Chapter 684: Wind Ghost, Part Two

[You rely too much on your ability. Every time you attack, you insist on using it. But you must understand, it is only a tool and a means to obtain victory, like a weapon, like armor.]

Those were the words that damned Mallos had said to Ralf one afternoon at Mindis Hall, when he stopped him.

[I know His Highness trusts you greatly, even more than he trusts the Star Lake Guard... that is an honor, but also a burden. So, in order to prevent you from dragging us down and endangering His Highness, you will join the guard's daily training, no matter how they despise you, mock you, or isolate you... besides that, you will follow the plan I made and do extra training every day. That is an order.]

[Do not misunderstand me. I do not care about you, nor am I concerned about you. In fact, I do not understand you at all, and I do not think His Highness trusting you is a wise decision. But since my job is to patch the holes created by those unwise decisions of his...]

[You are unconvinced? How about this? I will not bully you. See that kid over there named Neshy? He has the least seniority in the guard. Fight him one-on-one. If you win, you do not have to obey this order. How does that sound?]

Damned Terror Blade.

Facing the enemy, Ralf touched the cold, hard leach crystal alloy prosthetic limbs through his clothes.

These prosthetic limbs were the ones he had changed into again after they lost against that black-clothed man.

They were completely different from the previous pair that had been hastily made, had accompanied him for many years, and had walking as their main goal.

[Be careful with this pair of prosthetics. They are very heavy. They were built according to Captain Mallos's instructions. Although they are only Master Ponke's experimental product, if you ask me, they are probably more expensive than the glasses made for the Archduchess... of course, I also offered a small suggestion. After all, they were ordered in my... more precisely, my fiancee's name. I, I did not want to use the Caso family's money...]

Those were the words that damned Wya Caso had said one day when he returned from outside and pushed the large box before him.

Young Master Caso, who always liked pretending to be plain, hardworking, bitter, and burdened by hatred, but in reality had grown up in fine clothes and fine food without suffering even half a hardship, and whose worries, in Ralf's eyes, were all groaning without illness, had solemnly taken out paper and pen at the time.

[Here is the high-pressure air bottle. This is the switch. This is the adjustment knob. This bag contains replacement parts. Master Ponke instructed that you should not take it apart without reason, and that you must regularly report your usage experience to me, so the master can improve and upgrade it... I suggest you start practicing tonight. After all, this thing is quite a test of your control...]

The three blade-wielders were getting closer and closer.

It looked as if they wanted to attack together to avoid suffering a sneak attack like their companions.

Ralf found the knobs and switches at the place where his calves would have been, if he still had them, and opened one of them.

At that moment, Ralf's body suddenly swayed.

Air compressed to the limit was being controlled by his ability with his full concentration, pressed tightly inside the four leach crystal alloy bottles in his two prosthetic limbs.

[Once the high-pressure air bottles are opened, most of your ability must be spent controlling the air pressure inside and binding the air. So you can only fight with the most basic movements. Do not look at me. Officer Mallos said this can train your control. Only this way can you use air more efficiently at key moments and give your opponent a surprise...]

Ralf concentrated fully, not daring to relax for even a moment.

[You have to adjust the air volume yourself and choose the timing. If your control is poor, this level of air pressure, hmm, a fracture would only be a minor matter...]

Bullshit.

Ralf steadied himself and thought coldly.

If he could not control even this, then eight fucking years ago, he would have already suffocated, choked, and drowned in his own blood in Red Lane.

How would it be the turn of this noble young master and that whatever "Fear Blade," people who at least still had two legs, to nag at him?

[So, Ralf, I suggest you usually walk with that old cold-leg pair. Ptooey, ptooey, I mean the old prosthetics... at crucial moments, hmm, I mean unless, unless it is absolutely necessary, when you will die if you do not risk your life...]

Fuck your old cold legs.

Ralf slowly, but steadily, stood up. The air in the high-pressure bottles was tightly suppressed by his ability, ready but unable to release.

"Now!"

The three enemies roared and pounced forward. Three machetes arrived from three directions at the same time.

This time, Ralf did not immediately resort to his ability as he had in the past. Instead, he calmly observed his opponents' movements and spun to dodge.

Now, he was no longer his past self.

He had learned how to fight more efficiently. For example, no longer wasting energy raising great winds in battle. For example, no longer playing with those meaningless human kites.

In their place, he reduced the scale and increased concentration and control, precisely and subtly using local airflow either to strengthen his own attacks or hinder the enemy's movements.

For example...

"Hoo, hoo..."

The sound of wind rose, brushing across the paths of the three blades.

The wind force was not great. People not within it would not even notice. It could only make the blades cutting through the air deviate by a tiny bit.

But that bit was enough.

Ralf spun at exactly the right time. Two blades, one in front and one behind, brushed past his body by the narrowest margin. One even cut open his clothes.

And because of that, the third blade fell out of sync with the other two and slowed slightly.

At that moment, Ralf, caught among the three of them, sharpened his gaze.

Now.

He kicked off the ground and raised his leg, aiming directly at the third person.

His ability moved with his will. The air in one high-pressure bottle poured out in an instant like a mountain torrent.

Whoosh.

Ralf's kick accelerated instantly.

Boom!

Amid a terrifying impact sound, the third blade-wielder was struck under the armpit by Ralf's kick before he could cut him. His entire body flew out in an exaggerated arc, crashing into the crowd and knocking down three or four people in succession.

But this was not over.

Ralf's front foot landed, and he spun again. His other leg, or more precisely, his prosthetic limb, swept back with the momentum.

Whoosh.

Another high-pressure air bottle erupted instantly, driving his leg with unparalleled air pressure to smash hard into the first blade-wielder.

Thud-bang!

A clear sound of bone breaking rang out.

Before the first blade-wielder could even scream, his entire body flew sideways, crashing into the second blade-wielder. The two of them flew out stacked together and slammed into the wall.

Boom!

Amid the terrible impact, the warehouse shook, raising quite a bit of dust and cobwebs.

Only now did the two machetes clang to the ground.

As for the one who caused all this, Ralf spun once in place, retracted his leg, landed, crouched, and shed the momentum.

Clean and crisp.

All in one motion.

When the dust scattered, everyone in the warehouse froze for a moment before an uproar broke out.

"Holy shit..."

"Who the hell is this..."

"Is that an ability?"

"Terminator swordsman! Power of Eradication!"

Nekra, Fogg, Duro... everyone who witnessed this scene changed expression.

Most people only saw the three blade-wielders attacking together, only to be blasted away at the same time by a terrifyingly powerful roundhouse kick before they could touch their opponent.

And...

Nekra looked at the cracks knocked into the wall, then looked at the three motionless blade-wielders.

After landing, those blade-wielders who had been kicked did not even let out a single groan.

The Red Viper felt his scalp go slightly numb.

"His leg strength is too exaggerated."

Gutierrez widened his eyes.

"Where did this guy come from?"

Sangare instinctively stepped back.

Beside Nekra, Puppeteer Ping deeply furrowed his brows, while Dumu from the grasslands drew his curved blade, eager to try.

"Your brother... holy shit, he's kind of fierce."

In the crowd, Zimikas opened his mouth wide and tugged at Glover's sleeve.

Glover instinctively nodded.

He also had not come back to himself, only staring at the still-shaking sign overhead in disbelief.

This mute...

Was this strong?

Just those two simple kicks... in the Royal Guards, who could block them?

Had he been hiding his abilities all this time?

No wonder he was the one who had followed the prince the longest...

How sinister.

With the precedent before them, fear spread.

The fighters surrounding Ralf looked at one another. For a moment, no one dared act rashly.

No one knew that at this moment, Ralf, who had displayed such divine might, was crouching on the ground and tightly pressing the painfully aching connection points of his prosthetic limbs.

But he could not rest.

Ralf gritted his teeth fiercely.

Two of the high-pressure air bottles were already empty.

While the opponents were still surprised, he quickly activated his ability. The surrounding air obeyed his summons like servants, filling the two empty high-pressure bottles again. All four bottles had to remain filled with high pressure in order to deal with the ever-changing battle situation and deliver lethal leg strikes.

"An attack of this level must carry a heavy price."

The black-clothed killer's voice drifted out faintly.

"He cannot use every move like that. Otherwise, his body will not endure it. Attack now."

As soon as these words came out, Ralf's heart sank.

Damn it!

The black-clothed killer's words woke everyone from their shock. The next second, Dumu from the grasslands moved, his unique prairie curved blade throwing out an arc rarely seen in the Western Continent as he attacked.

Ralf gritted his teeth and stood. He was just about to repeat his old trick and use his ability to deflect the blade, but the sound of the curved blade cutting through air made his heart tighten.

Bad. This blade method and path...

Were not attacks he was used to.

He was not confident.

Thinking this, Ralf could only dodge aside.

Once he retreated, Dumu's offense grew fiercer, and Ralf had no choice but to dodge again and again.

"Looks like it's true."

Nekra narrowed his eyes.

"Those two kicks are his only bluffing move."

Seeing someone expose the truth, the gang members' confidence rose, and their shouting began again.

Encouraged, Gutierrez roared, tightened his armguards and gauntlets, and attacked from the other side.

Ralf was caught between attacks from two sides, and the situation became dangerous for a moment.

Glover clenched his teeth, but Zimikas beside him tightly hugged his arm.

"Calm down, calm down, don't go! You'll die!"

Ralf dodged Gutierrez's fist with a dangerous posture, and Dumu's curved blade immediately swept across his shoulder, bringing out a trail of blood.

He groaned and gritted his teeth against the pain.

Fortunately, during this little bit of time, he finally filled the high-pressure bottles again.

Dumu roared, his blade cutting through the air and howling toward him again.

Behind him, Gutierrez's fist wind pressed close.

Ralf's expression sharpened. His knees bent slightly, preparing to counterattack.

But at that instant, Ralf looked at Dumu's blade trajectory and suddenly frowned.

That might be an opening, but it might also be a trap to lure him in. The opponent might have already prepared to dodge.

His prosthetic limb might...

Kick empty.

[Have you ever drawn a bow? Do you know what dry firing means?]

After one nearly fatal training session, Wya still held paper and pen, looking like an annoying little scholar. He was only missing an eight-character mustache as he sat seriously by Ralf's bed.

More bullshit.

I am not a second-generation noble official like you. Did I have a chance to touch bows and arrows when I was young?

Young Master Caso, have you ever wandered the streets? Do you know what cold leftovers mean?

Fuck.

As his thoughts moved, Ralf's expression tightened.

At that moment, he forcibly held back the impulse to kick.

As the price, he dodged Gutierrez behind him, but Dumu's curved blade cut across his chest.

Shhk!

A stream of blood sprayed out.

The sudden pain made his brain pause.

[Remember last week? His Highness Thales made a beginner's mistake at a hunting goods shop in town. When testing a bow, he drew the string and aimed without an arrow, then let go. The sound was rather nice, but that was dry firing.]

[Because no arrow was set, the enormous energy released by the bowstring had nowhere to go and could only be borne entirely by the bow arms. That is quite damaging to a bow... too many dry fires, and even the best bow will be ruined... hmm, so no matter what excuse His Highness found about the Far Eastern allusion of 'the bird startled by the twang of a bowstring,' it was useless. He had no choice but to spend money to buy that bow, making things even worse for the logistics wing...]

Ralf observed the enemy before him and clenched his teeth.

Right now, he was covered in blood and looked especially frightening.

But after taking this blade, he finally relaxed.

As expected, that strike just now had no force. It was only a feint.

In other words...

If I had kicked just now, he would have dodged it.

[In short, what I mean is that the air bottles in your legs are like a bow. If you release the air pressure and kick empty, then it is like dry firing a bow. The enormous energy that cannot find a target to vent on will be borne entirely by your leg, or rather, by the connection between flesh and prosthetic limb... imagine a strongman dragging your prosthetic limb, bending it all the way up to your ear in one breath, then folding it backward with great force...]

[So, if you use it, every attack must hit a target. Because once you kick empty... hmm, dry firing. You understand.]

Wya's voice disappeared beside his ears.

And Ralf's expression instantly tightened.

A faint breeze swept before Gutierrez's eyes, making him narrow them involuntarily.

The next second, Ralf spun backward and kicked. The high-pressure bottle erupted at exactly the right time, driving his heel with unimaginable force to stomp heavily onto Gutierrez's armguard.

Bang!

The sound of metal collision and bone breaking rang out at the same time.

"Ah! Fuck!"

Gutierrez screamed miserably, his whole body flying backward.

Ralf calmly turned sideways, landed steadily, and set his heart at ease.

Fortunately, the bones that broke were the enemy's.

This time, he had not "dry fired."

The next second, Ralf raised his head. Facing Dumu, who saw the opportunity and chopped downward, he did not dodge or shift. He raised his leg and kicked sideways.

Like a fighter risking everything.

Dumu was first startled, then delighted. His curved blade chopped toward Ralf's raised leg.

Clang!

A clear metallic collision rang out, making Dumu freeze.

Amid the faint pain in his knee, Ralf roared angrily.

His ability released, and the high-pressure air bottle exploded.

Bang!

The curved blade deformed under the heavy strike. Dumu flew out together with his blade and smashed hard into the wall.

After this round of stunning exchanges, Ralf, who had repelled two super-class experts, took a deep breath, retracted his leg, landed, and began storing air again.

The warehouse returned to silence.

Nekra and Fogg looked at each other, seeing shock in one another's eyes.

"I heard it!"

Ping looked at the unconscious Dumu and gritted his teeth.

"His legs have armor! Metal armor!"

Armor?

Ralf sneered inwardly.

Armor your mother.

"No!"

Gutierrez, lying on the ground, struggled and painfully spat a mouthful of blood.

"Supreme... Class..."

He was supported up by his subordinates and even forgot the pain, only looking in terror at his hand, which had deformed together with the armguard.

"He's a damned Supreme Class expert!"

As soon as these words came out, whispers began in the warehouse, and many of those standing close began to shrink back.

Supreme Class.

Not bad.

This was probably the highest evaluation he had ever received in his life.

Ralf took a deep breath, the corner of his mouth curving faintly.

He suddenly discovered that after experiencing so many life-and-death moments over the years, seeing all kinds of experts from super class to Supreme Class, and fighting so many different enemies, the combat he understood was no longer street brawling among small thugs.

It was battlefield engagement.

As for himself, he was no longer the rookie who first stepped onto the battlefield and was mocked by the Wrath of the Kingdom for actually using a sleeve sword.

He had begun to understand advance and retreat, attack and defense, rhythm, and what to give up and what to seize.

Now, he was...

Ralf stood again.

The gang members at the front held their weapons and nervously stepped back half a pace.

For the third time, air storage was complete.

"Everything else is ordinary."

Just then, the black-clothed killer in the crowd's shadows spoke again.

"His strength is all in those legs."

Ralf looked toward the black-clothed killer, his brows slightly furrowing.

Damn it.

Among these people, that guy should be the strongest.

Only why...

Why had he not attacked yet?

Forget it.

According to the plan, first knock down a few troublesome ones, suppress their morale, then adjust position...

The corner of Ralf's eye glanced toward the exit. The crowd there had already thinned quite a lot.

"An expert who uses his legs."

Nekra's words carried wariness.

"Old Fogg, have you heard of one?"

With this degree of explosive power, once touched, one would either die or be injured.

Even Supreme Class fighters would have to be extremely wary of it.

"Using instant explosive power to cause destruction... I can only think of the Brotherhood's 'Uncrowned Fist' Qinza."

Fogg spoke in a deep voice, his gaze toward Ralf different now.

"But that fellow fights with fists."

The black-clothed killer looked at Ralf from afar and chuckled.

"Interesting."

The next second, the fully wary Nekra waved backward. Behind him, Dalton suddenly roared and charged over.

"Clown! Clown! Clown!"

He roared repeatedly, knocking aside everyone blocking his way. He looked as if he felt no pain at all, waving the two chairs in his hands as he charged toward Ralf.

Facing such a wide-range and life-disregarding attack, Ralf was startled and was about to respond. But from the other side, Ping flicked his hand and threw out two "Chaos Soldiers" tied to threads, sending them flying toward him.

Bang!

The next second, Ralf dodged Dalton's charge in an extremely sorry state, then rolled away from a Chaos Soldier with a strange trajectory before kicking the other one away.

But just as before, the Chaos Soldier snapped open and fired countless blades.

Ralf had nowhere to dodge, so he could only sweep his legs with wind. The blades struck his prosthetic limbs with clinks and clangs.

But prosthetics were not shields. In the end, one blade still struck him, and he groaned as he retreated.

"As expected."

Ping sneered and pulled the thread, drawing back the other Chaos Soldier.

"Once he has strength, he has no agility. Madman, continue!"

Damn it.

Ralf endured the pain and pulled out the blade.

On the other side, Dalton, who had crashed into another wall, roared again and charged at him.

The situation was dangerous. Ralf took a deep breath.

All right.

No other way.

His hands naturally dropped, covering the knobs on his prosthetic limbs through his pants.

Ralf looked at Dalton and Ping, his expression sinking.

Originally, this had been prepared for Neshy, to use unexpectedly when challenging him to a second duel.

But now, these people would get the benefit.

Wya's annoying voice sounded again.

[Er, His Highness saw it last time. He jokingly called this 'cutting fake legs.' It should mean 'switching prosthetic limb functions,' though I don't know why he called it that... but he asked me to tell you: develop good habits, do not forget to cut fake legs...]

Cut fake legs...

"Clown, die! Die!"

Dalton's roars grew closer and closer, and Ping's Chaos Soldier puppet tools were also right before him.

Ralf's pupils shrank.

This time, he closed the four main bottle openings of the high-pressure bottles and opened the second set of knobs: the eight small air outlets arranged in the two prosthetic limbs and connected to the high-pressure air bottles.

By comparison, they could not provide the former's force that gathered thousands of layers of pressure into one point, but they could...

The next second, Ralf's foot gently touched the ground, and his entire body instantly leapt two meters, narrowly jumping out of Dalton's attack range.

The Red Viper, who was alert at all times and ready to act, froze.

So fast!

The Chaos Soldiers flew over, sealing Ralf's path. But amid a wave of exclamations, he lightly kicked off the wall at an angle, and his whole body rose again with the momentum.

He crossed over the blades of the two Chaos Soldiers, then kicked against the wall in midair and changed direction. His figure flashed left and right, avoiding the countless blades fired by the Chaos Soldiers with absolute height and agility.

But this was not over. Ralf grabbed a hanging rod at the top of the warehouse, flipped his body upside down, and kicked off the ceiling with one leg.

The next moment, the incredulous Ping only felt his vision blur. Ralf, leaving afterimages, landed right before him.

"You..."

Ping only had time to say one word before Ralf smashed an elbow into his forehead, knocking him unconscious.

The Chaos Soldiers that lost their master's control fell to the ground. Their springs had not run out and they struggled weakly.

"No! Everyone! Kill him!"

The Red Viper was incomparably furious after losing people in succession.

"Clown must die!"

Dalton roared and charged at him.

But Ralf only smiled faintly. He dodged past two fighters, and as soon as the air storage was complete, he charged toward the wall again, kicked, leapt, and rose into the air.

Under the disbelieving gazes of many people, Ralf moved nimbly and lightly like a bat, sweeping across the whole warehouse.

Air ran through his prosthetic limbs, erupting one after another through different air outlets, pushing back against the walls, the ground, and even the ceiling, borrowing movement energy for him.

As long as there was a point to push off from...

Ralf lightly landed among the crowd while drawing Dalton over. The latter knocked one group flying and smashed down another.

"No, careful..."

"Don't hit me!"

"Madman, no!"

"Ahhhhh!"

Amid a wave of screams, wherever Ralf went, people fell over one another.

The next second, just as Dalton was about to hit Ralf, Ralf flashed aside again, leaving in an afterimage while Dalton howled madly behind him.

Step on the window, kick off the wall, flip through the air, land, sprint, dodge...

With the support of "cutting fake legs," Ralf happily sped along, leading Dalton behind him while enjoying the fear in the gang members' panicked voices.

"Throw knives!"

"Fuck, you hit me!"

"Behind you!"

"Idiot, he's above!"

"Don't block me!"

"Fuck, that madman is charging over!"

"Steady!"

Nekra's furious roar rang through the warehouse.

At this moment, Ralf's battlefield was no longer the ground, but east, south, west, north, up, down, left, right, every inch of space and every corner.

If the air bottles were nearly empty, he would slightly restrain himself or find an opportunity to replenish them. Once the bottles were full, he would repeat the same trick.

But Ralf himself felt strange.

When he had mixed with the underworld on the streets, the Ghost of the Wind had been known, with the help of his ability, for his flexible movements and ghostly figure.

Ever since the sudden disaster in Red Lane, after both his legs were severed, the drastic changes in balance and center of gravity, the scattered ability energy caused by assisting his breathing, and the great decline in control over his legs had made his steps difficult, his movement clumsy, and his strength unable to return to its former state.

For a time, he had thought he would never again be able to freely race among enemies like before.

But now...

Ralf spun in the air and kicked off the wall, air pressure pushing him away.

It had been so long. So long since he had felt this unrestrained.

Now...

As he darted and leapt, he closed his eyes and used the wind to recognize direction.

Now, in another way, he had found again what he had once been best at.

Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing to do with that complicated, annoying, and painful special training plan Mallos designed. At most, it had something to do with the insight and experience he had accumulated from traveling north and south over the years, and his own unremitting bitter practice. At most, at most, hmm, at most it had something to do with the money from Young Master Caso, no, more precisely, his fiancee. But that was simple. He would pay it back in installments.

And he had also found again his former identity.

Following the wind...

Ghost of the wind...

"Fuck! With one light step, he flips out that far. Does he have springs in his feet?"

Nekra shoved away a subordinate who had crashed into him and cursed fiercely.

Fogg was full of doubt.

"How does he find points to push off in midair?"

Could it be some rare Power of Eradication?

"Aside from heavy kicks with astonishing force, he also has swift movement, flexible steps, a light body, and good jumping ability."

Beyond the crowd, the black-clothed killer nodded lightly, his tone admiring.

"I didn't expect Little Blade to have such an expert under her."

"Didn't you say, didn't you say your brother's legs and feet weren't good?"

Like most people who only wanted to dodge, Zimikas hugged his head and crouched low, carefully watching Ralf dart everywhere from the walls to the ceiling while avoiding the charging Dalton.

"Of course. If his legs and feet were good..."

Glover gritted his teeth as he blocked the dust falling from the ceiling.

"Who the fuck walks like that?"

For a while, Ralf flew up and down. He did not directly injure many people, but the chaos and mental pressure he caused among the crowd were immeasurable.

At last, when Dalton planted his head into the ground and could no longer charge, Ralf lightly landed.

He slowly stood and replenished his air again along the way.

Before him, the gang members, battered and terrified, retreated with a clatter.

Revealing the Red Viper and the Wanderer behind them.

Ralf gently raised his head, his gaze shooting straight at Nekra.

Seeing that there was no avoiding this, Nekra swallowed.

"Fogg."

He looked toward Fogg and showed a friendly smile.

"Old rules, two against one?"

But Fogg ignored him. He only stared at Ralf.

"With skill like yours, there is no way you would lower yourself to serve under Catherine. No, there is no way you could even be someone from the Blood Bottle Gang!"

Fogg said coldly,

"Who exactly are you?"

At that instant, Ralf was dazed.

Who was he?

Of course, he was the Ghost of the Wind...

No.

Ralf's heart trembled. He suddenly understood something.

So that was it.

He lowered his head, looked at his hands, then at his legs, and immediately took a deep breath.

He was not.

He was not the Ghost who followed the wind.

Not anymore.

That's right. He was still a "ghost," the insignificant, low-born "ghost" from Vine Manor, the "ghost" who carried a heavy past difficult to escape, dragged a ruined body difficult to raise, clung to life, and struggled to survive.

But.

But after today, no, to be precise, from some unknown point onward, he no longer rose with the wind, accepted whatever came with the wind, drifted with the current, struggled according to fate, or sank and floated with the waves.

The former Ghost who followed the wind had already died.

He died in the bloody night of Red Lane.

Ralf raised his head and looked at Nekra.

He stepped onto the ground, and what his legs fed back to him was the unique friction and collision of metal and flesh.

What surged in his chest was an incomparable swelling and unrestrained joy.

On that night in Vine Manor...

He had grasped the wind of fate.

Ralf's gaze sharpened as he looked at the Red Viper, who was gnashing his teeth.

From that moment on, the one standing here facing enemies, facing life, and facing himself was Midira Ralf, reborn once more.

The true and genuine...

Ghost of the Wind.