Chapter 79: Tempered Skills

Behind Lucas, starlight rose, a brilliance like the Milky Way flowing from the dark city of Alvado into the night sky.  

He didn’t know what was happening in the square; at this moment, he was entirely focused on the opponent before him.  

He saw the “marks” engraved on the longswords and shields, the subtle scratches and rust stains left by the passage of time, all clearly projected in his eyes.  

No matter when, Lucas always carefully observed details.  

Adventurers without enough strength must constantly pay attention to details to gain the upper hand in battle or while completing tasks.  

When facing a swordsman, you can tell their preferred sword style by the wear on the blade. Swordsmen who favor high-level sword techniques will have more nicks or scratches near the top of the blade.  

Such opponents are generally aggressive and confident in their power.  

Mid-level swordsmen tend to be more conservative, favoring sword styles that can both attack and defend, preferring to wait and counterattack in battle.  

Low-level swordsmen are unpredictable; they hold their swords low, known as the deceptive style or wild boar tusk style. Although they expose their torso, their sword tip points upward like bait, luring enemies to attack before striking decisively.  

Much intelligence can be deduced through senses—vision, smell, sound… If you truly perceive the world, you can gain unexpected insights.  

Before battle, Lucas would mentally summarize such information.  

Sometimes, he gained many advantages from his deductions; sometimes, he made mistakes, but he always left room for retreat, never allowing one error to cost him everything.  

But at this moment, he felt differently.  

Previously, he actively observed his opponents, but now, the swords and shields spoke to him proactively.  

He instinctively understood how these weapons were used, the habits of their wielders, even the weaknesses and flaws of the swords and shields—without needing to think.  

He swung his spear without adhering to any specific style, blocking the wooden arrows shot at him. He saw the weaknesses of the four Icelandic knights and, during the pauses in their breathing and exertion, shook the weapons from their hands.  

Lucas could not only see others’ flaws but also clearly saw his own.  

His spear, which had accompanied him for many years, bore scratches like the growth rings of a tree, recording his battles and training.  

At first, he didn’t choose a spear as his main weapon; he had switched many times—daggers, longswords, machetes, bows, maces… even hand axes. He tried both common and unconventional weapons.  

Although he used the spear the longest, he had some understanding and practice with all other weapons.  

Those knight swords that once felt unfamiliar now brought him a calm serenity, like meeting an old friend.  

It was like encountering an old friend on a street after many years—you could instantly recognize their back and voice.  

Years apart had not created barriers; you remained good friends, sitting together comfortably without words.  

His strength became more harmonious, and his spear swings grew gentler.  

His power had not increased; injuries and poison still slowed his movements.  

But he applied every ounce of strength in the right place, making use of every breath and heartbeat.  

He seemed to merge with the wind, no longer bound by any spear style he once learned. Various variations naturally appeared in his hands.  

He even used the spear like a sword or hammer. Over the past seventeen years, he had learned almost every weapon sold on the market.  

He reached entry-level proficiency in each; even without talent for certain weapons, he memorized the essentials.  

These were skills honed through effort and dedication—never forgotten but no longer used.  

Yet this was the first time he freely commanded all martial arts without thinking, his body moving naturally to make the optimal choice.  

The four longswords and four raven-emblazoned shields were all successively shattered by Lucas’s spear strikes.  

The Icelandic knights looked stunned, intimidated by the bloodied man before them.  

Though the force from the spear was not strong, they could not hold their weapons; it was as if the swords and shields flew from their hands on their own.  

“Shoot arrows! Shoot quickly!”  

The battle squad’s captain shouted commands urgently.  

Their weapons lost, without heavy armor, barehanded, their flesh exposed on the battlefield was as vulnerable as being naked.  

Sensing death approaching, the knights grew anxious and ordered their archers to support them.  

Meanwhile, while fighting Lucas, another squad arrived from the ice plains.  

Lucas was besieged from all sides, with eight archers drawing bows to shoot him.  

Calm as flowing water, he spun his spear, deflecting all eight wooden arrows. One arrow’s direction was even twisted by him and redirected to pierce a knight blocking his path.  

The tall knight’s throat was pierced; clutching his neck, choking in pain, the Icelander collapsed.  

The weaponless Icelandic knights involuntarily stepped back.  

They were scared by this man who looked on the brink of death.  

But in the next instant, a blazing fireball shot toward Lucas. A knight on horseback raised his right hand, which bore a burning brand. He controlled a Flame Imp to launch the fireball at Lucas.  

Lucas dodged swiftly, but the flames still burned his back, legs, and left eye. His wounds were scorched, blisters burst, oozing dirty pus, and his left eye darkened.  

Lucas picked up a knight’s sword from the ground, switching the spear to his back in an instant. He changed to sword and shield and closed in on three knights in front of him.  

He pressed the sword against one knight’s neck, using that man as a human shield. The mounted knight hesitated but finally lowered the hand controlling the imp.  

Lucas looked toward the sky with his remaining right eye. The gathered starlight was as beautiful as “the goddess’s skirt.” People in the North Tia region called the most magnificent auroras “the goddess’s skirt.” He was lucky to have seen it once, but now the starlight was even more beautiful.  

The night owls circling above suddenly fell toward the snow.  

These undead seemed no longer controlled by anyone.  

In Lucas’s mind, the image of Wade shooting arrows at the ice wolves flashed—the arrow that pierced the winter wolf’s eyes, and the Viking pirate found in the village, helmeted yet with an eye pierced by an arrow.  

At this moment, he finally saw clearly: the techniques of the two arrows had merged, and the two figures overlapped.  

“So it was you.”  

Lucas thought silently, still biting the Mist Stone.  

He slowly retreated, the other soldiers forming a circle around him.  

“Tanians, surrender!” the mounted knight spoke from above. “You have nowhere to run, nowhere to retreat!”  

Lucas looked at the encirclement. More soldiers were arriving. He slowly moved to the edge of a hillside. Behind him was a steep slope covered in white snow; ahead lay a forest and rugged mountains with no paths.  

He had chosen the exit closest to the forest and mountains.  

“Surrender, Tanian.” The Icelandic man Lucas held whispered in his ear, “You can’t escape. Giving up is the right choice. Only by submitting to Iceland can you keep your life. Lord Raymond values talent; I can plead for you.”  

Lucas kicked the Icelander in the butt, sending him flying and forcing him to eat snow and mud.  

The Icelander rolled to the side, glad to have escaped with his life.  

“Shoot arrows!” the mounted knight ordered again. More arrows flew, and the imp formed another fireball.  

They seemed no longer concerned about capturing him alive; after all, if he died, necromancers could still search his soul.  

But Lucas didn’t care about the attacks behind him. He flipped down the slope behind him.  

He placed the seized shield under his feet, crouched slightly, and slid down like riding a sled.  

Sitting on such a small shield, he maintained perfect balance and direction control.  

All wooden arrows missed; fireballs exploded harmlessly in empty space.  

The Icelanders who had encircled him could only watch helplessly as the man slid down the slope, carving a trail, then disappeared into the forest—unable to stop him.