PREVIOUSLY-
Another orc—but not bare and feral like the first.
This one wore scrapped leather armour, mismatched and held together by frayed cords and patches of metal. A rusty sword hung from one hand, jagged and too long, the edge corroded but still sharp enough to gut.
It paused at the threshold, yellow eyes narrowing beneath its brow.
Leon didn't move.
He just stared.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
The gate slammed shut behind the newcomer.
----*----
"Damn it…"
Leon staggered upright, every breath a knife dragging through his ribs. His knees buckled once before locking. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he forced his spine straight, jaw clenched.
Then—
"Boy."
The word slipped into his ear like a whisper of smoke.
Leon's eyes widened. He turned—slowly.
Behind him stood Threxil, shrouded in flickering shadow. The spectral armour hissed faintly with arcane energy, and behind the slits of his helm, two violet embers burned with silent fury.
"Use that breathing style,"
Threxil said, voice neither warm nor cold. Just command.
Leon blinked sweat from his lashes. He looked from the phantom to the orc across the arena.
The new orc hadn't moved. Still crouched in that uneven patch of sand and gravel, still clad in scraps of leather armour and rust-bitten metal. The chipped sword rested in its hand like a ritual instrument—not poised, not ready.
Waiting.
Leon narrowed his eyes. He coughed once and raised his voice.
"Will you let me recover?"
He asked, tone dry but edged with steel.
"Two minutes will suffice."
The orc's lip curled slightly.
"Chik," it muttered.
Then, without fanfare, it sat—legs folding under its broad frame in a slow, deliberate motion. Cross-legged, like a monk before a duel.
Silent.
Still.
The sword remained gripped, tip planted in the ground.
Leon stared.
"…Thanks."
But the orc didn't answer.
It simply watched.
And Leon knew: this wasn't mercy. It was a show of respect—or arrogance. Either way, the clock had begun ticking.
He turned back to Threxil, breath ragged, fingers flexing.
"Alright," he muttered.
"Let's see if I remember how not to suffocate."
DING!
The system window appeared, a book's page on display-
------------x---------
Bloodgnaw Rhythm
"Breathe like the starving. Move like the wound."
A savage breathing style tailored for Redfang Butchery swordsmanship.
🔻 Core Concept:
Bloodgnaw Rhythm mimics the respiratory pattern of predators during a hunt—sharp inhales for anticipation, rumbling exhales for release, and explosive diaphragm compression to unleash bursts of killing power. It enhances ??????.
🫁 Breathing Mechanics:
🔹 Gnash Inhale
Method: Inhale quickly through clenched teeth, as if hissing or snarling. Effect: Floods the system with oxygen, locks upper torso for recoil-based strikes.
🔹 Rend Exhale
Method: Forceful, low growl-like exhale from the diaphragm. Effect: Increases torque and power on horizontal and upward slashes.
🔹 Butcher Pulse
Method: Short, rhythmic exhales between chained strikes (like panting). Effect: Keeps muscles loose but coiled, prevents blood pooling in limbs.
🔹 Predator Lock
Method: Hold breath completely for 2–3 seconds after full inhalation. Effect: Tenses entire core and back for a final explosive movement—used before the Execution Stroke of Bloodwaltz.
Behavioral Influence
After prolonged use, the user's body heat rises, pupils dilate, and skin flushes red. Vocalizations start resembling growls or snarls. Many users exhibit a berserker-like trance state during the final stage of combat.
Risk & Side Effects
Overuse causes burst capillaries in the face and chest. Can damage vocal cords or cause muscle lock if breath is held too long. Some masters become addicted to the "kill high", unable to sleep without growling in their exhale.
---------------------------------------------
A hiss escaped Leon's clenched teeth as oxygen surged into his lungs.
It wasn't ordinary breathing—it felt like fire and ice filling his chest, spreading through cracked ribs and torn muscle in slow-burning pulses.
"Use your aura to mend the damage. Let it thread through the breaks—feel the rhythm. Get used to the flow. Breathe it into the style."
Threxil's voice rang through his skull like a whisper carried on steel wind.
Leon's wounds began to pull together—not healed, but no longer bleeding. The pain dulled from agony to pressure. Enough to move. Enough to fight.
"Thank you… warrior,"
Leon muttered, eyes narrowing.
He stood tall, once more pointing his battered claymore across the arena.
The orc was already rising.
"CHHK!"
It growled with something between admiration and bloodlust—a grin splitting its face. That single yellow eye gleamed beneath its heavy brow, as if it wanted this to hurt.
Then, without warning—
WHAM!
They both lunged, the ground erupting beneath their feet.
CLANG!
The sound rang like thunder. Leon's downward slash met the orc's rising blade in a diagonal clash—steel against rusted iron. The force of the impact sent a shock through Leon's forearms. He nearly buckled.
"That's quite the force,"
He grunted, smirking—but his arms trembled, and the crack in his claymore widened, spitting a shard of metal into the air.
The orc growled. It pulled back with brutal grace and swept its rusted blade in a diagonal arc meant to cleave.
CLANG!
Leon ducked low, boots skimming gravel. His body twisted—spinning—
The claymore cut upward in a rising crescent.
HISSSSS.
Aura surged through his limbs like steam bursting through a valve.
He exploded upward, this time not with his blade, but with his fist—one inch before the orc's face.
STAB!
His knuckles crushed through yellow sclera. The orc's eye burst—blood and pus splattered across Leon's cheek like hot oil.
"CHHIIIIIK!"
The orc screamed, clutching its ruined eye with clawed fingers—but Leon wasn't done.
His pulse roared like a war drum. Veins bulged across his forehead, his breath ragged, half-snarling as aura crackled around his bones like red lightning.
"You're not walking away either,"
He spat, drawing the claymore back—
And swung again, this time aiming to cleave straight through the orc's shoulder.
SPLURT!
The leather belt snapped with a strained pop as Leon's blade carved through it. The orc's shoulder guard dropped to the dirt with a dull clunk, metal-studded hide rolling in the dust. A thick stream of blood spilled across the orc's torso, running like war paint from the widening gash.
The beast shrieked—high, furious.
"CHHHIIIIIK!"
Its rusted sword came down in a wild diagonal sweep, full of rage and pain but no technique—just raw, brutal instinct. The blade hissed through the air where Leon's head had been a heartbeat earlier.
He had already moved.
Leon pivoted low, letting the rusted edge whistle past his back, then slid like a blade through water to the orc's exposed flank.
His hand snapped to the hilt at his belt.
SHLK!
The short sword sank into flesh with a wet, biting noise. The steel disappeared between the ribs, sliding deep until bone resisted the plunge. Blood geysered around the wound—hot, thick, and steaming against the cool arena air.
"CCCHHHHIIIK!"
The orc howled again, voice cracking, and swung one thick arm like a war hammer.
Leon ducked—the wind of it ruffled his hair—and stepped just out of reach, boots grinding stone.
"Mine,"
He whispered.
He twisted the blade once before yanking it free with a slick, slicing pull.
Then, almost casually, he spun the short sword once in his palm and slid it back into the leather loop on his belt.
The orc stumbled, blood pouring down its side now in waves. Its breathing was ragged, wet. It clutched the gaping wound, one eye wild with disbelief—rage still there, but dimming.
Leon stood, crimson running down his knuckles, chest still heaving.
The fight wasn't quite over.
But the end was close.
"Gurgh!"
Leon's knees buckled as he clutched his chest. Blood surged up his throat—warm, metallic, and choking—and spilled through his fingers.
His vision blurred.
A jolt of pain shot through his chest, sharp and unnatural. His veins pulsed like overstrained cords, and a violent spasm stabbed straight into his heart.
"Argh!"
More blood burst from his nostrils and mouth, flecking the stone at his feet. His body trembled, overwhelmed by the sudden backlash of aura overuse—he had pushed too far, too soon.
SWISH!
The orc didn't wait.
Its rusted sword screamed through the air, aiming for Leon's heart in one final, merciless stab.
CLANG!
Leon's claymore, battered and barely holding, met the tip of the blade just in time.
A blinding crack echoed through the chamber.
BREAK!
Steel splintered.
The claymore's edge shattered—fragments flying in every direction like glass under pressure. The sheer force of the impact lifted Leon off his feet.
THUD!
He crashed into the arena wall, stone crumbling behind his back.
"Aargh!" he coughed, ribs flaring white-hot with pain.
Then—
FWISH!
A gust of displaced air.
Through the dust cloud stepped the orc—bloodied, half-blind, but unrelenting. Its sword raised above its head, rust glinting red beneath the torchlight.
No time.
Leon planted his feet against the wall, teeth gritted, and launched.
Hisss
He twisted midair, narrowly ducking the cleaving strike—and rolled toward the orc's exposed flank.
"Shit…!"
He swung low—desperate, furious.
SLICE.
The fractured edge of the claymore dragged behind the orc's knee, cutting deep into sinew and tendon.
"CHHIIIK!"
The orc screamed and dropped, buckling to its knees, one leg folding under its own weight. It twisted to strike—but too late.
Leon was already moving.
With a cry that tore from somewhere deeper than his lungs, he raised what remained of his blade—its edge broken, its spine jagged—and drove it forward with everything he had.
SHLK!
The ruined claymore punched through flesh and bone, burying itself into the orc's chest. The steel sank between ribs and pierced through the heart. The orc's body spasmed.
Its sword fell.
Its mouth opened in one final breath—but no sound came.
Only blood.
Then it collapsed.
Leon staggered upright, the weight of his ruined claymore dragging behind him like a dead limb. His chest heaved with every breath, ribs grinding together beneath torn muscle. Blood clung to his teeth, thick with copper and fire.
"Gargh!"
He spat crimson, then winced—and swallowed the rest down. The taste burned his throat, but it was either that or choke on it.
His vision swam, edges flickering. The arena floor tilted beneath him.
Then, from behind—
"You should not use it without training,"
Threxil said calmly, materializing beside him like a shadow dragged from the void. His voice carried both pride and warning—like a teacher watching a child barely survive a lesson he wasn't ready for.
Leon turned his head, sweat beading along his jaw.
"You should've told me then!"
He snapped, glaring through blood-crusted lashes.
Threxil tilted his helm slightly. The violet embers behind the visor blinked—once, slowly.
Then he shrugged.
"I thought you had plot armour."
Leon froze.
His brow twitched.
"…What armour?"
He asked slowly, voice flat, dangerous.
"Nothing…"
Threxil murmured, suddenly preoccupied with inspecting his spectral gauntlet.
The silence between them hung like an awkward funeral bell.
Leon's eyes narrowed.
"You absolute bastard."
Threxil said nothing. But somewhere beneath the helmet, the faintest flicker of amusement pulsed.
"You will win the rest of them easily now,"
Threxil murmured, his voice like a dying fire—low, fading, but certain.
Leon didn't answer.
He had already sat down, legs folded, arms resting on his knees. His breath slowed into rhythm. Sweat cooled along his neck as the bruises across his body faded, their edges drawn inward by the green light flickering above them like mist.
The aura pulsed in waves—gentle, then forceful—coiling along his limbs, crawling into his bones.
DING.
[SKILL BLOODGNAW BREATHING UNLOCKED!]
[BLOODGNAW BREATHING: 24%]
[STARTING STAGE (3/5)]
Leon ignored the chime, focusing on the enlightenment he gained.
'The breathing style… it accelerates my blood and aura circulation… forces my heart to pound like a forge bellows.'
He exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring.
'But according to Threxil there are many styles that do that.'
' Titanseed. Blacklung Surge. Even the Bramble Core styles… All of them increase power by fueling the body. So why… why did this one nearly kill me?'
Threxil's eyes flickered, his hands crossed in amusement.
Leon's brows arched,
'Meh, lets leave it…'
'No, I need to think. I need to search for traces of the style in my body'
A pause. Deeper breath. He reached.
'There must be something embedded—some hidden layer. It didn't just speed me up—it nearly ripped my tissues apart from inside. That wasn't just circulation…'
He tried to feel the signature of it again. The rhythm. The imprint. Searching through his body with his inner sense.
'….Nothing..'
A beat passed.
'….Nothing..'
Another.
'….Nothing..'
Then-
Faint.
Subtle.
A slight shiver beneath the ribs. A folding sensation under the left lung. It wasn't just aura moving.
It was chewing.
The muscles were tightening and releasing on their own. Controlled micro-contractions across muscle fibre. They weren't just pumping—they were feeding.
Leon's eyes flew open.
'Wait… this… how can a style do this?!'
A grin tugged at his lips.
'This style… @$*^%?!'
He didn't even finish the thought.
DING!
[SKILL MASTERY INCREASED!]
[BLOODGNAW BREATHING: 24→80%]
Before him, the new opponent stood at the edge of the arena—silent, poised. Leather armour worn but well-fitted. A bandolier of daggers across the chest.
Two short blades, curved and darkened with use, gleamed in his hands. An orc, yes—but this one didn't move like the others.
This one waited.
A veteran.
Leon stood, still smiling, still tasting the blood behind his teeth.
He raised a hand, fingers beckoning lazily.
"Come at me."
WHAM.
The mercenary orc lunged.