Reincarnated as a Duck

The moment Razmund changed his face and stance, making proper adjustments to his mana and Steps, a much more serious Dance was unleashed.

He let his left hand free again, cruising his mana all over his claymore into a bloody cleaver, while his Raging Bull handled his shoulders and arms.

He let a quick and deadly strike forward the moment he Stepped in, letting his cut travel onwards and far in range.

Bagus was able to see it in time, so the next time he moved, he felt a new gushing wound around his wing and chest as well as lifted frontal legs.

It was a long slash, meant to cut things from afar and come with a storming bloody signal.

And they shouldn't be this bloody quick, Bagus felt.

A swirling mass of red mana and claymore scraped a bit of his feathers around his neck off, cutting into the flesh, but it wasn't deep enough to shred the ground or grind the bones to pieces.

Bagus growled and swung his other wing to scrape some of this Sharpness away, but failed. His wings couldn't do much, so he pursued Razmund, who was closer, or so he thought.

He was so far away when he darted his fine wing and looked forward.

How? Did he cut him from far away?

In an instant, dread took hold. Bagus glanced at Razmund, who was back in the same posture: claymore angled above his left shoulder, with his left hand clutching the outermost edge. Mana rubbed together, layering over the Sharpness and redness of his Awakened mana.

Barely two seconds had passed since the Bagus scraped the remains of that slash.

It happened too quickly. Bagus continued with his goal forward, leaving bloody trails when the last bits of color revealed nasty wounds.

Spreading his wings, he tried to defend his head as he unleashed his Steelclad Feathers and Wind Multistrikes next. They barely worked, but he unleashed them without second thoughts.

They were obliterated into pieces, while the distance was still vast.

A fleeting strike fled further, penetrating both of his wings, shedding blood, and cracking more feathers.

And then, the next one, and... the next one.

Razmund was using less cutting force the further he slashed, as most quick successions ended up troubling his posture, biceps, and back. Raging Bull did the most heavy lifting, but also risks later on.

Bagus continued going forward, not knowing what was before him or how many more wounds or blood he was losing. How much time did he have? He couldn't see that well, for the blood and that sharp red mana cut into his vision. Despite the blood, he continued.

That was a big mistake. The moment no more strikes came for a couple of seconds, he realized his blunder. Bagus glanced behind his bloodied wings and saw no Razmund there.

Left? Right? A Step echoed. Right!

Razmund lowered his posture right beside Bagus, his claymore pointing to his stomach and side. It was a keen, critical hit with the potency to end his life.

Bagus screamed, trying to turn this around and win at least something. Anything. He swung his right wing, but then he noticed how bloody and dull its edges looked.

It was his body; it couldn't just grow whole again. That sort of thing required time.

The majority of the fathers around the tip were ruined and in pieces. Razmund had done so with purpose in mind—or just the unhinged clashing of his mana.

Following it, Razmund made a Heavy Step, striking the ground with his feet and unleashing yet another fierce collision, pursued by a piercing stance that was no Dance. It was a simple thrust that resembled a decisive, fine action akin to a spear strike. His claymore was close to his center of gravity, and he stabbed forward.

Claymore was a straight blade, so making their thrusts powerful wasn't a flimsy philosophy. Unlike a curved blade meant for more chopping, it had its weight and strong benefits.

Almost every type of weapon highlighted a purpose, use, a unique grip, or better weight distribution than others. Nobody wanted a weapon with weaknesses or poor design.

Thus, what was useful depended on the style of the wielder or the mind of the maker. The weapons were right in both cases, yet where were they the most useful? A coward or a novice couldn't do much with incredible tools, and it felt the same with nicer legacies, spells, and so on.

Claymore had...well, it had its size and was known to be a bother in actual battlefields. Swings were slower than with typical broadswords, let alone fine cutters. Perhaps it was more reasonable if the claymores had loftier qualities aimed for proper enemies, and remained unique, rather than universal. It was better that way, but being a one-trick pony wasn't adequate either.

That could disappear with skill, experience, or a sheer mix of other abilities.

The pause was hard to consider or repair. That was why lesser swords were much quicker and more potent, often good in quicker slashes, exchanges, lesser delays, and better control.

However, everything was subject to core physicality and what one could learn, grip, manage, and unleash. Razmund was looking as if he was handling a short-sword, frankly, yet that thing was even taller than himself, thanks to how he utilized it.

That had been the case for many years by now.

What was pointy wasn't always sharp. It was a fact that no one should refute. However, the edge could take on many shapes and styles. They could be straight, curved, or tiny little cuts. Those could destroy swords or be utilized on beasts or tough targets.

Sharpness held even more benefits, as it was always the individual who was mastering it. Shapers and Handlers, or even soldiers without mana, could understand many points about what Sharpness was.

Laws have existed since time immemorial, and some of them didn't necessarily follow the order of mana. It was always around, in rocks, glass, air, and even space and water.

For people, everything could become a very physical tool. For other races, it was either magic or nothing more than fabrication, and this applied to many things.

The weapons were helping, molding, and mastering concepts, acting in accordance with Laws or magic. That could be different when Affinities and this world clash against these principles, creating new kinds of concepts caused by all these Attributes, Levels, and abilities.

It wasn't necessarily harder or easier since gaining concepts over Laws or understanding could be manipulated or taught—not mastered straight away or gifted like a cheap gift. These eras have long passed.

That was not possible, as that stage was more than unique. It was up to all the tools that would make a suitable group or mixture.

Sharpness was a straightforward part of Force Affinities. Good swords helped, of course, while the experience put it more ahead. It was better for Shapers and Handlers to master it, as at their point, mana would be their tool and not just the world around them.

Frankly, only one of them had the most personal and powerful tool at their disposal.

Mana Core with Sharpness within it, or full of it, was drastically different from handling something with flesh or a simple concept like swords. However, even a soldier knew he could be more effective with both. How to use it afterward was another matter, as not everyone was meant to wield everything. Power had trials and tries, while the universe wasn't unfair to let suitors of power be broken and dull.

This world might not be that fair, though; Handlers were full of little issues that ended up being worse when compared to Shapers. Still, they were mages and followers of magic, and that much was always honest.

And Razmund was close to seeing many secrets within the Sharpness itself, turning it into a part of his claymore! He also had his Sword Intent, so pursuing linear Laws of the sword was meant to be his path and a powerful killing ability.

It was a wonder which ones he sought. The Law of Sharpness appeared most likely, yet he was not so sure. Sword had many faces and Laws, but Laws could choose, and he wasn't baseless to focus on one simple cutting pact. It always sounds lacking. It needed to be more destructive. Not dividing.

Sharpness Affinity alone was diverse, acting as a lesser front for Sword Laws.

Handling the lesser things before the more elevated and powerful fundamentals was standard. It was almost within expectation, as there was a progressing element within this grand power.

Laws or Intent: these two were close to one another, yet weren't identical in their prose. The intent was more about oneself, while the other was boundless. It was still fine at first glance, identical for many beings, and acceptable to weave.

Laws were limiting factors and were hard to reach, whereas Intent had dedication and conquest in the concept itself. It was the ability to oppose reality and set actions on a different level, empowering something specific. That could be magic, mana, simple speed, or even a mere idea.

Laws were more coherent and often very ambiguous in their prospect, dwelling in a person until they would blossom into much greater power. That transformation described a true leveling hell that many beings never took for granted.

In simpler terms, everything had implementation, interpretation, and voices of much broader, ancient concepts.

Intent hid behind comprehending the meaning of almost everything, which might sound helpful, but it wasn't. Mastering such dividing powers was a stepping stone to one's contest and advancement to the peak of the world. In this one, achieving full-fledged Intent before hitting Level 70 was almost unheard of.

The Laws were different, as their mysteries could be a quick push to Level 70, have arbitrary difficulties, or come to a complete stop. Certain races and legacies had easier times because of it, or much harder. In a way, they were the universe's equivalent of natural dispositions, and they could be gifted, brought, or forced, yet never mastered. If it were too brief or too narrow in scope, one could struggle to make significant progress, let alone reach the Extreme stages.

There were also Intents required for specific Laws, which were then important for Extremes in general. It was a fundamental concept of power, rooted in skill and decades or centuries of experience and mastery.

Each powerhouse favored such possessions and focused on their respective dominant powers. Those range from Laws, Intent, and even Domains. Abilities were flavorful requirements to grasp and hone such powers, and so was the body.

As for how one fought while fueled by these things, even a human could become something extraordinary.

That was why the rising pinnacle under Level 100 was full of Laws. Affinities followed them, fused, and acted as a more effective funneling engine.

Everyone around Level 70 knew that power was subjective and how this world hid secrets, powers, and harshness under every step. Everyone could die. Even some Gods had fallen from their grace and Divine Kingdoms.

Bagus saw his mistake. He held no Intent because he couldn't figure something so fine. Was he unlucky, while he already had the Law of Steel? That didn't make real sense. He didn't neglect his heart, so could he be just a poor little beast thinking outside of its box?

In that opposition, standing before him, Razmund felt like a mountain full of Intent and no Laws. It was bizarre, yet Bagus knew some folks were prone to such concepts, and if anyone were, then Blessed were that. It was narrated in boundless tales.

Razmund obtained numerous hints on what to do as a human, thanks to the core ideas that his race possessed. Their needs and differences allowed quick succession and teaching prospects, giving youths drive and teachers high importance.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

He already understood what Intent indicated, regardless of mastery.

Right now, Razmund felt that raging Intent but couldn't utilize it at all. He couldn't touch it when he felt like a failure, and pushing it seemed distant, like the dream before his face. So, he should butcher it all apart, calm the tempest within him, and deal with what he wanted.

It was a good idea to start with a sword in his hand, though he understood it wasn't all about it. His hand was often tighter, chipped and broken, and chained with heavy promises.

Perhaps the problem lay between the blade and the wielder, or the issues could be even more out there, hiding in plain sight. Razmund thought he was making mistakes when he doubted his way of life, so he attacked Bagus in an attempt to kill him and forget any of those worries.

A sharp point was coming for the heart, making a thrust guided by Raging Bull and lines of sharp, clustered Sharpness. He held hopes of understanding grand aspects. It was promised, but it wasn'tthe time to worry about his prowess, potential, or what he couldn't learn just because he wanted to.

It wouldn't even happen in this fight.

Before, he forgot his manners and moments here and there without blinking. When he was close to his Fate, the clutch of his Dice felt like a thorn when it was so darn quiet yet pink.

Bagus watched how the trust came, sharply crushing his feathers, while his close wings couldn't stop it. That sword was extensive, stretching and giving Razmund a safe distance.

He used the ground position well, while his reach dealt with the rest.

In a moment, blood swirled, and Bagus moved in his shriek. The thrust penetrated his side, but as he turned quicker than expected, hoping to negate some damage, he succeeded thanks to the sharp explosiveness of his Brittled feathers and Steeled feathers underneath.

The thrust didn't penetrate his vital organs, though it was enough to cause bleeding and significant damage.

Bagus grimaced, noticing that his attempt had saved his life, but did it? Rushing along his turn, a gushing wound oozed at his side, following the thrust and those sharp red lines.

None of his attempts to catch it came in time, and Razmund pushed himself along, stabbing and not twisting.

He failed again.

The stab scraped the side thanks to too much wild force.

"You..." Razmund squinted, appearing unsightly when he tried to smack the thrust into a clever. He couldn't; Bagus collided with it when he perked his remaining feathers, hoping to stab the pain away.

"This much is nothing!" Bagus bellowed and realized Razmund was closer than ever. He came closer willingly, so it reeked of a counterattack.

When the End was closing and blood was dropping, the imminence and choices dropped one by one, followed by fainting. Bagus and his mind could no longer care about being called a coward.

He flexed his steps and evaded the slash aimed at his neck. As he stepped, he flickered his tail, turning it like a whipping line that swayed in its sharp yet heavy tip.

It flew around, coming from the other side along his step, striking Razmund to his blind spot and shaking that mad head. It was his wounded side, where he hadn't expected any movements.

Tail smacked him well and punctured his shoulder with little protruding bones that tacked him to the ground, thrashing him as he fell for a couple of meters.

Razmund lost his momentum, and claymore lost its penetrative power. It moved with him, still in his hands, and grinding against the ground.

Bagus still struggled and barely retrieved his tail before it, too, would be cut. His blood loss wasn't small.

Pushing himself away, he whipped his tail further, figuring that his neck and wings could no longer give it the final move.

His feet could help further. Perhaps he could smack that human good from this position, or he might even sit on top of him and extinguish his life force with the most unhinged, ridiculous idea. As his feet had talons and weight to them, it would work.

Razmund grunted as his thrashing on the ground stopped. He never let go of his claymore, but with his left hand, he grabbed the incoming tail just before it smashed his face.

Instead, it penetrated slightly to his shoulder, so he pulled it out, and a bit of his flesh and blood dropped from it.

The wound was deeper than anticipated. It needed attention, but he had no time to spare. His Will to work through much worse things was more than the impression of his face.

Like with Zao and his strike that almost cleaved his body apart, he knew the limits of his flesh.

Razmund stopped a few meters into a bloody path from Bagus, whose tail seemed to struggle for freedom.

Both of them were injured, but one was worse than the other. Razmund got to his feet without a hitch, still clutching the tail that winced in his grasp, trying to push him away or stab his neck.

It was futile, no matter what Bagus did. That Raging Bull was still up and running, so his stability wouldn't be weak.

With the claymore in his other hand, Razmund walked forward and noticed that Bagus was done for. He didn't care for a bloody attempted facade or face or the rest of a big bloodied body. Bagus was barely standing, so Razmund had all the incentive to kill him for good.

"L-let go," Bagus mumbled, feeling weaker and weaker. Blood was flowing, escaping. Why? It should come back. He needed it.

The organs required costs. His flesh and muscles required their tension. Though many veins and nerves were cut, hurting and making a mess of his flesh, it felt as if he was detached from reality.

The pain slowly subsided by hopelessness and the desire to keep living. It was quite dreadful, but that was what happened when one was on the brink of the fabled End.

Just how many foes had he killed felt like this? Was it a fine, almost poetic ideal or a fitting end for this beast? If anything, Bagus considered it fair, so he didn't refuse it or consider it improper. It was his weakness. His End.

Aside from his chest, there was a bloody line stretching across half of his torso. Even his wings were a bloody mess, and his chest was broken.

Surprisingly, his neck and head were in the best shape, revealing a resolute face that was somewhat somber yet not soft.

He hadn't given up; Razmund could tell that.

"What do you wish for?" Razmund asked, grabbing his claymore and thrusting it forward.

Bagus, on his last strands, snapped his head and clutched the claymore with his beak, stopping the trust aimed for his neck like a proper freaking Griffin.

It was a sharp turn of events, for his beak was one of his highest prides.

The last stand aimed for his heart, following a standstill against Razmund, who was right there, clutching the tail in one hand and stabbing with the claymore in the other.

Bagus pushed through his limit, enduring the creasing sounds against that claymore and the stress it gave to his beak and neck.

He had beak abilities like Murai. They were always there, but so far, incapable of closing and counting for something.

They weren't his highest offensive abilities, but they were good enough to give his head considerable weight and hefty power, flowing well along with his bulk, large and sharp beak, and flexible neck.

Razmund tossed the tail away and handled his claymore with both hands. He used more strength until he feared the repercussions of that tail.

It wasn't neglectful.

He had no choice but to let it go since he couldn't force his way through that beak. Using both his hands proved to add much greater weight than Bagus had expected. It wasn't a simple double power, but substantially more.

Bagus eyed Razmund right before him, observing his bloody hole and a bunch of other wounds. Some were healing, swirling in blood and moving flesh.

It wasn't disgusting. It was simply weird how it went under the vision of that glowing Raging Bull and Razmund's face.

For Razmund, he felt it was disgusting. It hurt like hell, so he never thought of it as something meaningless. It was inevitable, so he pushed forward, deciding to care less for more wounds. It was the usual strategy he used many times, where he didn't care about his own body.

"You lunatic..." Bagus scowled, and then his beak flickered and trembled. A lot. Almost like the vibrations of the shimmering earthquake, his beak moved, and his neck bent, guiding the claymore aside until the beak went for Razmund's body.

In this case, the trust went on, but it could close to his neck or torso and deal a vital hit.

But not before Bagus would unleash his last resort.

It was his beginning. His time as little Griffin in a cage. Beak Slap, back then, was a physical attack, and it was his power and body that enabled this gift. He liked it, even though it reminded him of the past.

Now, it was at Level 61 and held a different name. It was a Grade A ability: Beak Shattering, giving him the power to destroy any cages, boulders, and even more boundaries.

The beak trembled fast, and with each tremble, it was accumulating power like each individual Slap. Was it happening hundreds of times in a second or thousands? Bagus had no mind for going over timely limitations or numbers, so he went all the way to the bitter end.

His eyes bled, and his mind and brain felt like melting. Ten thousand trembles later, all in a matter of a few moments, he felt as if he was craving to let it go.

Then, it crashed, and the air and power became almost palpable to the naked eye.

Razmund felt it from the front seat. His eyes were wide open, and his claymore had yet to hit that open neck. He tried, but his Raging Bull was around and thick, doing its best against potential tail attacks swirling in the air without disordering his posture.

He miscalculated. There was no tail coming.

The beak was the weapon.

The moment those seconds ended, the shimmering beak became like a cannon. Then, less than a meter away from him, it moved closer, disregarding the claymore digging into the sides.

Was it a cannon with enough power to push it to the very edge? Razmund did his best to restrain it when he changed his Raging Bull and began to engage with this crazy beak.

He angled the lower edge of his claymore and tried to deflect it, but Bagus's head didn't even budge, appearing as if it was glued onto the claymore before it too faltered, and the beak hit with thousands of smacks and the weight of boulders.

Two heavy forces went against each other, and Razmund lost his shot. He pulled his mana to his claymore without caring about consequences or defenses, and deflecting.

Now, it was a true power competition, and he wouldn't lose. It was surprisingly hard to go wild like this with such a heavy force in this stance. He was right below tall Bagus, whose head and beak were closing ever so slowly, pushing weight and those tremors at him.

Perhaps with one hand, things would be worse, but not with two.

Bagus glared like a beast on its last breath, pushing with his paws to the ground and itching his neck nearer. He was close, close enough to smack this puny human for good and remind him who was the boss of this mining shaft!

Alas, one significance was time, and it was still pending, so Razmund decided to change it when he could rather than wait for nothing.

The moment Razmund backed away just a little bit with his feet, causing redistribution of force, balance, and stability, the entire clash cracked apart.

Razmund pulled himself up, sidestepping and changing his grip. Claymore swung, slashing forward right behind Bagus's head.

At that moment, Razmund got a pleasing grasp of a kill, momentum, and time, but he didn't expect to see Bagus turn his head to him. The claymore wavered.

His fingers were all broken, some in pieces. The after-match of Beak Shattering, Razmund judged. He was too preoccupied.

A sharp noise echoed.

A Beak Shattering hit Razmund straight to his chest, obliterating the bones, trembling and worsening previous wounds, and snapping the holes apart.

Slightly afterward, the two-handed cleave came, resting on Bagus's neck before gliding to his torso, making a thin slash across his chest. The cut was so thin, yet it severed arteries and let bloody rain bathe the ground again.

Right afterward, Razmund flew dozens of meters away, slamming into the wall, where he collapsed. Bagus didn't move much later. He couldn't. He lay down, knowing that the End was coming for him at a cheap price after losing every bit of strength.

It was a blissful acceptance. He kind of... preferred it over seeking wishful dreams.

He was barely a few meters away from the opening shaft that Murai and Lisa had gone through. He had done it. He protected it as he said.

Like a good dog, he did what he was requested, even at a deep price.

Coughing blood, tail wincing weakly behind, and wings barely moving, Bagus glanced forward, noticing a standing, bloody figure in the fog of dust.

"Still alive... undying fucking... madman," Bagus whimpered, not caring for the messy words he uttered. "Just... drop. You will be... happier."