Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C73

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Chapter 73: The King Beneath the Earth, Part 24

After a brief and intense clash, the atmosphere in the arena seemed to shift abruptly.

Before could even catch his breath after scrambling to his feet, the elder who had attacked him earlier—his grandfather—pressed forward with renewed vigor. Panic-stricken, the young man flung the sword in his left hand as a desperate distraction and retreated hastily. He had no desire to face his grandfather directly, not because of some misplaced respect for elders, but because the old man was simply terrifying.

But it soon became clear that things were not so simple anymore.

As Buga, Teste, and rose from their positions, they no longer rushed recklessly into the fray. Instead, they moved cautiously, aligning themselves with Brandon’s grandfather, and began to coordinate their efforts. The battle grew steady and deliberate, its rhythm shifting under the old man’s command. Brandon quickly realized that since his grandfather had joined the fight, he had taken control of the tempo. Gone were the frantic exchanges; instead, the attacks came measured and unhurried.

Brandon had never imagined that a veteran of the would lead three elite swordsmen with such composure—or rather, such natural authority. It was as if the old man had been born to command, effortlessly compelling others to follow his lead.

On the surface, the slower pace seemed advantageous for Brandon. But deep down, he knew better. This methodical approach left him with no room to maneuver. It wasn’t a matter of being defeated swiftly—it was about being worn down until exhaustion claimed him. Every swing of his sword felt heavier, every step backward more labored. His options dwindled.

What terrified Brandon most was not just his grandfather’s skill—he had seen glimpses of it in dreams—but the way the old man refused to rush. Instead, he disrupted Brandon’s attempts at counterattacks, appearing wherever Brandon tried to break through, forcing him back. Each time, the old man would press just enough to keep Brandon off-balance before retreating slightly. Yet behind those calculated strikes lurked deadly intent. If Brandon failed to respond fully to any one of them, the next blow might seal his fate.

Forced to focus entirely on survival, Brandon found himself analyzing every movement around him—the flow of air, the tension in muscles, the flicker of expressions. Even seemingly innocuous feints demanded his full attention. The presence of multiple opponents amplified the danger, making every decision critical. The old man’s strategy unfolded like a spider weaving its web, drawing tighter with each passing moment.

The toll on Brandon was immense. Fighting this way pushed him to his limits, leaving him drained and disoriented. His body screamed in protest, his mind foggy, his reflexes operating almost independently of conscious thought. And yet, paradoxically, something within him clicked into place. Memories of countless duels and techniques he’d observed over years of practice began to crystallize, merging seamlessly into instinct. Knowledge once foreign now felt innate.

A single strike.

Two strikes.

Three strikes.

In the span of a heartbeat, Brandon parried three consecutive blows from Buga and Teste. No sooner had he done so than his grandfather and Eberton seized the opening to charge forward. Gasps erupted from the spectators outside the arena. Even Cinnabar clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.

Without hesitation, Brandon unleashed the last reserves of his strength. He parried his grandfather’s blade with a swift reverse swing, using the momentum to retreat further. Then, with a sweeping arc of the , he kicked up a cloud of dust that momentarily halted Eberton’s advance. Landing lightly, he blocked another thrust from his grandfather.

Another trio of strikes followed, each executed with precision and speed. Only after completing these maneuvers did Brandon realize what had happened. He froze, cold sweat trickling down his spine. Those six strikes—those flawless defenses—were beyond anything he believed himself capable of.

In all his years immersed in games, Brandon had witnessed countless forms of swordplay. But there was a vast difference between understanding techniques theoretically and executing them flawlessly. Most of what he knew remained superficial, mere mimicry without true mastery. Yet those six strikes transcended imitation. They weren’t flashy or elaborate—they were efficient, precise, and devastating.

And then it hit him: the style he’d used wasn’t something he had invented. It was Flash Swordsmanship—an ancient technique passed down by the fire dragon, , to the legendary , . A heritage belonging to the .

, watching from the sidelines, couldn’t believe his eyes. The old guard’s brow furrowed deeply as realization dawned. How could this young man possess such insight without relying on the ? Wasn’t that supposed to be the key to unlocking higher ranks?

“Impossible,” Kulan muttered under his breath. “This isn’t the Sacred Seal… not wind elves’ swordsmanship either. Could Tobbs have neglected to tell him? But he is clearly the one inheriting…”

Shaking his head to dispel the confusion, Kulan focused on a new question: if Brandon hadn’t relied on the Sacred Seal, how had he reached gold-rank? Was this truly raw talent manifesting itself?

---

Meanwhile, inside the arena, Brandon faced renewed pressure. His grandfather and Eberton withdrew momentarily, allowing Teste and Buga to resume their relentless assault. Exhaustion weighed heavily on the young man, his movements sluggish as he backed toward the invisible barrier at the edge of the arena.

“Lord Brandon, beware behind you!” Yuta called out urgently.

Distracted, Brandon sensed the wall looming close. There was nowhere left to retreat. Surveying the battlefield, he saw no path to escape. Trading blows might work, but only if his grandfather didn’t see through his plan. Otherwise, it could mean trading lives.

Frowning, Brandon doubted he could deceive the old man. Just then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Boy.”

The call sounded distant, like an echo from another world. But Brandon recognized it immediately. Only one person addressed him that way—the aging guard captain.

Annoyed, Brandon shook his head. Why was the old fool interfering now? Did he think he could exploit the situation to eliminate him? If so, he was sorely mistaken. Brandon had come prepared to fight, and he would defend himself to the end.

Still, the distraction grated on him. One wrong move, and the would slip from his grasp. Irritated, he took a deep breath, determined to stay focused. He wouldn’t let the prize slip away—not now.

But Kulan shouted again: “Your Sacred Seal, boy! What happened to your Sacred Seal?”

“Again with this nonsense?” Brandon muttered. He didn’t understand what Kulan meant, nor did he have the energy to ask. Sensing this, Kulan bellowed louder: “Your ring! Use your ring!”

He gestured emphatically with the in his hand.

Brandon frowned, raising his sword defensively as the four masters closed in. What was the point? Did he not know that equipment and non-combat skills were nullified by the arena.

Kulan was visibly frustrated by Brandon’s apparent denseness. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he exclaimed, “No, no—I’m not telling you to use it! Focus and sense the ring. It’s real!”

Brandon turned sharply, staring at Kulan with undisguised surprise. “Real?” his expression asked silently.

“It’s not a fake!” Kulan nearly leapt in frustration. “I don’t know how you came by it, but it belonged to your grandfather. It’s genuine.”

Suddenly, Kulan’s eyes widened. “Behind you!”

Whirling around, Brandon barely registered the gleam of steel slicing toward his back. His grandfather, seizing the brief lapse in concentration, drove his blade straight for Brandon’s heart. The icy touch of death brushed against him, sending chills coursing through his veins.

had arrived.

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