every sh was just small enough that his sword tip couldn't pass through.
But it wasn't entirely without good news.
Julian noticed one thing.
The opponent had no weapons.
From beginning to end, that white cha hadn't drawn any weapons.
Its hands had remained empty.
And—
It hadn't attacked him either.
From the mont that cha stood up until now, all it had done was dodge, block, and tank.
It hadn't made a single move with aggressive intent.
Why?
Julian's mind raced.
The impact from descending from the sky.
No weapons.
No proactive attacks.
Only defense.
Could it be that the impact caused damage to the weapon systems?
Or was the cha's offensive function malfunctioning?
Or perhaps—the pilot was injured in the impact and couldn't perform offensive maneuvers?
Regardless of the reason, the conclusion was the sa:
This cha could only defend right now; it couldn't attack.
Julian's heart began to race again.
This ti, it was because of hope.
If the opponent couldn't attack—
Then he didn't need to worry about a counterattack.
He only needed to keep attacking and wearing it down until a crack appeared in the opponent's defense.
No defense could be perfect forever.
chas have durability limits.
Pilots have stamina limits.
Steam Boilers also have temperature limits.
As long as he held out long enough—
Julian gripped his sword tightly again.
He adjusted his breathing.
He adjusted his rhythm.
He no longer aid for a lethal blow.
Instead, he began a war of attrition.
Steady, continuous, and uninterrupted attacks.
Every strike didn't aim for maximum damage but for maximum efficiency.
Applying maximum defensive pressure with minimal stamina consumption.
The essence of Cross Fencing didn't lie in the power of a single attack.
But in the sense of rhythm within consecutive attacks.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
Precise as a trono.
Continuous as the tide.
Julian began counting the rounds.
Seventh round.
Eighth round.
Ninth round.
His attacks beca more stable and more rhythmic.
While the opponent's defense—
Was still as watertight as ever.
But Julian noticed so subtle changes.
During the tenth round, for one of his horizontal slashes, the opponent didn't sidestep as before but took it head-on with its right forearm.
Previously, a horizontal slash at the sa angle had been neutralized by a sidestep.
Why change to taking it head-on this ti?
Was it because sidestepping required more reaction ti, while taking it head-on was simpler?
Or was it because—
The opponent's reaction speed was declining?
Julian wasn't sure.
But he rembered this detail.
Eleventh round.
He deliberately increased his sword speed.
Not at full speed, just about 10% faster than before.
A microscopic change appeared in the opponent's response—
While dodging his straight thrust, the opponent's sidestep amplitude was about three centiters larger than before.
Three centiters.
In a cha battle, three centiters was almost negligible.
But Julian noticed it.
Because previously, every one of the opponent's sidesteps had been precise to the milliter level.
And now there were three extra centiters.
This ant the opponent's judgnt precision was falling.
Or rather, the opponent needed a larger safety margin to ensure a successful evasion.
Julian's eyes lit up.
Twelfth round.
He accelerated again.
This ti by 15%.
The change in the opponent's response was even more obvious.
For an Upward Slash, the opponent didn't retreat but tanked it with its left knee armor.
The sound of tal colliding was dull and loud.
The opponent's cha was jolted into a slight wobble.
It only wobbled once.
But it was the first ti.
From the start of the battle until now, this was the first ti the opponent had been "jolted" by his attack.
Julian's heart pounded violently in his chest.
He wasn't excited.
At least, he didn't allow himself to be.
Excitent makes people make mistakes.
He needed to stay calm.
He needed to keep observing.
He needed to confirm this wasn't a trap.
Thirteenth round.
Julian began to concentrate his fire.
Left shoulder—horizontal slash.
The opponent blocked with its forearm.
Right knee—Low Sweep.
The opponent lifted a leg to take it head-on.
Waist—thrust.
The opponent turned aside, but not enough; the sword tip left a shallow mark on the waist armor.
It scratched.
It truly scratched it.
Although it was just a shallow mark on the armor surface, not even breaking the coating, still—
This was the first ti he had left a mark on the opponent.
Julian's pupils contracted slightly.
Just then, heavy chanical footsteps echoed from the periphery of the training grounds.
Many.
Very dense.
Julian glanced out of the corner of his eye.
The academy's reinforcents had arrived.
At least six chas poured in from various entrances of the training grounds.
Their paint was the dark gray exclusive to the academy's instructors, with the Royal Knights Academy emblem printed on the shoulders.
Instructor chas.
Each was a battle-tested machine piloted by an experienced veteran.
They quickly deployed at the edge of the field, forming {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} a semi-encirclent that trapped the white cha in the center.
Weapons were raised.
The barrels of Steam Rifles pointed at the white cha.
A majestic voice ca through the loudspeaker:
"Unidentified cha! Cease all actions imdiately! Shut down power systems! Put your hands above your head! Otherwise, we will treat this as a hostile act and take enforcent asures!"
The white cha indeed did not move.
It stood where it was, hands still hanging empty at its sides.
The golden halo behind its head was still rotating slowly, appearing particularly conspicuous under the muzzles of the six Instructor chas.
Julian watched the scene.
Six Instructor chas.
Plus himself.
Seven against one.
And the opponent was just retreating step by step.
Now it was surrounded.
Victory—
Is within reach!
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