30 Years After Reincarnating, It Turns Out This World Was A Rofan?! novel Chapter 280

In the old wuxia novels he used to read, there was a recurring trope that went something like this:

[“How dare you use sorcery! I will slay you to avenge my disciple’s unjust death!”]

[“No, this isn’t sorcery. It’s our sect’s secret martial art... Also, your ‘disciple’ was a criminal who engaged in human trafficking and murder.”]

[“Silence!”]

[... ...]

[“Are you mocking me?!”]

[“What the hell do you want me to say...?”]

This kind of twisted logic, where someone picks a fight over delusions or blatant hypocrisy, was common.

It was a hit-or-miss trope for Ihan—he didn’t particularly like it, but it was so overused that seasoned wuxia readers would just shrug and accept it.

After all, compared to this kind of nonsense—

[“I am a noble heir of the Nine Great Sects and the Five Noble Houses. Even though I tried to kill you, you must forgive me and serve as a loyal hound of justice, fighting the Demon Cult and whatever other threats come our way.”]

—this was relatively tame.

"Wuxia stories really are full of morally bankrupt bastards, huh?"

Ihan had long since been conditioned to nod along, accepting the absurdity.

But now...

‘...Experiencing it firsthand is even worse.’

Ihan’s face twisted in irritation as he stared at the man who had wrongly assumed his identity and picked a fight over it.

Who the hell did this guy think he was, standing in his way, judging him?

It wasn’t just that he had blocked Ihan from finishing the monster off—it was the sheer arrogance of assuming things and acting hostile over his own damn delusions.

Seeing this made him think—

All those wuxia protagonists who endured this kind of bullshit and still called those idiots their "brothers" or "seniors" were either saints or masochists.

CRACK.

‘I, for one, am definitely not a saint.’

Ihan drew his axe instead of his sword, his gaze cold and sharp.

The guy could believe whatever he wanted.

But Ihan had no reason to tolerate it.

Just as he was about to unleash his killing intent—

CLANK.

“?”

The man suddenly placed his sword on the ground.

“Hmph! Come at me, monster! I shall face you with my bare hands!”

“...Why?”

“Because there is a chance you might be human! Therefore, I shall not use my sword!!”

“...What?”

Ihan was so bewildered that his irritation momentarily stalled.

The man continued, his voice booming with conviction.

“You claimed you were human! But I have no way of determining whether that is the truth or a lie! If I were to raise my sword against a human, it would be a grave mistake! So I thought long and hard—and then I recalled my master’s teachings. He once said, ‘If you are ever uncertain, set down your sword and use your fists! By exchanging blows, one can understand a person’s true nature!’ What a wise teaching, wouldn’t you agree?!!”

“......”

“Come, then! Mighty warrior, whether human or monster! My name is Felix! A proud knight of Mordred!!”

“......”

“...Why aren’t you attacking?”

“...I just—can’t tell if you’re kind, insane, or just plain stupid.”

“There is no such thing as a strange person in this world!!”

“...Right. Sure.”

...He had never expected to meet someone this bizarre.

***

Felix de Mordred.

Had any knight of the kingdom heard that name, their eyes would have gone wide in shock.

He was known as the Warhound of Mordred, a knight whose reputation preceded him.

Not only that—he was one of the Seven Young Knights who represented the Southern Territories.

A veteran knight who had personally met all Seven Young Knights once said:

"If there is a knight among them who will surpass both Galahad’s Cursed Wolf and Lionel’s Black Lion—it will be none other than the Warhound."

When asked why, the old knight simply responded:

- "Because he is an idiot."

- "...Excuse me?"

- "And that is why he is strong."

- "???"

It was an enigmatic statement.

But one thing was clear—

Felix de Mordred was a knight with the potential to become the strongest in the South.

And no one had ever questioned that assessment.

Because the truth was—his sheer simplicity and lack of hesitation made him terrifying.

For years, the people had speculated—how much stronger had he grown since that evaluation?

And now—

THWACK!

“!”

—Felix was flying through the air.

Punched square in the face.

This mountain of a man—

Standing 2.8 meters tall and weighing nearly 250 kilograms of pure muscle, with not a single ounce of fat—

Had been sent flying by a punch.

By an opponent far smaller than him.

Even though he had blocked it.

TREMBLE.

His arm, which had taken the blow, shook violently.

That was no normal punch.

"A Fist of Steel!!!"

“...You’re so damn loud.”

"A loud voice is no flaw!!!"

“Technically, no, but... god, you’re annoying.”

WHOOSH!

Felix lunged forward again, throwing another punch.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

But this time, instead of blocking, he did something different—

He threw his own punch.

BOOM!

A thunderous impact shook the air.

The shockwave rippled through the battlefield.

Both men took a step back.

“...Your body... how the hell did you train it?”

For the first time, Ihan looked slightly impressed.

It wasn’t often that he found someone who could fight him in raw, unarmed combat.

Felix, too, looked pleased as he proudly declared:

"Hmph! For five years, I have trained my body beneath a waterfall! Furthermore, this cavern is rich in natural energy—strengthening me even further! Through this, my body has become as solid as steel!!!"

“...That’s actually impressive.”

"And you are equally impressive!!!"

“...Uh... thanks?”

"I’m coming again!!!"

“...You’re actually announcing it?”

"HMPH!!!"

Felix didn’t bother responding.

Instead, he inhaled deeply and swung his fist.

WHOOSH!

It was a brutally simple punch.

No technique, no elegance—just raw power.

It looked like something a street brawler would throw.

Not a trained knight.

One might mistake it for a lack of skill.

But—

BOOOOM!