30 Years After Reincarnating, It Turns Out This World Was A Rofan?! novel Chapter 234

"Swordsmanship...."

Ihan cast a wary glance at the twig drifting through the air.

It was nothing more than a mere twig, yet he refused to let his guard down, not even for an instant.

Click.

"You’re taking this quite seriously. It’s just a twig, nothing more."

"...From where I’m standing, I don’t think this is just a twig. If anything, it might be more troublesome than an actual sword."

"You deduced that on instinct? Impressive."

"Not instinct, just...."

Thwack!

—Ihan wasn’t being paranoid. He had simply read too many martial arts novels to dismiss it carelessly.

Bracing himself, Ihan kicked off the ground and swung his sheathed iron sword.

He hadn't drawn the blade yet; this was just a test clash. When the scabbard met the twig—

Boom!

"...A physicist would have a stroke seeing this."

The impact resounded like hammers colliding.

There was no way a brittle twig should have that kind of weight. Ihan had no logical explanation for what had just happened, but he reminded himself that superhumans operated outside the realm of common sense.

So, rather than questioning it—

‘I’ll just treat it as another sparring partner.’

Ihan decided to take the simplest approach: treating the twig attacking him as an actual swordsman, a proper training opponent. He adjusted his stance, preparing to evade.

Why dodge instead of blocking or countering?

Because dodging was the obvious choice.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

Especially when he wasn’t dealing with just one opponent, but seven.

Seven floating twigs surged toward him simultaneously. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Normally, he would have relied on Iron Body to tank the hits, but he recalled Felicia’s instruction to refrain from using any techniques. That meant he had to put in extra effort.

Swish!

People often assumed Ihan lacked technical finesse just because he had a habit of brute-forcing his way through fights.

But those who truly understood martial arts knew better.

Would someone without skill be able to use something as intricate as Illusory Eight Trigrams Steps?

Whoosh!

Despite his large frame, Ihan moved with surprising speed and fluidity.

His footwork wasn’t flashy, but it was refined—smooth and controlled, like gliding across an icy surface rather than walking on solid ground.

And when such footwork was combined with swordsmanship—

"Excellent!"

—subduing an opponent, even one as bizarre as a floating twig, was hardly a challenge.

Ihan's sword struck down one of the twigs, shattering it. Felicia clapped, clearly entertained.

"I'm not a performer," he muttered, feeling like a circus act.

But she didn’t seem to hear—or maybe she just ignored him—as she sent another wave of twigs his way.

"Alright, let’s increase the difficulty a little."

Fwwoosh!

"!?!"

Like a game suddenly shifting to a higher difficulty setting, the twigs moved faster, carrying significantly more force.

Smack!

"Goddamn—"

Ihan barely managed to block the next attack, but the impact against his wrist was leagues beyond the previous strikes, forcing a curse out of him.

‘This isn’t just swordsmanship.’

Even among masters of sword control, the pinnacle of swordsmanship at a distance was often referred to as Heart-Controlled Swordsmanship.

‘No... it might be a step beyond that.’

Ihan decided not to define Felicia’s Skyblade by his existing knowledge and assumptions.

If he tried to force it into the framework of what he understood, he would never defeat it.

Shing!

He tossed away his scabbard and finally drew his sword.

If he wanted to show sincerity, he had to respond with sincerity.

And, as if acknowledging his decision—

Boom!

—the twigs unleashed an even greater surge of pressure.

It was as if they were telling him that drawing his blade was the only correct choice.

"Huff!"

Slash!

Ihan took a deep breath and met the force head-on, slicing through the incoming twig.

Thud!

Another one tried to sneak up on him from behind.

Swish!

His blade swept through it without hesitation.

At a glance, his slashes seemed simple, almost dull. But the force behind them was overwhelming.

The sheer wind pressure from his swings felt like razor-sharp gusts, reminiscent of a sword storm.

After all, he had spent three years refining his horizontal slash while lifting hundreds of kilos of weights. The sheer force behind it was only natural.

"...Impressive. Strength aside, it’s clear you never skipped a day of training. Did you really reach this level with just the fundamentals?"

"I never had a proper teacher to teach me any fancy sword techniques."

"And that makes it even more commendable. Since you had no master, you trained yourself even more ruthlessly...! You’re like a living hunk of steel—so refined and tempered that it’s impossible to tell how much polishing went into it."

Felicia didn’t hold back her praise.

It was almost excessive, to the point where it felt like she was mocking him.

But she had her reasons for speaking this way.

"Tell me, child... you weren’t exactly blessed with natural talent, were you?"

"That body of yours is impressive, but it’s clearly the result of training no ordinary human could endure. It doesn’t seem like a mystical ability, though. I’d wager you were subjected to some kind of experiment that enhanced your recovery. You must’ve gone through hell since childhood."

Boom!

"Ah, but don’t get me wrong—I don’t think that’s a bad thing. Back in my youth, I knew a few people with recovery abilities like yours. Some even trained their bodies in a similar way.

For reference, among those with enhanced regeneration, there was one who possessed a truly rare mystic power—Regeneration. He had excellent talent in swordsmanship, too. But in the end, he became drunk on his own strength, let his arrogance consume him... and was the first to die."

Crunch!

"The rest didn’t fare much better. No matter how strong their recovery was, they couldn’t surpass their own limits. They lacked perseverance, lacked true resolve."

Swish!

Ihan had no time to listen to her words.

The twigs were no longer just blunt sticks—they had somehow gained razor-sharp edges, slicing through his sleeves with ease.