Chapter 132: Tough Bones
Azel let the sword vanish from his hand as he sucked in a deep breath and sat back on the snow.
The cold immediately bit into him, seeping through his clothes and numbing his skin, but it felt almost welcome compared to the throbbing in his hands.
His knuckles burned as though he’d been smashing stone bare-fisted, and his arms trembled faintly no matter how hard he tried to steady them.
His aura reserves were nearly dry — scraped thin to the last threads of energy. That fact alone made him shake his head.
As someone who prided himself on having a vast sea of aura, he wasn’t easily exhausted.
He’d always believed himself durable in ways few others could match. Yet here he was, panting on a snowy battlefield, his chest rising and falling like he had run a marathon.
It was... shocking.
’...I know I’ve said it too many times at this point, but damn, that guy really was a monster.’
The thought replayed itself again and again in his head as his body cooled down.
He had just mimicked a technique meant to embody the claws of dragons themselves.
Azel simply couldn’t imagine the pressure of creating such a move in the first place.
Something designed to slice through Rank 3 monsters with ease.
He exhaled, his breath curling white in the frigid air.
He understood now why the Dragon Saint style’s effectiveness had reduced over time.
They couldn’t replicate what the original Hero had done, he had Kyone but they didn’t have any sort of knowledge.
Even in it’s weakest form, it was still one of the most if not the strongest style in this world currently.
[Indeed.]
Kyone’s voice slipped into his thoughts, calm yet carrying the faintest note of pride.
[But Esteemed Husband, you only managed to reach fifty percent of its complete power.]
Azel blinked, his gaze unfocused as her words sank in.
His jaw tightened.
Kyone, on her side, let out a long sigh.
She remembered the technique in its true form. Not as a struggling imitation but as the overwhelming strike of the annoying hero who had once wielded it.
She had seen it cleave through fleets, cutting not just men and monsters but ships themselves — massive war vessels splintered as though made of brittle bark.
The Dragon Claw was more than an attack; it was inevitability itself.
And at its peak, it was said that when it descended, one could see their own death in the reflection of its arc before the strike even landed.
Such was its terror.
Of course, Azel was far from that level of mastery.
He had only been learning the Hero’s style for two days.
Two days — and already he had reproduced a cut that would make many swordmasters tremble.
That fact alone left Kyone marveling at him despite her centuries of life.
She hadn’t expected him to get this far, not nearly so quickly.
But then it was expected after all, he was her Esteemed Husband.
’Fifty percent?’ Azel’s complaint sharpened in his mind. ’But I almost expended my whole aura reserves for that.’
He gritted his teeth, flexing his sore fingers as though gripping the sword once more.
[While the aura sharpened a bit more,] Kyone explained patiently, [you wasted too much aura in an attempt to make it bigger and sharper. Dragon claws can be large or small —but their essence is sharpness. They must cut through the thickest of hides, not impress with size.]
Her words rang true, but it didn’t ease the ache in his core where his aura pool felt nearly hollow.
Azel raised his hand to his chin, rubbing thoughtfully as the snow swirled faintly around him.
’Should I reduce the size next time?’ he wondered. If he channeled less, he might sharpen it better.
A smaller slash, honed to perfection, might carry more bite than the larger arcs he’d been struggling to sustain.
"Master, I’m done~"
The sing-song voice shattered his concentration. Azel turned toward it, blinking once before realizing Medusa was walking toward him.
She looked almost untouched by battle — her hair falling neatly, her expression casual as if she’d merely gone for a stroll rather than fought through monsters.
She didn’t even seem winded.
What she did have, however, was a bone clutched in her hand.
Not just any bone — a thick, jagged fragment that looked as though it had once belonged to something massive. Though it was broken in half, he assumed she had bashed it through one too many monsters.
"I think I like these bones," she said lightly, holding it up with a small, pleased smile.
Azel’s lips twitched.
She looked far too satisfied, like a child presenting a new toy.
’Maybe I should make her fight Rank 3s,’ he mused silently. She wasn’t the least bit tired — no, she was energized.
If she only faced smaller prey, she might get rusty.
Her capabilities demanded more. ’Well... I’ll leave that for tomorrow Azel.’
He exhaled and asked, "How was it? And what’s that?"
Medusa’s eyes glowed faintly, her serpentine aura stirring as she twirled the bone in her hand like a baton.
"I killed everything that looked at you," she said simply.
There was no pride in her voice... she was just stating facts fact. As if cutting down threats was as natural to her as breathing.
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "And for this, I saw a good-looking bone on the ground. The bones here are tough and fit for weapons."
Her gaze lingered on the fragment with clear appreciation, her fingers tracing its grain.
She truly meant it. The bones she was used to were fragile, brittle things.
These, by comparison, were resilient enough to endure her strength — and that was saying something.
"I’ll get you a bone weapon when we get back," Azel said, watching her carefully.
Her eyes flickered with interest.
He turned slightly, shifting his attention to Anya. "Uncle Elyon will be able to craft others, right?"
Anya blinked, startled by the sudden question — and by the way he called Elyon "Uncle."
It took her a moment before she nodded quickly.
"Y-yes," she stammered. "He’ll be able to do a good one."
Her voice carried a mix of certainty and hesitation, but her hands fidgeted at her sides.
Azel noticed her glance downward toward her own bone weapons — modest in make, weathered from constant use.
His expression softened.
"Good," he said firmly. "I’ll ask for you too."
Anya’s head jerked up, eyes widening. "R-really?" she stuttered, disbelief clear in her tone.
"Of course," Azel replied without hesitation, his voice steady. "How can my personal attendant protect me without a strong weapon?"
The words landed heavier than he might have realized.
Anya’s lips parted slightly, and a flush crept across her cheeks. She only felt like this when he complimented her.
Before she could respond, movement on the edge of the field drew his attention.
The rest of their group was approaching, their figures distinct even against the snow.
Veyra, as joyful as ever, led the way, her white hair catching the dim light like threads of silver.
When she saw Azel watching, she lifted a hand in a casual wave, her lips quirking faintly.
Azel raised his own hand and waved back, a simple gesture that nonetheless carried ease between them.
The exhaustion was beginning to press in harder now, his limbs felt like lead, his aura well bone-dry.
He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a bed and let unconsciousness swallow him.
"Come on," he said at last, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Let’s head inside. I need some sleep."