Chapter 270

Floor Fifteen, Dungeon...

Leon stood alone in the silent room, his bare upper body glistening faintly under the dim, cold light. His breath was steady, measured. The Nyxter rested firmly in his hands — its blackened edge humming with restrained mana.

He wore nothing but his underwear, allowing his body to move without restriction. Sweat rolled down his chest, dripping onto the stone floor beneath his feet.

Before him floated a translucent blue screen, glowing faintly in the air.

’Hah... Only twice,’ Leon thought as his eyes trailed across the data on the screen. ’I’ve only used this technique twice since the day I got it. When that old man used it, he killed that Parasite in a single strike... and even cut down that massive tree of life behind it.

If I’m ever going to stand at that level, I need to understand it — no, learn it — and grasp the essence of swordsmanship as well.’

Leon raised his sword slightly. The Nyxter gleamed under the faint light as the air around him grew heavier with focus. At that instant, the ground trembled faintly, and a stone dummy rose up from the floor, assembling itself piece by piece until it stood before him.

’Elis made this chamber specifically for my training,’ Leon thought, glancing at the regenerating construct. ’No matter how many times I destroy it, it rebuilds itself — never in the same position twice. A perfect opponent to practice attack.’

He exhaled slowly.

"Last Rise..."

The words left his mouth in a whisper — and instantly, the dungeon vanished from his vision.

Leon opened his eyes again. He stood at the base of a vast, emerald-green plain stretching endlessly before him. In the distance rose a tall mountain bathed in silvery light. Above it, a brilliant full moon began to climb the horizon, glowing with haunting beauty.

"Oh my... You’re really trying to learn it, huh?" a familiar voice echoed behind him.

Leon turned around, his expression neutral. The old man stood there again, his white robe fluttering softly against the nonexistent wind.

"You again?" Leon asked, narrowing his eyes.

"What can I say?" the old man smirked. "My soul’s trapped here. It’s not like I want to see your face. Honestly, I thought you’d just give up and let me take over your body."

Leon tilted his head. "Why the hell are you even interested in my body?"

"You have money, women, and plenty of booze to waste your life on," the old man said dryly. "What else could a dead man ask for?"

Leon sighed. "I thought your wish was to free your soul from this technique."

"I do want that," the old man replied, folding his arms. "But if you’re going to fail anyway, might as well have some fun before I wait again."

"Fuck that," Leon muttered, his tone flat. "You’re not taking my body. Now answer my question — why does my consciousness keep getting dragged here every time I try to use the technique?"

The old man’s smile faded slightly. "Every form of Last Rise has a unique name — and each represents a trial. The one before you now..." He pointed at the mountain. "...is to climb and reach the top where the full moon shines. That’s the trial. Hence, the name of the first form— Last Rise: Full Moon."

Leon crossed his arms. "So every time I use the technique, my consciousness will be pulled here?"

"Only when you’re in safe places," the old man replied. "Like now. You’ll need to perform the technique-"

"Ten thousand times. Yeah, I know." Leon’s voice carried no surprise.

"Nothing less expected from you," the old man chuckled softly.

"What’s your name, anyway ?" Leon asked after a moment.

The old man blinked. "I don’t remember. It’s been a thousands of years since I became a soul fragment. I remember nothing of my past — only this technique."

Leon studied him for a moment, then said calmly, "I’ll call you White Fox — you’ve got those sly eyes, that stupid white robe, and you smile like a fox too."

"Hmph." The old man smirked faintly. "Call me whatever you wish. But for now, listen carefully."

He gestured toward the glowing moon. "Look at it, Leon. What do you see?"

"A beautiful full moon," Leon said, his tone even.

"Once you start staring at it, you can’t stop, can you?" White Fox asked, a knowing smile on his face.

Leon’s eyes didn’t waver. "I can. It’s just... I don’t want to."

"Exactly," White Fox said softly. "That’s the key. When you raise your sword, it creates mirrored afterimages behind the blade — hypnotic to the eyes. For a few seconds, the enemy becomes entranced by the motion. You have exactly three seconds to take their head off. Fail, and the trance breaks."

Leon frowned slightly. "I tried it once — on a Goblin Lord — but the technique collapsed midway."

"Of course it did," White Fox said sternly. "This technique doesn’t rely on mana, stamina, or agility. It’s forged through focus and discipline. Move too fast or too slow, and the illusion shatters. The rhythm must be perfect — your will must be absolute.

It’s like looking at a serpent with calm expression and moving him to your will."

Leon’s gaze sharpened. "And how am I supposed to know when it’s perfect?"

"The higher you climb that mountain," White Fox replied, pointing again toward the moonlit peak, "the clearer the moon will appear to you. When the moon shines brightest — when its form stops wavering — that’s when you’ve mastered the first form. Then, your sword will no longer cut flesh or stone... it will slice through the very air itself."

"How-"Leon’s mouth opened to speak, but before he could utter a word, his surroundings shattered.

"Haah..."

Leon gasped as his consciousness snapped back to reality. He stood once again in the dungeon training room, drenched in sweat. The rock dummy before him was split clean in half. His breathing was ragged, his arms trembling slightly from the exertion.

Grrrrr...

The sound of shifting stone echoed again as another dummy rose from the ground, its empty eyes staring at him.

"Again..." Leon muttered, gripping the Nyxter’s handle tightly. His eyes burned with determination as he invoked the technique once more.

As the skill activated, Leon’s hands began moving on their own — guided by instinct. At first, the movement flowed like water, smooth and precise. But as the blade reached a ninety-degree angle, the automatic rhythm broke. His control faltered.

Gritting his teeth, Leon forced his muscles to continue, trying to match the pattern.

Slash!

The blade struck the dummy’s neck, cleaving its head off — but the motion was heavy, forced, unrefined. Leon frowned as the dummy crumbled to dust.

’The swing wasn’t smooth. The blade didn’t flow like he said...’ His hand ached, muscles screaming from tension. He looked at his trembling fingers and exhaled sharply.

"This won’t work like this," he muttered under his breath. "I’ll collapse from exhaustion before I reach even a hundred repetitions."

Without wasting another second, Leon used another skill.