Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C75

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Chapter 75: The King Beneath the Earth, Part 26

"Boy," tapped the invisible barrier—knowledge and skill were two entirely different matters. A person could recite every stance and attack pattern of a sword art by heart, but that was no substitute for years, even decades, of dedicated practice.

Kulan believed that even though now "understood" countless sword techniques, he likely wouldn’t be able to execute them properly. Kulan himself had gone through a similar experience, but after decades of honing his craft, he’d accumulated enough practical insight to guide the young man. Perhaps with his advice, Brandon might stand a chance against his opponents.

So he shouted, “Forget about all those things cluttering your mind! Let me show you how to use what you’ve just learned. Whose swordsmanship are you trying to emulate?”

But Kulan didn’t expect Brandon to completely ignore him.

Truthfully, Brandon was feeling a bit irritated. If it hadn’t been for Kulan’s interference earlier, he wouldn’t have nearly fallen into peril. Still, he understood the old man meant well and chose not to dwell on it. Besides, there was no way he’d make the same mistake again—not now that his enemies were already upon him.

It was the same formation as before: Eberton and Buga in front, his grandfather and Teste behind. Clearly, these projections intended to corner him once more—a sound strategy, given Brandon’s growing fatigue. His body felt heavier, a sure sign his stamina was waning.

Yet this time, something was different.

After a brief moment of thought, Brandon sifted through the myriad of sword arts available to him and selected one perfectly suited to his current predicament. This style wasn’t unfamiliar to him; a friend from his past had excelled at it, and he’d dabbled in it briefly. Back then, it didn’t align with his primary path, so he abandoned it. But now, its suitability was uncanny.

With a slight flick of his blade, Brandon settled into a familiar starting stance.

“Young one,” the woman’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, tinged with surprise. To pick up an unfamiliar sword art so seamlessly—it was no small feat.

“What?” Brandon replied coolly, as if observing himself from afar.

“Your talent for the blade is truly enviable. Few could compare… perhaps only him.” Her voice softened, carrying a trace of admiration that tugged at the heartstrings.

Brandon didn’t know who she referred to, but given her elven detachment, it might very well be . As far as he knew, Geert had earned the title of prodigy in his youth—a distinction far more prestigious during the than it was now.

His thoughts wandered, yet the tip of his sword remained steady. At this moment, Brandon experienced a peculiar sensation—as if he had split into two distinct selves. One prepared to face the enemy, while the other calmly analyzed the situation. These dual aspects coexisted harmoniously, creating a delicate balance.

Time seemed to stretch, and everything around him grew vivid and intricate. The flow of his thoughts slowed, mirroring the sluggish movements of those around him. The attackers advanced ponderously, their motions almost lethargic. Beyond the arena, Kulan continued pounding the barrier, shouting hoarsely.

"Boy!" the elder bellowed. "Listen to me! Don’t overreach yourself. No one masters new techniques overnight—"

But his words died abruptly mid-sentence.

Because Brandon moved.

With a casual flick of his longsword, Brandon blurred into action. For a fleeting instant, it seemed as though four versions of him materialized simultaneously, each launching strikes against his grandfather, Teste, Buga, and Eberton. Four sharp clangs rang out in rapid succession—horizontal slashes, vertical cuts—all executed flawlessly.

The five combatants retreated a step. What was meant to be a suffocating assault instead widened Brandon’s range of movement.

Kulan recognized the technique immediately.

What stunned him was how effortlessly Brandon wielded it—like someone who’d practiced it for years. No, more than practiced. As an experienced swordsman himself, Kulan understood the significance of Brandon’s unadorned efficiency.

Combat experience.

Kulan froze mid-motion, his hand suspended above the barrier. If he could pop his eyeballs out of their sockets, they would surely have dropped to the ground by now.

By Marsha’s grace, what kind of prodigy was this? Kulan’s head throbbed as if his brain were being twisted into knots. How could such a being exist in this world?

He wasn’t alone in this sentiment. Brandon’s four opponents felt it even more acutely. With their strength constrained to equal levels, technique became the decisive factor. Yet now, they realized Brandon’s swordplay had become erratic, unpredictable.

A transformation.

They hesitated briefly but pressed on, relentless. Renowned swordsmen all, they understood that only constant pressure would whittle Brandon down.

This time, Brandon’s grandfather took the lead. Being the strongest among them, he naturally bore the brunt of the burden. He leveled his sword, signaling the others to encircle and maintain pressure.

This approach marked a shift in strategy. Gone was any hope of landing a decisive blow; instead, they opted for a methodical, defensive suppression. While underhanded, it was undeniably effective.

Brandon watched, inwardly alarmed. Who exactly was his grandfather? Such tactical prowess surpassed that of an ordinary veteran.

Yet even outnumbered, Brandon’s performance left the spectators awestruck. To the young onlookers, this lordling was fast becoming a figure akin to the legendary war gods of old.

When the elder leveled his sword, Brandon did the same—but not defensively. It was the opening stance of another sword art.

The .

The joy Brandon felt upon discovering this art among the woman’s repertoire was palpable, causing his blade to tremble slightly. Compared to , this was the style most familiar to him as a level 130 warrior—and the one he’d used most frequently.

This technique, later adopted by northern warriors, evolved over time and eventually gained renown as the offensive doctrine of .

Brandon gently leveled his sword, thinking, Let me show you what true swordsmanship looks like.

Then he moved.

Though his grandfather stood foremost, Teste was the first to realize—too late—that Brandon had targeted him.

How had he bypassed the others?

That question lingered in everyone’s minds. Even the white-haired elder turned in astonishment, only to witness Brandon driving his blade into Teste’s throat.

“What are you doing?”

The elder froze, his eyes darting between Buga and Eberton. Even if Brandon had slipped past him, how could he so easily dispatch Teste under their combined guard?

Buga and Eberton exchanged equally bewildered glances.

Too fast.

Before they could react, Brandon disarmed Teste with a flick of his wrist and pierced the young viscount’s throat in a single fluid motion.

“Young one,” the woman murmured, watching the scene unfold with mild astonishment. “That wasn’t my technique.”

“I improved it,” Brandon declared unabashedly.

Even as he spoke, his blade never faltered. Advancing, Brandon made short work of Eberton and Buga, their vaunted skills reduced to child’s play. His attacks surged forward like a dragon unleashed, breaking through the encirclement formed by his grandfather and the two swordsmen.

As Buga and Eberton scrambled to locate him again, the elder raised his sword to intercept Brandon’s strike aimed at Eberton’s back.

But he quickly realized it was a trap.

Brandon’s blade split into three phantom arcs before him. The elder retreated hastily, deflecting the attacks with swift, precise parries.

This time, it was Brandon’s turn to be astonished. He stared at his grandfather, disbelief etched across his face. Though deprived of physical attributes here, the elder’s technique rivaled that of someone at least level sixty—a feat unimaginable for a mere veteran.

Brandon gaped. Could his grandfather have once awakened elemental affinity? That notion seemed absurd. Would a master of such caliber retreat to a border province to run a humble mill?

Not impossible, but improbable. In Brandon’s memory, his grandfather had always been nothing more than an aging veteran of the .

He looked at the elder before him, who returned his gaze steadily.

Suddenly, the projection of Brandon’s grandfather spoke—for the first time since the battle began.

“No—”

But it was too late.

From behind, Buga lunged toward Brandon, intending to ambush him. The elder’s warning wasn’t for Brandon’s benefit, however—it was meant for the master of the Crossed Swords.

Alas, fate had other plans.

Buga’s headless corpse staggered past Brandon, their paths crossing in eerie silence.

No one saw how Brandon struck.

“A minor trick,” the young man said simply, addressing his ‘grandfather.’

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