Reincarnated as a Duck

It was a wonder—this clash—and this entire area. Bagus tried really hard to keep his face straight, but what was it worth before a Blessed of this world?

They weren't cursed. They were pitiful and mysterious beings, bathed in the glory of Gods who weren't worthy of pity or prayers.

But killing might gain glory, or death, and create stories or the simplest forms of finishes.

Gods might watch it all with their great interest or not at all. At the end, who even cared? It might be for naught, for the Hellscape was Levandis's realm, and this special, locked land and mine was even more special.

Perhaps Mindarch took it even further and gave it his sophisticated interpretation. Either way, Razmund didn't know which was more likely, thanks to one truth prevailing over the others. He shouldn't give a shit about it, because Mindarch and Levandis dictated the rules, and what was right was their claim.

He had his own life, and it was halfway where it should be.

However, the current lack of that hellish yet cherished Voice did mess things up so much more than anything else. Perhaps this Hell was his paradise, or yet another tour to beat, or weather down.

But he heard that note of Authority when he entered the Silver Room. Gods should be involved and not in a negligible way. They watched and judged, and that meant a simple thing.

Right. Judges should watch over the Order and give Razmund what he despised and was required to do if things worsened. It was fine if they didn't come close when that sick, devilish technique cloned him or when he was faced with those paladins and Ceila.

Expecting better was naive thinking, and many ideas weren't always what the Gods wanted, just as with Judges or Angels. Razmund had to rely on the hierarchy to live in this world, even if it meant going further, forgetting his own world, or disappearing into the Old World.

Razmund considered how miserably he had behaved since he had seen his prey and opposed this lesser prey.

Bagus was strong. Almost shockingly strong, coupled with assertive powers and moves that went against his flesh. It hurt, wounded him, and stopped him, for this beast was a guardian. Both in tenacity and spirit, Bagus was pissing him off and was showing no mercy for anything.

He took advantage of Razmund's preparedness, or the lack thereof. It was a strange desire. To crush him was not possible, yet this beast wanted it, because it underestimated him even as one above Level 70.

That was a laughable issue; Bagus never understood why someone would underestimate something like that, as the order of numbers did prevail for centuries in most eras. It changed from time to time, either due to the influence of gods or the talents of the current era. It didn't make too much sense, but who was strong was invariably strong.

It was Razmund who was bizarre. Strength wasn't his purpose in wandering alone. It was sheer dedication, insanity, and power that he maintained. That was his subjective Path, and Bagus opposed it.

It wasn't normal, yet Razmund wasn't using anything at this moment. Why? He ran and dug for a long time, hoping to watch his prey after so long, and felt he needed to recollect himself.

The last time they met, it wasn't a good occasion. Back as a Falconer, he was wounded and poisoned, and...well, he made a terrible mistake back then that cost him a lot. Yet it also enabled Encounter's existence and pushed this Godly interest. So what if he took a glimpse at Murai himself, alone yet breaking? That lofty duck in the middle of a ridiculous Soul Space was mesmerizing, weird, and something that he had never felt.

He wasn't underestimating anything about that, but he didn't know him. Razmund knew he had yet to grow, so that meant Murai was weak, all things considered. If anyone grasped this concept, it was Razmund, who knew who Blessed were in this world, or how abhorrent they could get. Centralis was full of this shit, and so was he.

Thus, he decided to take another meeting seriously and expect the most unexpected things possible. Facing Bagus was one of them, followed by additional aggressive steps.

Frankly, he should be glad about Ozeki, who should be out of the picture and his shitty devilish life. Whether he was alive or dead wasn't important. He was a tool well spent, and he did so with brazen glory.

Doubts were decreasing, thanks to the weight of the battle of endurance and blood that was beginning to boil, amassing wounds and more. Seeing an enemy that he thought was weak. It was wrong and failing.

He had failed.

How many times, exactly, did he feel it? The stench of failure and an awful sense of disappointment seemed like a curse of this shitty life. He wasn't necessarily underestimating Murai's team; there wasn't any point in that, though Itrosh fled for her life, so perhaps it was fine to witness their weakness as their strength in life.

Razmund didn't have that; he was still worried about Ceila's involvement, so he shouldn't be negligent over his line. But acts?

He still failed, which was strange. Why was he so free in taking when he had so little to lose? When was he so easy to bully, after what he had troubled over his head or heart? Again, he failed, which forced terrible memories to overtake him.

Young, watched over by Uzbek, the king's brother, Razmund trained and thought he was both weak and strong. It was a familiar yet terrible feeling since having the strength to kill others was common, yet so cheap it wasn't even respectable.

There was this odd, unexpected forte in strength and beings in this world. After all, he wasn't alone in facing hopes and powers. Whether it was cheap, there was so much more that he had yet to see.

Not that Razmund wished for that. There was not much time.

Some digging or running for many hours was nothing. His physique dealt with much more every war, or was it the overall stress of the Encounter that he was bearing for the first time as its primary component? He didn't want it, yet it happened because God said so.

In that insight, he had failed himself again. His heart. He promised.

It wasn't enough. Razmund wasn't prepared to face the bitterness of defeats. He wasn't built for that, so maybe it wasn't about winning or losing. Just surviving. The upcoming clash had stakes and visions unlike any other.

And the Centralis Kingdom depended on him.

"Fuck them!" He suddenly shouted, brandishing his claymore with one hand as he tried to fix his face. He was lurching it aside and coming closer to Bagus's attack—the heavy beak coming at his torso.

All the little feather fragments felt deep and hurting in his face, like sizzling little daggers or darts as they dug deep, and the bleeding was not that small.

Bagus forfeited all that he couldn't muster; he went for the kill since he saw his little try bearing some surprising results.

Razmund eyed him with one eye; the other was profusely bleeding. Then, he gritted his teeth and considered it was enough playing around.

Mana enveloped his shoulder and back, stressing the shit out of his bones and muscles, guiding them and strengthening them like strings or an exoskeleton.

In a single second, he unleashed his Raging Bull, enveloping his right arm in waves of its power like a cloth. Then he squeezed before striking against that sizable beak in a single heavy motion.

It almost felt as if a devil possessed him, considering how much strength he unleashed in that single motion.

Bagus was flung away immediately, feeling a heavy force that was unnatural and vast, yet not as sharp as the ones before.

His weight wasn't without its merit, nor was his attack. Razmund staggered in his steps afterward, his right arm screeching in pain, yet his claymore was still in his palm. Good. The bones in his right arm were dislocated even with the Raging Bull, so he fixed it with more pressure.

"Fuck..." he cursed, thinking that if it hadn't been for the Raging Bull around his right side, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. He would've lost his claymore, and who knew what else Bagus would do afterward? Probably continuing his charge or swinging those sick feathers again? It wouldn't kill him, but Razmund doubted this beast knew that.

Razmund wouldn't let him go that far.

But this far?

Bagus was the winning side of this clash anyway. He wasn't wounded in the slightest, though his previous wounds were still bleeding, and his prime time was dwindling.

Razmund bent his back, almost stumbling face down as he wobbled. His right arm snapped the moment he made it move forward, so he fell to his knees and smacked the ground with his right side, forcing Raging Bull to pull him back to a proper place.

Grunting, he used his claymore to get back to his feet rather than struggle as his right side was back in fighting shape. Bruisers and a lot of swelling were prominent.

His eyes met a sudden shriek and quite brutal steps.

Bagus carried out another attack with his best tool, as his Laws did not do enough for him. His body was sturdy. That was his trait carried by his entire being. It survived this clash without any cracks. That either spoke about the quality of his beak or Razmund's lacking potency.

His clash was heavy and offensive, holding momentum despite lacking the usual Sharpness.

Bagus huffed a breath, preparing to strike again as he balanced his head and thought of his steps. His abilities were still exceptional, varying in strength or expanding in scope. He believed he could still try some things under his arsenal, yet the same thing could be said about his opponent.

He watched how Razmund's Raging Bull glinted, moved, and got back to look like a suit of armor over his back and shoulders. It almost resembled small wings if it had spread and become more cohesive, but that was an illusion. No Raging Bull would fly. That would be ridiculous.

"You are... strong," Razmund mumbled, his steps echoing in a similar weight to Bagus as he decided to end it. "Thus, I acknowledge this clash by striking and killing you with my real strength."

Bagus laughed. "Stupid of you to not do it earlier."

"Dare you take it or flee like your lost kitten?" Razmund taunted him.

"Kitten?" Bagus didn't like this insult or a try at a taunt. "I will kill you first, human, even if it's going to hurt us both."

He pounced again, knowing that with his own bleeding, a prolonged fight wasn't ideal. He lacked the confidence to carry this passage.

Or it might be enough, considering Razmund was bleeding a lot himself.

But Bagus knew him; he learned and listened well to how Lisa and David mentioned and explained who Razmund was and what he could do.

Even worse, he had heard about this Blessed long before meeting Murai. They were around the same Level, and Razmund reached this temple a couple of times and was active on the Surface. It was inevitable for things to get heated up.

However, Razmund barely considered Bagus as his enemy, so it felt...weird. Bagus was disappointed in himself because he believed his life to be enough of a threat. At worst, he was being played by this man for shit and giggles of Gods, or Bagus wasn't truly strong.

How come? He was fighting a lot in the past few days. Though it might not be on the level of Ultium, his time with Murai and his fight wasn't an insignificant skirmish or a small derision from destroying sects or clans alike.

He even killed some Lawful beings! With Paths and history, strength, poise, merits, and achievements.

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Nobody would proclaim him weak if they were right in the head.

So, it might be wrong after all.

He wasn't weak.

Razmund was just stupid for not realizing it and paid the price.

Not only did Razmund's offensive capabilities exceed his Level by a large margin, but his defense was not shabby for a human. It led to a lot of bleeding until he looked like he would die in many cases, though it wasn't sinful.

Taking many hits while causing equal or higher damages was a weird battle style for a maniac. Bagus was similar, yet his defense was innate and was far from the likes of men.

It might kill this man one day or push him forward if he wouldn't crack to the base. Stubbornness, regeneration, and pursuit of endurance were strong suits of his Physique, which neither Bagus nor David knew much about. It was a very uneasy and unknown one.

According to the context of watching, knowing, and hearing what he accomplished, it should be what allowed him to fight and live through so many battles without many breaks or considerable leaks of blood.

To put it shortly, he was an insane human. The likes of those who would die young, Bagus assumed, and always imagined the worst when he heard anything related to Blessed humans.

There were those eyes. Razmund's focus was on the position of his Path and everything related to advances rather than on his beak or feathers. It was a point of humans who might be much more insane than many demons.

Bagus wasn't like him; he didn't want to be like him.

Instead of worrying about weaknesses or his heart, he swung his wing and clashed against him again rather than go with the head.

Razmund struck with his single grasped claymore again, still eying him with his single open eye. The fragments were an excessive bother, so he kept digging them out with his left hand, which was terrible since he had to fight.

It worked little by little, even when Bagus didn't give up on his privileges and time.

So when Bagus got stuck and felt the weight of Razmund's single-handed and Raging-Bull-infused slash, he felt he did something wrong.

It wasn't as if Razmund wanted this to last this long; he found it bothersome to deal with some Pathless fools before him out of principle. A beast, sure. Even one with heavy instincts, intellect, and a powerful body and evolution, it was still a beast.

It was beneath him, as that was pressed into his time.

Bagus wished to laugh at such arrogance until the momentum of this clash forced him to reconsider his thoughts.

He felt as if his wing was about to explode in a second, so he bent his body and flapped his neck, striking the cleaving claymore with his beak. The entire cut almost severed his wing, cutting his feathers and crushing some to dust.

It hurt and screeched, making loud noises. Bagus considered his head and successfully neglected any significant damage with his beak.

The aftermath ended in one loud, sharp explosion, with beak colliding against a claymore and Razmund's mana and technique. Both were unwilling to step back, but the pressure was too much.

Bagus backed far away, face aghast and blood flowing from his wing and chest alike when he did so. Razmund slashed at him, cutting the ground and floor and doing dozens of slashes in a few moments.

Now, he had even less time left.

Razmund flinched as the last cut hit the ground, leaving a sharp incision.

"You are sharp one, beast," he mumbled as his grip lessened and his left hand dug the remaining fragments from his flesh. It wasn't as if he couldn't flex it all away. It would just leave more blood and pain.

He tested how wounds and various strikes affected his body numerous times; or to be precise, his master and teacher did test it out enough to leave a scarred mind and body in then-young Razmund.

It wasn't a pretty experience, as each wound and technique of pushing human bodies beyond their human limits carried a ton of blood and pain. It had various implications.

Now, his Physique was helping the healing processes and enduring the blood flow and everything to remain in one vast circulation. That was why the blood was spreading too much.

Blood oozed out of the wounds, and his eyes—one now barely open—revealed insane contrast. Blood and bits of skin gave him the look of a hornless devil, and his Raging Bull was pretty and glowing armor.

With both hands free, he grasped his claymore and glanced at the nearby opening where his prey jumped into. Bagus grunted and went forward once more, both afraid and noisy, yet not scared at his own heavy steps.

This time, he went with his beak first, leaving his now-shabby Steel behind. Once used, Razmund wouldn't falter against it. He couldn't afford any more wounds, while his Brittleness did leave its Steel marks. And his wings and feathers could only do so much, leaving Razmund to endure this change.

Now, it was time for a struggle.

Razmund attacked with his claymore, unleashing a vertical slash, angling it, and deflecting Bagus's heavy head and whole body aside. This time, he was the one who struggled with sidestepping a few meters away because he mismanaged his angle.

Thankfully, his Raging Bull took a brunt of this clash without cracking any more of his flesh or bones, although the feathers and whipping tail hit him again.

With an unnatural straightness guiding his body, his weight and power grew firmer until he was able to fight on equal footing with Bagus. After all, he did fight with a Goldsteel Titan and even killed him, so this should be even less of a problem.

Oh, how wrong it was.

Against that beak and weight of Steel, he won't lose too much. He didn't even have his potions. Or a lot of time left.

Focused and dead serious stares followed this pounce. They disengaged, both finding madness in the other's eyes.

Razmund's unblinking one was the most straightforward. Bagus was hiding resolve and desires that Razmund found silly and wishful.

This was too futile. Too useless. Why fight for someone else and die for some nonsense? It was too damn common that Razmund grunted and fell sick to his stomach.

Well, he knew why this stuff happened, though he didn't look for the reason how.

Silent yet deadly, Bagus no longer planned to end this. He felt a momentary rush of that possibility, yet his nature prevailed. He wasn't someone insane or wishful.

He was always keen on focusing on the job, doing well enough to keep others satisfied, and his flesh advancing along with his focus. He wasn't alone anymore.

He was failing that shit successfully.

Wishes and dreams were two distinct specialties in this world. One carried hopes, while the other had the reasons that weren't far from a pursuing goal. Both could be unattainable or nothing but a far-fetched possibility.

Razmund stretched his back and arms, each movement cracking his bones and leaving them stressed and tensed. While Raging Bull moved from the overall back to engulf his arms, leaving a few lines between his shoulders and neck.

"Alright," he said and unleashed Heavy Flying Steps after finishing the silence.

Claymore bent behind him, and in a moment, almost unnoticeable to the naked eye, Bagus jumped back in a nick of time.

Just now, Razmund turned his grip with his left hand to the uppermost part of the claymore, bending it and stressing the steel before releasing his grip. It was a much quicker variant of his Second Dance that he used against Zao, the Goldsteel Titan.

Unfortunately, it missed right as he changed his grip, or it was an issue of timing or loss of blood. His claymore was barely going through with his change; it carried just a few lingering lines of red and well-timed momentum.

It was a matter of a split second that saved Bagus, even though Razmund felt his motions and control over his Dances improved a lot after the past and present Gate.

There, after Zao's death, he needed to give his major attacks less anxiety and more effectiveness, thus, he was forced to look for a way to do everything better. Be better, or so his master would call out his stupid brain. It was harder to do than tell.

Changing was the best way to overcome this Gates, for it was filled with battles against nasty foes while the mana was wilder and more untamable.

The back-and-forth battles felt odd at this stage. It was about the delay and the potential for swordsmanship, as well as the proximity of mages who wielded magic and spells, along with timing factors, chanting, and other factors, which left many faults.

A simple swing of a blade was simpler than complex magic, so it wasn't hard to imagine mages being weaker on actual battlefields unless they were protected by battalions or hiding under other means.

Up close in person, death could arrive in a blink. Wars could change a lot because of it, or not at all, because mages were part of a very sophisticated society and part of the upper hierarchy. They weren't about race. Every mage could be part of the magic, as mana didn't conflict with this interest like steel and plates of soldiers.

That's what Razmund always thought, yet what was the truth? Mages had the magic of range and the vastness of Shaping capabilities. It had uses, while the good ol' steel was also admirable.

Soldiers with proper weapons and armor could do a lot of things well, unleashing fury and reaching enemies. Then, proper strategies and military positions in armies could do the rest, as strength lay in numbers, and not every mage was insane enough to join this fray.

After all, soldiers and martial arts were so much easier to train that it was almost typical.

Mages were less conventional in warring conditions, as they preferred positions of greater authority and influence. They often took a backseat or operated under special circumstances, costs, or critical decisions.

It wasn't as if becoming a mage was harder than becoming a soldier by a large amount of effort. In the lands under the River of Manaflow, it wasn't that rare to be both and try hard to reach heights of magic and sword.

However, grooming them was different and had a profound impact on many people. Powerful and steady mages influenced the battlefields on a much larger scale, often flipping the whole battle in a sudden clash. Such cases were rare when open. Thus, the secrecy and use of the final trump cards were important.

For a better example, domains of the Extremes weren't insane enough to be underestimated. Even if one were a mage and the other a master swordsman, neither would be able to kill the other very easily.

In the land of the common man and startling Laws, soldiers could become assertive and influential in numbers over the overall battlefield. With strategists and the scale and weight of wars, this could procreate masters and killers.

Or new nations. For every proper mage devoted to the battlefield, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of normal soldiers. Such were the places where ordinary mortals were seeking their changes, levels, and options. At least in the grand scheme, the lands of men were always common with wars.

Bagus felt like he was at war. He looked sorry at those swings cleaving the ground and bits of the ceiling. At first, he didn't want to dodge, yet instincts forced him to act first before he even assumed to seek his own End.

Razmund put quite a lot of craftiness and power into this move, and once again, failed.

"Luck... You bastard," Razmund cursed and Stepped forward again, doing the same motion and hoping to improve it. "I will kill you next time. If not, then next time. You can't dodge forever."

"So as you. Your attacks aren't meant to go on and on, human." Bagus felt that wrong feeling again.

Feeling that... it was late. Too late for anything. It wasn't anxiety, but... the battles with Blessed figures were always full of strange feelings. On one side was a beast, all things considered.

His Laws were just a matter of luck and proper stability. He had to thank his Bloodline for that, yet nothing was ever easy with this growling, beastly potential.

On the other hand, there was a Blessed soul that didn't meet its proper End and was sent to another side and back. What for? How?

Bagus had no idea.

No Blessed had an idea.

Razmund had his weight, and Bagus could only try to crack it further and try his best. He succeeded, but the cracks were healing while some parts were getting even stronger.

It was a false hope, perhaps. From the very beginning, he was asking for way too fucking much.