428: Broken Sword Moves 428: Broken Sword Moves “How strong is he?” Max asked, slowly drawing his sword, its familiar weight grounding him as a flicker of tension coiled through his muscles.

“While alive, he was as strong as a Divine Rank expert of this world,” came the reply, unhurried and emotionless.

“Divine Rank?!” Max’s voice cracked in disbelief, his eyes widening as his heartbeat instantly quickened.

That single phrase hit him like a thunderclap.

Divine Rank was not just a title—it was the summit, the legendary peak of strength in planet Acaris.

Individuals at that level were revered as gods in mortal flesh, capable of splitting mountains with a breath and erasing cities with a flick of their hand.

Max had heard tales, myths even, about Divine Rank beings—but never had he imagined he would face one, even in this kind of trial.

The very idea was staggering.

“You don’t need to be afraid,” the spirit continued, its voice steady, as if to soothe his spiraling thoughts.

“This is but a soul mark, a remnant left by that warrior when he was still alive.

He is not here in flesh, nor in full strength.

This projection will use the same level of strength you currently possess to fight you.

You are evenly matched in raw power.” “I see…” Max muttered, exhaling slowly, his eyes narrowing.

But even with that clarification, he didn’t let his guard down for a second.

A Divine Rank expert, even when reduced to his level of power, wasn’t simply a warrior weakened.

That man’s years of experience, mastery over countless laws, and perfect refinement of techniques would not have faded with his strength.

His instincts, his rhythm in battle, the deadliness of his timing—they would all still be intact.

In the hands of such a person, even basic moves became fatal.

Max understood this clearly.

‘Let’s test its strength,’ Max thought, eyes narrowing as his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.

The mist-cloaked warrior before him stood silently, unmoving, sword loosely in hand, as if even the act of raising it was unnecessary.

Max stepped forward with no hesitation, his aura surging, and in the blink of an eye, he closed the distance with a burst of speed, slashing his blade horizontally toward the figure’s midsection.

Clang!

The strike was fast, fluid, perfectly executed—a move drawn from the Elite Sword Arts, a martial discipline Max had honed to precision.

But the moment his sword neared its target, the warrior’s blade rose with minimal motion, perfectly angled to parry.

The clash rang out like steel striking a mountain, and Max was forced back a step.

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t slow.

He weaved in and out, launching a flurry of rapid slashes, spinning strikes, sharp thrusts—every movement an expression of his refined swordsmanship.

The grass beneath them tore with the force of each exchange, and gusts of wind exploded from the rhythm of their blades colliding.

But no matter how fluid Max’s movements were… no matter how sharp, how deliberate, how technically sound—every single strike was blocked.

Not parried violently.

Not deflected with overwhelming strength.

Blocked—calmly, with eerie precision.

The warrior’s sword never wavered, never faltered.

It moved only as much as necessary, rotating at the perfect angles, anticipating every blow Max attempted to land.

It was as if he could read Max’s every thought, every twitch of muscle before it even happened.

Max gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he leapt backward, chest rising and falling from the intensity.

“Enough,” he muttered under his breath, eyes flashing.

He took a deep breath, then lifted his sword and shifted his stance.

“Elite Sword Arts—Horizontal Break!” he roared, slashing with both arms in a sweeping horizontal arc, his blade generating a violent crescent of sword force that cut through the ground like a divine cleaver.

The wind screamed as the arc tore toward the warrior with ferocious intent.

The warrior’s sword moved.

A simple, upward tilt.

Clang!

The powerful arc exploded against his defense and vanished into light.

Max’s eyes widened—but he was already in motion.

“Elite Sword Arts—Skyfall Split!” he shouted, jumping high into the air, spinning mid-flight and bringing his sword down like a falling meteor.

The blade glowed as it cleaved downward, splitting the air with sheer momentum.

The warrior raised his sword overhead—clang!—and blocked it again, his stance firm like a mountain unmoved by storms.

Max’s feet hit the ground with a thunderous impact, but his expression was grim now, jaw clenched tightly.

His aura exploded around him.

“Then take everything—Elite Sword Arts—Heaven Cleave!” Max howled, sword glowing with radiant light, aura coiling around his arms and blade like a coiling dragon.

He charged with all the strength left in him, slashing upward diagonally with a strike that could sever boulders, tear through towers, and crush any enemy beneath the heavens.

It was a move forged not from imitation, but from evolution—his personal creation, molded from the very bones of the Elite Sword Arts.

All the other two moves were the same.

But once again, just as the blade neared its target, the warrior’s sword moved ever so slightly.

Clang!

The impact was thunderous, shockwaves rippling through the air, the ground beneath the warrior’s feet cracking—but not a step was taken.

Not a scratch was made.

Max stood there, panting, trembling, blade lowered slightly as disbelief shadowed his face.

He had used everything.

Every ounce of technique, strength, and will… and yet, the warrior hadn’t even attacked.

He had only defended—and Max hadn’t been able to break through even once.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Max’s knuckles tightened on the hilt of his sword as the truth became clear.

Even reduced to his level, a warrior who once stood at the Divine Rank could not be overcome by swordsmanship alone.

The warrior in front of him hadn’t moved a step, hadn’t even counterattacked once—yet had rendered his most powerful techniques meaningless with mere blocks.

It wasn’t brute strength.

It was refinement.

Precision.

Mastery.

Max lowered his sword slightly, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his heart, but his mind was already spiraling into reflection.

‘Why…?’ he thought, eyes narrowing on the motionless figure ahead.

‘Why did none of my attacks work?’ ‘Is it… my mastery over sword aura that’s holding me back?’ He wondered, recalling Blob’s harsh but honest words from earlier.

He had spread himself thin, juggling multiple laws, dabbling in everything but mastering none.

Could it be that his sword aura—once his foundation—had grown dull from neglect?

Or… was it something deeper?

CREATORS’ THOUGHTS ShinGotLost Your gift is the motivation for my creation.

Give me more motivation!

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by Aunomay