The Fat Aristocrat Waltz in the Labyrinth - Chapter 38
Chapter 38: The fat aristocrat dances the waltz
He didn’t think of anything.
His mind was blank.
Faced with an inevitable death, he realized that all a person could do was stare at it.
Suddenly, his vision was blocked—it was a dwarven shield warrior who was one of Mikel’s comrades.
The sizable metallic shield repelled “The Scarlet Bear’s Claw,” emitting a sharp and distinct sound.
The dwarf did not falter. He stood there as a shield. Not only that, but he stepped forward with his large shield against the troll.
The movement tripped the troll.
“I fear not the weapons of amateurs!”
It was a strong, roaring voice.
The dwarf stood like a formidable wall. ‘How reliable his thick, broad back was!’
Mitrof was awestruck by the magnificence of the shield warrior and, at the same time, noticed that his feet were soaked in blood. Upon closer inspection, it was not just his feet; he was bleeding from his back, arms, and forehead too. He had injuries all over his body from the collapse of the rubble.
Despite that, he still stood here. He protected Mitrof.
“Dwarf shield warrior, I thank you.”
“Hmph—words are unnecessary—my weapon remains buried—winning depends on your needle—show it through your actions.”
The voice was hoarse, the breathing was rough, and the speaker was unsettled. It was proof that he was suffering from unbearable pain.
Mitrof swallowed hard, feeling something stuck in his throat.
He felt both awe and admiration for the warrior’s true appearance as a fighter, and his own pathetic state.
The warrior had not lost to fear or resignation. This was what an adventurer was, and Mitrof gritted his teeth.
He stomped his left foot hard on the ground. There was a pain that resonated in the bone marrow. He involuntarily scowled, and tears welled up in his eyes.
‘It hurt.’
But what was this level of pain? The warrior in front of him was standing with pain many times greater than this.
The footing was bad. So what? Those who don’t move forward in fear of rolling on the rubble ground have no future. Victory can only be achieved by stepping hard, whether by rolling, injuring one’s feet, or even bleeding.
abandoning complacency, fear, and oneself.
When he determined his resolve, finally that quietness came to Mitrof’s heart.
the power he obtained from “sublimation” mental strength to compensate for his own weaknesses in the past.
Mitrof took a deep breath.
Buuuuhhhh…
The troll snarled, baring its fangs, and Mitrof noticed that its pupils had turned red, like blood.
This is a battle.
It was not a relationship between an adventurer and a monster. It was not a matter of hunting or being hunted.
To live, they staked everything on each other. They could no longer escape. They had to win here.
The troll charged.
The “Scarlet Bear’s Arm” was swung sideways, cutting into the ground.
The dwarf did not move—no, he could no longer move. He no longer had the strength.
Despite that, the pride of a shield warrior ensured he could block that attack.
Gaan made a heavy sound that shook the depths of his stomach.
The dwarf took the brunt of the troll’s attack and protected Mitrof completely. However, he could not withstand the impact and was blown away as he rolled over a pile of rubble.
That gave Mitrof visibility.
He saw the figure of the troll swinging its arm and stretching its upper body. But it was staring at him with one unmarred eye.
Mitrof is not intimidated. He glares back. How can there be victory in a battle that is lost in spirit?
He ran through the piles of rubble, advancing on unstable ground with broken cobblestones, earth, and rocks. Mitrof’s body was heavy, and the excess fat shook like a heavy stone. He used its weight to dig his toes into the ground and proceeded from there, driving them like stakes.
movement through points using a toe stand.
It was not a sword technique for dueling.
It was a dance.
A technique that nobles are required to learn is ballroom dancing, a dance performed at social events. Mitrof remembered the movements that his instructor had drilled into him since he was a young child.
maintaining posture using the toes and footwork through center of gravity movement.
The rhythm of the waltz led Mitrof through the rubble.
Before the troll could grab him, Mitrof thrust his rapier into his wrist. The blow pierced through the fat and landed solidly on the bone.
The troll yelled and flung his arm. Mitrof had already drawn his sword, pivoted his body, and moved away from the spot.
1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3.
In his tranquil mind, only that rhythm was repeated.
The troll slammed the scarlet bear’s arm down from above.
Mitrof elegantly reached up with his hand and spread his legs widely, rotating his flabby body to avoid the strike.
The rhythm flowed. He slashed the elbow he had pulled in as if to release it. It tore through the troll’s right knee, sending blood flying.
a roar of anger or perhaps a scream.
The troll did not retreat. With red eyes seething with anger, he looks down at the little monster that is Mitrof.
Baring his fangs, he glared down, and then an arrow landed on his face.
It was Grace.
The troll writhed in agony.
‘This is it,’ Mitrof said, holding his sword in front of him. It was the stance he had been taught as a noble’s duel ritual. He swept the tip of the blade through the air and waited for the right moment to step forward.
The troll pulled out the deeply embedded arrow. Blood splattered. Grace’s second arrow flew toward him. He received it on his left arm and shouted out in frustration.
That’s when Mitrof stepped forward.
The troll swung his left arm, still holding the arrow he had pulled out, to strike Mitrof. But Mitrof rotated and avoided the strike. With a loud sound, the ground shook beside him as rubble flew around him, cutting his cheek. But Mitrof did not fear, and forgot the pain.
Mitrof has already learned how to fight trolls.
To win with a thin, needle-like rapier, he had no choice but to aim for the face. And to reach the troll’s face, which was much higher than Mitrof’s, he had to attack his feet first.
—Stab.
He made his first stab and pierced the troll’s knee with the rapier, then pulled it out.
As Scarlet Bear’s arm swung at him again, Mitrof rotated and lowered his body close to the ground, using centrifugal force to regain his posture. He then struck again with a second stab.
The troll returns his swung arm to its original position with a reverse kasaya cut. Mitrof clearly sees this movement.
——The waltz is playing.
In the faded memories of his childhood, Mitrof dances while crying. While receiving whippings from his instructor, he keeps performing the same moves until dusk. The sound and the rhythm are here now.
Mitrof spins around. With a sharp sword in his right hand, he dances the waltz at the center of a pile of rubble. Dodging even death, he thrusts the sword three times.
It deeply pierced the troll’s knee joint.
A scream echoes above. As his leg loses strength, he falls to his knees, and the voice is even closer now.
Mitrof plants his feet firmly on the ground, accumulating the weight of his corpulent body, all for the final thrust with all his might.
The troll, on his knees, screams and raises the scarlet bear’s arm. His left arm is also raised. He intends to crush Mitrof with both hands.
Mitrof has no intention of avoiding it, nor can he. He has already stopped moving.
At this point, it’s only a matter of who will reach first—and Troll is slightly faster.
However, Mitrof did not give up.
He only aimed for the troll’s chin and focused on that one point. The world was already colorless. In a silent world where only himself and the target he aimed at were colored, Mitrof stretched his body. As a nobleman, he had been trained in swordsmanship for this duel.
Before his sword could reach its destination, two things happened at the same time, just as the troll’s arm was about to catch Mitrof.
a dull sound, and Canule appeared to protect Mitrof. Holding a large shield borrowed from a dwarf warrior, she intercepted the troll’s desperate Scarlet Bear’s Arm weapon with her incredible strength.
With a thud, the troll’s left arm hit right beside Mitrof. An arrow was sticking out of his wrist. The arrow that Grace had fired with all her might, strong enough to cut through the bowstring, hit and penetrated through the troll’s wrist, changing its trajectory and protecting Mitrof.
Thus, there was nothing to stop Mitrof. Mitrof pierced the troll’s neck with such intense concentration that he didn’t even notice what had just happened. It rose from the jaw, taking the troll’s life.
The red eyes glared at Mitrof.
Mitrof stared back at the troll. Eventually, the light went out from the troll’s eyes, and it collapsed on the spot, crushing Mitrof underneath.
A scream of agony rose up.