The Man Who Remained — His Second Life Began with a Humble Bow of Apology. - Chapter 102: Thunderclap (Part One).

Thunderclap (Part One).

When He Was Still Human, Cross Was a Peculiar Existence—One Perpetually Underestimated by Both Himself and Others.

Not everyone saw him that way, of course. But there is no mistaking that to the vast majority—including himself—Cross Vish was someone whose true worth was consistently undervalued.

And ironically, the only people who seemed to grossly overestimate him were his four closest companions. That contrast alone made the situation almost comically tragic.

Which is why, during his time as a human, there wasn’t a single person who truly understood Cross’s real value.

To the average person, Cross was undeniably a being that edged toward the monstrous—yet one that never quite reached the summit. He could gaze up at the peak, but never stand on it.

He lacked the talent to reach the very top.

Had he been an adventurer, he would have undoubtedly ranked among the elite—perhaps even extraordinarily so.
But even then, the apex of the adventuring world would have remained out of reach.
He might have made the top hundred. That was the ceiling of his potential.

That was the value of Cross.
The metric by which one could measure his existence.

Yet even that doesn’t capture the whole truth.
To evaluate Cross’s real potential based solely on that would be premature.

Because if one were to gauge Cross without overestimation or underestimation—if his abilities were seen for what they truly were—his worth would rival even that of the most elite humans, like Claude and his party.

No one ever knew this, but Cross stood astonishingly close to the pinnacle of humanity.

Admittedly, when judged purely by combat strength, Cross was woefully inadequate compared to his heroic companions.
Even battles that the others breezed through against formidable monsters were, for Cross, always a life-and-death struggle.

He constantly fought against foes far beyond his level. In that kind of fight, there was no space for confidence to bloom.

But precisely because he was forced to survive such battles, the amount of experience he amassed was immense—far beyond that of an average person, or even most elite adventurers.

To risk one’s life once or twice might be the extent of danger in a normal life.
For adventurers or soldiers, facing death ten times might be a mark of distinction.
To survive over a hundred near-death experiences—that entered the realm of legend.

And yet Cross, in his most dangerous days, would survive a thousand such moments in just one day.

Thanks to his comrades—who refused to let him die—he somehow always pulled through.
But that didn’t make the experience any less harrowing. Surrounded by overwhelmingly superior enemies, every moment was still a brush with death.

So, does surviving countless death-defying moments define Cross’s value?
Does his unparalleled combat experience alone encapsulate his worth?

Hardly. That still isn’t enough to truly understand Cross.

Because, unknowingly, even Cross himself had failed to recognize what truly made him unique.

He had trained under Claude and learned swordsmanship to a level worthy of elite status.
From Mary, he mastered survival-style knife combat, again reaching an elite tier.
Sophia taught him emergency medicine—he was practically a field doctor.
From Medil, he learned how to counter mages and understand their weaknesses.

These skills, combined with real combat experience, gave him an intimate understanding of human physiology.
Being around Claude and the others, he had learned to read people, to see through empty flattery, and to intuit emotions with unnerving precision.

And those weren’t the only things he learned.

To cook for his companions, Cross had researched food deeply. His knowledge of ingredients and cooking techniques could rival the best human chefs.
Though such skills were all but useless in the world of monsters, where culture and even civilization differed drastically, none of it went to waste.

Because he had spent so long fighting powerful monsters far beyond his level, Cross developed a keen eye and extensive knowledge comparable to a monster researcher.
Because he was always mocked or underestimated, he honed extraordinary communication skills.
Because he was always traveling, his abilities as a traveler, scout, and survivalist were unparalleled.

That’s where Cross’s true value lay—his terrifying versatility.

And while none of the four heroes could match him in these broad capabilities, Cross himself dismissed them as meaningless. But that was far from the truth.

In fact, it made him a monster in his own right.

Adventurer, cook, warrior, soldier, traveler, hunter, monster slayer, bandit or thief leader, monster scholar, cartographer—the list went on.

Except for qualities like nobility, intelligence, advanced sorcery, or any refined social standing—which Cross clearly lacked—he was top-class at just about everything else.

Such boundless versatility easily placed him among the upper echelons of humanity.

In fact, no one else even attempted to do what he did.

Mary came close, though her talents leaned toward the darker arts.
Only Claude could truly surpass Cross in all things—if he so chose. That was the essence of a hero. But Claude lacked the desire to help others the way Cross did and thus never walked that path.

Cross constantly acted for the sake of his companions.
He worked tirelessly, growing in countless directions, becoming a man of many disciplines through sheer dedication.

That’s why, even now as a monster, Cross stands among the elites of the Demon King’s castle, commanding respect as someone of “exceptional excellence.”

Though only when Ellie is nearby, Cross is even considered a worthy representative of the Demon King himself. With a bit more combat power—or stronger subordinates—he might even become a candidate for Demon King.

That is the true, rightful value of Cross at this moment in time.

And because he is so versatile, Cross also knows his greatest weakness better than anyone.

His strength lies in having many options. In an open-ended situation, where anything is possible, Cross shines brightest.

But that is also his weakness.

It’s the very thing that prevents him from breaking past certain barriers. It’s why he cannot defeat those regarded as truly “genuine.”

In other words—Cross’s flaw is that he cannot win when forced to fight on someone else’s terms.

In a battle where he’s boxed into one approach, with limited options, Cross loses his edge.

And right now, that is precisely what’s happening.

This duel—this deadly, grinding clash of blades—is entirely being fought on Sourin’s terms.

Five minutes had passed since the battle began.

And the situation had reached near-disastrous levels.

Despite preparing layered traps and countermeasures, none of them mattered.
They were now locked in head-on combat—a battle that seemed unwinnable.
The more they fought, the more futile it felt.
Sourin’s stance never faltered, never cracked.

With overwhelming poise, no hesitation, and not a single gap in his form, he simply stood there—like a mountain—holding his blade.

It wasn’t just his strength that was terrifying.

If this had been a fight between humans, it might’ve been fine.
But this was a clash between monsters.

And yet Sourin had shown no monstrous traits.

No horns like Unyou. No signs of supernatural strength.
No visible indication of what species he belonged to.

Assuming he had no monstrous attributes would be naïve.

He was hiding something—his “race” was a hidden card yet to be played.

And that, more than anything, was a dire threat to Cross and Unyou, who were already out of options.

“Hey, don’t you really know what species your old man is?”

“There’s gotta be a hint,” Cross said, half in despair.

As Unyou wrapped a bloodied hand with a strip of cloth to stop the bleeding, he answered curtly.

“No clue. My mom was an ogre—I inherited that.”

“What about your siblings?”

“Some are ogres, others have one eye or fox traits. All take after my mom.”

“Wait, your mom was the only wife, right?”

“They’re all basically mistresses. He’d father a child, then walk away. That’s just the kind of guy he is.”

“What a waste…”

“The fact that you find that wasteful says a lot about you, Cross.”

Unyou chuckled bitterly.

“Anyway, how about telling us what you think of your wives, Sourin? If you say women are disposable, I’ll make sure to kill you with rage, sorrow, and jealousy.”

Cross shouted this toward Sourin, who stood in seigan no kamae—the center-guard stance.

But Sourin said nothing.

No emotion. No movement.

He simply held his blade—his body like tempered steel.

“…As aggravating as this is, none of the wives seem unhappy. So you can relax.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Not that I was terribly worried.”

Cross smiled—just in time to dodge Sourin’s sudden attack.

Yes, this was the kind of man Sourin was.

Unreadable, remorseless.

Always ready to kill without warning.

A man so inflexible, so earnest, it became a kind of cruelty.

And so long as one didn’t stand in the way of his chosen path, he likely wouldn’t bring harm to others.

Except, perhaps, to the sons and daughters that lie at the end of that path.

“Kogan-Ryuu Ittou Sword Technique – Disruption Technique, Form One… Iron Severance.”

So murmured Sourin as he sheathed his sword.

The clink of the tsuba meeting the scabbard rang out with a sharp, satisfying chime—and in that exact moment, both of Cross’s sword breakers snapped cleanly from the base.

He had thought he had dodged it—but clearly, that wasn’t the case.

“Ugh. I don’t even know what just happened…”

Cross muttered, pulling out a bundle of fragmented rods from behind his back.

As he spun and assembled them, the parts clicked into place—forming a spear. Lowering its point slightly as he faced his opponent, Cross shifted into a guarded stance, ready to counter.

“Cross. I’ll buy you some time—get some rest.”

“Huh? Nah, I’m not even that—”

As he began to speak, Cross noticed it: blood had begun seeping from his torso again, despite the wound having been staunched.

“It’s not exhaustion. He just lightly passed his blade across the wound—to wear you down.”

Unyou said this as he drew his sword, assuming a middle stance that mirrored Sourin’s—who was, without warning, already standing at the ready with his blade drawn.

Though their stances were technically the same, they couldn’t have looked more different. Sourin’s posture was calm, poised, like a man awaiting his moment. Unyou, by contrast, leaned aggressively forward—like a predator on the verge of lunging.

***

“You’re the clan head, yeah? So when someone challenges you to a duel, you can’t really back down, right? Come on—help me stall.”

Unyou’s voice was tinged with provocation.

Sourin, expressionless, replied quietly:

“The challenger must state their name. That is tradition.”

“Yeah, yeah. Basic Unyou family swordplay, with some freestyle mashup of the Eastern Azure Dragon’s Military Arts—Unyou-style. In short: just a self-made hodgepodge.”

With a smirk, Unyou raised his sword into a high guard.

“Licensed Master of the Kogan-Ryuu Ittou Sword Technique—Sourin of the Kiryuu clan.”

Sourin answered, raising his sword in the hassō-no-kamae—with the blade upright near his right temple.

“You know,” Unyou quipped, “your official title has ‘Ittou’ in it twice. Sounds kinda dumb.”

For once, Sourin’s cold expression cracked slightly—his brows twitching at the jab.

Unyou and Sourin began to circle each other—step by step, inching with silent footwork.

Shifting centers, resetting angles, drawing each other in.

Their movement formed a quiet spiral—like a slow, elegant dance.

But elegance never lasts long.

Unyou was never the kind of man for serene, honorable combat.

Even as Sourin subtly manipulated the spacing between them, Unyou advanced, unconcerned—slowing his footwork but steadily closing the gap.

That high guard—so aggressively offensive—spoke of violence barely held in check.

And then, with one step, he crossed the threshold of striking range.

Yet it was Sourin who moved first.

Because Unyou had crossed the line.

Taking the advantage of go no sen, Sourin used Shunpou—a flash step—to close in instantly, his blade sweeping down in a diagonal kesa-giri slash from his hassō stance.

Unyou dodged by a hair’s breadth, shifting his center of gravity ever so slightly. It was as if he knew exactly what would happen.

And he was smiling.

Sourin realized then—it had all been bait. That careless step was nothing but a lure.

Now on Sourin’s flank, Unyou brought his blade down in a brutal overhead strike—intended to sever an arm.

With no room to sidestep, Sourin twisted his body in a 90-degree pivot, narrowly avoiding the cut—so narrow that the blade scraped past his arm.

A risk-laden move—if he had evaded too wide, there’d be no chance to counter. But Sourin took it with the calm of someone who had made such choices a thousand times before.

This critical exchange nullified Unyou’s positional advantage. They returned to facing each other directly.

With swords—where a single strike can end it all—the roles of attacker and defender are clearly defined.

Counters can only be executed with exhaustive preparation; usually, the defender must block or evade.

But just as clearly as offense and defense alternate, they also transition swiftly.

Once a sword is swung, the attacker becomes the defender.

So now, Unyou didn’t press the offensive. He waited—ready to respond to Sourin’s next move.

Having finished his downward slash, Sourin had fallen into a low stance.

From there, he stepped forward and thrust—not with killing intent, but a slow, seemingly lazy jab.

So slow it appeared harmless.

But Unyou knew better.

It was Kasumi—“Mist,” one of the Dragon Blade Style’s signature techniques.

A thrust that suppresses all presence, lulling the opponent into forgetting danger—then striking.

Unyou took a step back, dodging as he raised his blade from a low to middle guard.

And the moment Sourin’s arm fully extended with the thrust, Unyou swung from above—hard and fast.

The downward slash—from high to low—the simplest and most effective of all sword techniques.

Perfect for someone like Unyou: physically gifted, straightforward.

Sourin raised his blade, tilting it diagonally to intercept—and deflected the blow with a precise parry.

Metal rang out, sparks flew.

The force of Unyou’s cut was redirected by Sourin’s blade.

And with a fluid motion, Sourin swung upward, aiming for Unyou’s chin.

But Unyou tilted his head aside, dodging the rising slash—and followed up with a vicious spinning kick.

Caught off guard, Sourin couldn’t evade. He absorbed the blow and leapt backward to dissipate the damage.

Once again, they faced each other in middle guard.

Though Unyou’s style was self-taught, it wasn’t shallow. It had structure—built atop the foundation of the Ancient Wish School’s teachings.

He had added his own movements and instincts atop that base.

Still, it wasn’t enough.

Sourin’s skill remained far beyond his reach.

While Unyou had wandered, seeking techniques from other schools, Sourin had remained—refining himself like forged steel.

The gap had only widened.

Even so, Unyou now stood nearly on equal ground—not quite, but close.

Because Unyou knew Sourin’s sword.

And Sourin did not know Unyou’s.

Because Unyou was faster, stronger.

But even those weren’t the real reasons.

What allowed Unyou to keep pace—was willpower.

Since the day he left home, every single hour of every single day, Unyou had prepared for this moment.

To condemn his own father.

To declare that patricide and filicide were hollow, meaningless rituals—and to reject the very concept of “fatherhood” that Sourin represented.

To fight the terrifying blade of his father, Unyou had thought, studied, and trained endlessly.

And now, the results were manifest.

But even now… even with all this effort…

Unyou had no real chance of victory.

He exploited strengths, pressured weaknesses, poked holes in his father’s style—and only barely held his ground.

Worse, the more they exchanged blows, the more Sourin adapted.

Unyou’s resolve had allowed him to survive, not to win.

And yet—that was enough.

That alone could change everything.

Not just for Sourin, but for Unyou himself—it was unexpected.

The fact that he could face Sourin at full power…

Created an opportunity.

A terrifyingly convenient one.

Because now, Sourin’s attention was focused solely on Unyou.

Meaning—his awareness of Cross had all but vanished.

He was cautious, yes—prepared for surprise.

But Cross barely registered in his mind.

Cross was a skilled swordsman, but no match for Sourin.

With his improvised spear, if Sourin closed the distance, Cross would die instantly.

In terms of raw combat, he was almost useless.

But combat wasn’t everything.

If Cross was left free, he became the sum total of his entire life.

A man who had faced the Demon King despite lacking power.

Who would do anything to stay with his comrades.

To fight Cross now—was to fight all of that.

Sourin stepped forward. Just one step.

And that was all it took—for him to walk into Cross’s trap.

They were on Unyou estate grounds—Sourin’s home turf.

He knew every inch. Even with eyes closed, he could navigate it.

Which made this all the more dangerous.

Because that one step… felt wrong.

He couldn’t identify it immediately.

A small round stone that should have been underfoot—missing.

His right foot sank a few millimeters lower.

That was it.

But for someone who trained here daily—who lived and breathed this space—that tiny discrepancy was enough.

For the briefest instant, Sourin’s focus faltered.

And Cross didn’t miss it.

In his fingers: a tiny metal pellet.

He flicked his thumb, launching it—a hidden weapon strike.

Normally, it would be laughably easy to block.

But with Sourin’s momentary lapse, it was effectively instantaneous.

The gray bullet shot straight for Sourin’s left hand—the most critical hand in wielding a katana.

It struck the second joint of his ring finger—hard.

A sickening crunch.

The finger bent backwards unnaturally. Pain bloomed.

And though he didn’t drop his sword—his grip held by will forged in countless battles—the opening it created was massive.

Enough that Unyou’s follow-up slash landed cleanly.