Abyss System The Rise of the Lord-Chapter 86 duel with the pirate captain

The next one attacked with an axe.

Zaber let his sword fall from his hand.

"What?!" the bandit exclaimed in shock.

But it was too late.

Zaber seized his wrist, twisted it inward. The axe dropped.

He drove his forehead into the man’s nose. Then his knee smashed into the ribs.

Close-quarters combat—intimate. Bloody. Merciless.

The soul chain stirred again.

This time it pierced straight through the archer standing behind the shield and yanked him forward.

Zaber slammed him to the ground. He retrieved his sword.

One strike. Two strikes.

The second ring began to collapse.

But a voice came from the center.

"Enough!"

The leader emerged.

He was tall. Eyes cold. Body forged by countless battles.

"Who are you? Why are you attacking us?" he demanded.

Zaber gave a thin smile.

"Even if I told you, you wouldn’t recognize me. As for why I’m attacking... there is no reason."

He raised the soul chain.

The leader took one step forward.

"No reason? What kind of fool—" he roared, turning to his men.

"Surround him!"

But it was already too late.

The flames were already reaching the center.

Smoke. Screams. Fear.

Zaber stood amid the fire.

His sword dripped blood. The soul chain coiled around his body.

"Now..." he thought. "...the hunt has truly begun."

Zaber drew a deep breath. Standing before the leader’s tent, he assessed the surroundings. This was the heart of the central area, the bandits’ living quarters. Wooden walls and elevated platforms with lookouts above, dark earth underfoot below. Every detail fell under Zaber’s sharp gaze.

The leader’s silhouette was tall and broad-shouldered, heavy with resolve. Even from a distance he watched Zaber, controlling his breathing. Every step, every movement calculated—this was a man who trusted his strength and experience completely.

Zaber advanced one step. The leader did not move. A cold, illuminated gleam burned inside his eyes. As though he already knew every action before it happened. In that instant a thought flashed through Zaber’s mind: "This duel will not be ordinary. This is the first time I face a high-rank opponent. My chance of victory—eighty percent."

The leader stepped forward. His sword did not touch the ground, yet every empty space, every shift in the air seemed to answer to him.

Zaber launched the attack. He charged, leaping toward the leader, sword extended from high to low in a vicious downward cut. The leader twisted his body aside; the blade sliced only air with a sharp whistle. In the next heartbeat Zaber thrust his left hand forward—the soul chain lashed out.

The leader reacted, but he could not see the chain. It pierced straight into his body. The chain was powerful, yet the leader’s experience held its ground. Swords clashed; the sound rang loud. With every strike, every fragment of movement stirred leaves in the smoke, snapped dry twigs underfoot.

The soul chain retracted into Zaber’s body.

Zaber felt a flicker of irritation.

I’ve used the chain too much today, he thought. I’m approaching the limit.

He began the next assault: he spun the sword from left to right. The leader pivoted backward, but Zaber’s feet moved at an impossible speed to match. Every strike, every motion carried strategy. The leader countered with speed: his blade pinned Zaber’s wrist under pressure, squeezing the hand.

Zaber retreated two steps, then lunged forward sharply.

"This is only the beginning," he thought. "The leader is strong, but I am ready."

The leader smiled—hard, determined. He widened his stance, rooted himself. He raised his sword and struck forward. Zaber ducked, but the blade grazed his right shoulder. When he tried to evade, the leader seemed to stumble for a fraction of a second, yet recovered with a short, stable step.

Thoughts swirled in Zaber’s mind: "Every strike is calculated. Every movement is strategy. His spirit is already broken, yet even in this state he remains extremely dangerous."

He did not rush. He lowered his sword, then struck upward from the left. The leader parried, but Zaber released the blade entirely—fingers straightened like a spear, knuckles clenched into a point—and drove them straight into the leader’s throat at blinding speed. He immediately leaped back, scooped his fallen sword from the ground.

The leader drew a heavy breath. One hand clutched his throat. At that moment every remaining bandit watched the duel.

Zaber held his sword in a ready stance.

The leader had not expected that move, yet he was seasoned: he raised his sword high and delivered a powerful downward strike against Zaber.

They never lost sight of each other. Every strike, every motion a combination. At that instant a massive pillar of flame erupted between them.

Zaber considered how to use the fire strategically: escape routes, wind direction, smoke—everything could be turned to his advantage if handled correctly. The leader leaped over the flames, raised his sword high, and brought it down in a ferocious cut.

Zaber had anticipated it. He shifted his left leg behind his right, spun, and drove his sword straight into the leader’s side. A cold smile appeared on the leader’s face, yet his legs began to slow.

"You are strong..." Zaber thought. "That much is clear. But your spirit is broken. You were already wounded. You were not prepared. That is why you will lose."

With final resolve the leader opened his stance, let his sword drop low, and charged Zaber with everything he had. Zaber ducked; the furious, desperate momentum made evasion simple.

Zaber advanced. Sword moving low to high, high to low, right to left. The leader met each blow, but his spirit was exhausted—he could no longer think clearly. With every exchange his movements grew simpler, less effective. Zaber began to count every action: placement of feet, adjustment of blade angle, delivery of force.

Amid the smoke and fire they continued. Each strike cast long shadows in the flames. Swords rang against one another, yet the advantage steadily tilted toward Zaber. The leader changed tactics again and again: twisting wrists, altering trajectories, defending. Zaber read the blade, struck at openings, and—understanding the technique—began to surprise the leader with his own swordsmanship.

The duel stretched long. Breaths grew ragged, grips iron-tight, legs heavy with fatigue. Yet Zaber pressed on. Every strike, every maneuver, every strategic choice aimed at one goal: the leader’s defeat. But the leader was nineteen ranks above him, vastly experienced, capable of crushing hundreds of ordinary men with ease. Even sensing defeat, he fought not for victory but for the sheer pleasure of prolonging the battle.

In the end the leader slowed fractionally. Zaber lowered his sword, leaned back slightly, and evaluated the leader’s posture. Gathering his last strength, the leader lunged from the side. The leader met the attack without blocking—he struck with all his remaining power. Zaber gave a faint smile, refused to meet force with force, instead pulling his sword back and twisting. In one fluid second the leader’s blade passed harmlessly in front of him—Zaber’s sword was already behind. He straightened the blade and drove it straight through the leader’s lung.

The leader fell, yet he still breathed—weakened, fading.

Zaber drew a deep breath. He pulled his sword free. The other bandits who had been watching scattered in terror.

"Our leader... is he defeated?"

"Impossible. A beginner third-rank can never defeat a high-rank."

The bandits stared at one another.

Zaber stood in the center of the yellow-lit clearing—cold, ready.

He looked at those around him.

"I am the victor," he said. His breathing was heavy.

Inside, Zaber felt a surge of pride.

I did the impossible.

I am not weak. I am strong.

If I had not already broken his spirit, he might have killed me at the very beginning. But after an hour of battle—I won.

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