DAR Vol. 7 Chapter 26 Part 2

Uncle Gry watched Roa and the others surrounded by the residents of the royal capital from atop a low hill some distance away.

<It appears to be quite the celebration.>

The hill lay well away from the main road, with no one else in sight, allowing Uncle Gry to lounge there alone at his leisure.

Part of him wanted to be there and celebrate Roa’s achievements alongside him, but he had no desire to become a spectacle for the humans. Moreover, as a powerful Gryphon, Uncle Gry inevitably attracted attention. Had he attended, the people would have flocked around him instead. They might even have mistaken him for the one mainly responsible for the subjugation, thereby overshadowing Roa’s hard-earned accomplishments.

Uncle Gry could never permit that.

<Hopefully, this will help the brat understand his own capabilities, even if only a little…>

Roa’s low self-esteem was Uncle Gry’s greatest concern.

No matter how earnestly Uncle Gry and the members of Nostalgia tried to instill confidence in him, Roa would merely say, “Someone like me…” and stubbornly refuse to change his mind. They had arranged for Roa to distinguish himself at every opportunity, yet their efforts had still failed to produce any lasting results.

That was also why Uncle Gry had allowed Roa to deliver the final blow to the Lesser Leviathan.

Uncle Gry believed that the only way Roa would ever change was by accumulating successful experiences and receiving continual praise from others.

<That Sleepyhead is so unaccustomed to praise that he cannot stop grinning. How unsightly…>

The celebration was too distant for a human to discern anyone’s expression, but Uncle Gry could see them perfectly. Roa and the members of Nostalgia were all smiling as the people showered them with praise.

Dietrich, their leader, was particularly elated. He had his arms around the townspeople’s shoulders as they laughed together. Admittedly, not a single woman stood anywhere near him. He was surrounded entirely by rough, burly sailors, though perhaps that could not be helped.

Uncle Gry’s tone sounded exasperated as he muttered to himself, but his eyes had narrowed with gentle affection.

<Do you not agree?>

Uncle Gry asked the question without shifting his gaze.

“…So you noticed me after all…”

A voice answered him. At the same moment, a figure emerged from a nearby thicket. Though elderly, the man possessed a sturdy physique comparable to Dietrich’s.

It was the Sword Saint.

The Sword Saint was clad in black armor. He had worn only simple attire even during the Sea Serpent subjugation, but now he was fully armed. Two swords hung from his waist.

<Sleepyhead is practically a child of yours, is he not? Perhaps you should have raised him with a firmer hand.>

“…The Queen ordered me to teach him the pleasures of life and cultivate a gentler temperament. I taught him about women and how to forge bonds with others, and that was the result.”

The Sword Saint’s gaze was sharp as he replied, as though he were confronting an enemy.

<So that woman is to blame. She appears rather fond of Sleepyhead as well. I do not care for that. Still, Sleepyhead seems to be plotting something untoward, so I expect he will suffer a little for it.>

“…”

The Sword Saint glared at Uncle Gry, but despite noticing his gaze, Uncle Gry made no effort to meet his eyes. He continued looking tenderly toward Roa and the others, who were wearing awkward smiles as countless people spoke to them.

<You were called the Sword Saint, were you not? …How much do you know about that woman?>

The question was evidently unexpected, for bewilderment appeared in the Sword Saint’s previously hostile eyes.

“Only that she is a woman of immense power, worthy of ruling this country.”

<What admirable loyalty. However, that woman is crueler than I am and even more selfish. Do not worship her blindly. One day, she may discard all of you… perhaps even this entire country. You would do well to prepare yourself.>

The Sword Saint’s gaze wavered at Uncle Gry’s words. Sensing his unease, Uncle Gry’s cheeks relaxed into an amused smile.

Had Dietrich been present, he would probably have realized that Uncle Gry was merely entertaining himself by unsettling the Sword Saint with suggestive remarks. The Sword Saint, however, did not know Uncle Gry nearly well enough. He accepted the words entirely at face value.

<She is likely serving as this country’s queen merely for a fleeting diversion. Knowing that woman, it would hardly surprise me if she became queen simply because the notion of trying it once occurred to her.>

“…”

The Sword Saint offered no reply. He clenched his trembling fist and bit down hard on his lip.

<No matter how fervently you swear loyalty to her, that woman feels nothing in return. She possesses a lifespan far beyond the bounds of common sense. She considers it a waste to devote her feelings to any human but herself. Interesting toys like Sleepyhead are another matter, of course.>

Just as magic beasts with greater reserves of mana tended to live longer than humans, humans who possessed enormous quantities of mana also enjoyed extraordinary longevity.

Among those who increased their mana through rigorous training as mages, some lived vastly longer than the average human.

Those capable of casting healing magic upon themselves could live for an almost unfathomable length of time. Healing magic was intended solely to repair the body and could not halt aging. Even so, by casting it regularly and eliminating every physical ailment, they could survive until their mana-strengthened bodies finally reached their natural limits.

Alchemists capable of producing healing potions displayed a similar tendency, though their circumstances differed from those of mages.

Alchemists were often people with relatively little mana but exceptional mana control. Since their mana did not significantly prolong their lives, their longevity was not markedly different from that of an ordinary long-lived human.

<What is that expression? Hmm. Was loyalty not all you felt for her? Surely you are not about to tell me you were in love with her. Have my words shattered your illusions?>

Once Uncle Gry realized that speaking about the Queen had struck a nerve, he began taunting the Sword Saint relentlessly. Uncle Gry looked thoroughly delighted at moments like this. He even resembled a cat that had discovered prey and was now toying with it.

“You! Do not mock me!”

Perhaps Uncle Gry had struck closer to the truth than the Sword Saint cared to admit. Enraged, the Sword Saint unconsciously reached for his sword. Seeing this, Uncle Gry’s smile broadened further.

<Your blood appears to have risen to your head quite nicely. Shall we fight, then?>

“What?”

The offer came so casually that the Sword Saint responded with a foolish, bewildered sound.

<That was your intention from the beginning, was it not? Did you imagine I had failed to notice your repulsive stare? Once you learned that I was not some animal domesticated by the brat, but a noble being possessed of my own will, you began yearning to fight me, did you not?>

“…”

The Sword Saint once again fell silent at Uncle Gry’s amused words.

Uncle Gry had struck the mark.

From the moment the Sword Saint first heard Uncle Gry’s voice, he had wanted to fight him.

Fundamentally, the Sword Saint was a battle maniac.

He would gladly have bowed his head and begged for the opportunity to fight a Gryphon, a magic beast of near-legendary stature.

However, no matter how ferocious a magic beast might be, there was no pleasure in fighting a familiar that had been stripped of its will to battle and merely obeyed its master’s commands. That was why he had initially possessed no desire to fight Uncle Gry. After seeing how obediently he followed Roa, the Sword Saint had lost even his interest in him.

But then he heard Uncle Gry’s voice…

The moment he realized that Uncle Gry possessed a fully developed will of his own, an irresistible impulse to fight him had arisen.

He had suppressed that desire because of the mission entrusted to him by the Queen, but each time he saw Uncle Gry, the urge grew stronger.

Now that the Sea Serpent subjugation ordered by the Queen was over, he had approached Uncle Gry in full armor, hoping to persuade him to grant him at least a sparring match.

Uncle Gry had known from the beginning. The moment he sensed the Sword Saint approaching this place, he understood.

The Sword Saint had finally resolved himself.

<Would you prefer a sparring match or a serious fight? …Do not worry, I will not kill you. The brat would be angry with me! Even in a serious fight, I will restrain myself enough to keep you alive, then restore you to your original condition with the brat’s potion.>

“Wha!”

The Sword Saint’s face flushed crimson as the words caught in his throat. A serious fight ceased to be serious if one participant held back. Worse still, declaring beforehand that he would not kill the Sword Saint was an outright insult.

“…A serious fight.”

The Sword Saint spoke quietly, exhaling deeply as though suppressing his anger. Through sheer force of will, he prevented the blood from rushing to his head.

He swallowed the roar that had risen to his throat. His opponent was a Gryphon. The Sword Saint promptly reminded himself that Uncle Gry possessed enough power to justify his arrogance.

<Rest assured, I will not use offensive magic. The fight would end instantly if I did, and that would be boring.>

The Sword Saint glared at Uncle Gry as he laughingly announced yet another handicap. His bloodshot eyes seemed to glow red with fury.

Uncle Gry slowly rose from where he had been reclining.

<Shall we fight here? Or would you prefer that we put on a public exhibition in an arena somewhere? Hmm, making a spectacle of it might prove surprisingly lucrative! A battle between a beautiful Gryphon and a decrepit old swordsman!>

“…You are unexpectedly vulgar. We will fight here.”

The Sword Saint spat out his answer as Uncle Gry ostentatiously spread his wings.

He had already confirmed that the hilltop provided ample space for them to move freely. That was precisely why Uncle Gry had chosen this place, and why the Sword Saint, understanding his intent, had armed himself and followed him here.

<Money is important. A woman I once knew was perpetually penniless and forever collapsing by the roadside, so even I, a magic beast, understand the value of money. She was a foolish woman. Despite her noble birth, she abandoned her home in search of true love and traveled with a single attendant. Yet she was hopeless with money and constantly caused trouble for everyone around her. I first met her when she had collapsed from hunger.>

“What are you talking about?”

Uncle Gry closed his eyes and spoke nostalgically, as though retracing an old memory. The Sword Saint regarded him suspiciously when the reminiscence began without warning. It had absolutely nothing to do with their present situation.

<It is because of that woman you pine for. Meeting her caused all manner of memories from my past to resurface… I have resolved never to speak of my past before the brat and his companions. Therefore, I am telling it to you, a man with whom I share no bond and will likely have little involvement in the future, merely to distract myself from this bout of nostalgia. Even I occasionally become intoxicated by my memories. I have simply become drunk and vomited everything welling up inside me into the garbage receptacle that is you. Pay it no mind.>

There was no deeper meaning behind it. Uncle Gry wanted to reminisce but had no one to tell, so he was unloading the story upon the wholly unrelated Sword Saint.

Comparing those reminiscences to drunken vomit and the Sword Saint to a garbage receptacle was exceptionally malicious, however.

Rather than being offended at the comparison, the Sword Saint was far more affected by Uncle Gry calling the Queen “that woman you pine for.” His fist clenched for the briefest instant.

<Now then, it appears our witness has arrived while we were wasting time on this tedious conversation.>

Prompted by Uncle Gry’s murmur, the Sword Saint surveyed the surrounding area. As his gaze swept across the landscape, he employed every one of his senses to search beyond the range of his vision.

He soon noticed a human approaching.

“…Is that Dietrich?”

The Sword Saint murmured. After waiting a short while, he spotted Dietrich hurrying toward them.

“What the hell are you summoning me for all of a sudden?!”

The instant he found Uncle Gry, Dietrich shouted between ragged breaths. He had evidently sprinted there at full speed.

Otherwise, even Dietrich could not have traveled from the beach where the successful subjugation was being celebrated to this hilltop in so little time.

<I have been waiting.>

“Don’t give me that ‘I have been waiting’ nonsense! You told me to bring a Supreme Grade Magic Recovery Potion and get here immediately! What happened?!”

Uncle Gry had summoned Dietrich. From the wording of the summons, Dietrich had concluded that an emergency requiring a Supreme Grade Magic Recovery Potion had occurred, so he had rushed there in a panic.

In one hand, he carried the Magic Bag containing Nostalgia’s belongings.

The Sword Saint discerned Uncle Gry’s intention. His seemingly pointless chatter had presumably been nothing more than a means of passing the time until the hastily summoned Dietrich arrived.

The Sword Saint felt slightly irritated by the petty contrivance.

<You did not tell the brat, did you?>

“You threatened me into keeping my mouth shut, and now you’re asking that? No, I didn’t tell him. I was enjoying myself at the celebration of our successful subjugation too.”

Dietrich reached Uncle Gry, then bent forward with his hands braced against his knees, panting heavily from exhaustion. This naturally placed his eyes at roughly the same height as Uncle Gry’s.

The Gryphon and the man glared at each other from close range.

<There were only men around you! I graciously provided an opportunity for a pitiable creature whom women avoid even at a celebration to slip away without embarrassment! Why can you not appreciate my consideration? You were jealous of the brats surrounded by women, were you not? Or did you wish to remain engulfed by sweltering men?>

“Shut up! Don’t casually point out the very thing I’m trying not to think about, you devious Gryphon! I’m happy to receive gratitude even when it comes from sweaty men! Gratitude has nothing to do with whether someone is a man or a woman!”

<Your hollow bravado is unsightly.>

Dietrich released a long sigh at Uncle Gry’s spiteful grin.

“…Enough. So what happened…?”

Only after saying that much did Dietrich finally seem to notice the Sword Saint standing nearby and turn toward him.

“Old man…”

The Sword Saint was clad in black armor. Dietrich knew that this was the armor he wore when fighting in earnest.

There were only two men and one Gryphon present.

That left very few possibilities as to whom he intended to fight seriously.

“You devious Gryphon, what are you planning?”

Dietrich glared at Uncle Gry again.

<This was not my doing. It is what he desires.>

Dietrich turned toward the Sword Saint at those words, and the old man silently nodded.

“…Since you made me bring a Magic Recovery Potion, you aren’t planning to kill him, are you?”

Dietrich and the Sword Saint had known each other for many years. He understood the man’s personality reasonably well. Dietrich had also noticed the Sword Saint’s recent peculiar behavior.

He immediately realized that the Sword Saint had challenged the devious Gryphon, Uncle Gry, to a fight. He also understood the purpose of the Supreme Grade Magic Recovery Potion Uncle Gry had ordered him to bring.

In other words, Uncle Gry intended to brutalize the Sword Saint who had challenged him so thoroughly that a Supreme Grade Magic Recovery Potion would be required afterward.

<The brat would be angry if I killed him, would he not?>

“Understood.”

Having heard all he needed, Dietrich straightened from his bent posture and moved away from Uncle Gry and the Sword Saint. He had no intention of interfering in a contest both parties had accepted.

“I’ll serve as witness. Victory will be decided when one of you admits defeat or becomes incapable of continuing. Is that acceptable?”

“That will suffice.”

<Very well. However, I will not use magic offensively. If I employ offensive magic, you may consider it my defeat.>

“Are you sure?”

Dietrich could not help asking. He had never seen Uncle Gry fight by any means other than magic.

<Sleepyhead, are you underestimating me? Until the brat discovered that I could use magic, I fought without employing it at all.>

Until Roa had been expelled from his former adventurer party, Crack of Dawn, Uncle Gry had concealed his ability to use magic.

He had done so because he did not want the members of Crack of Dawn to recognize his value and exploit him. Even under those restrictions, however, he had supported the party’s rise to such prominence that they became known as a Hero Party.

Considering that, there could be no doubt that Uncle Gry remained extraordinarily powerful even without magic.

<That reminds me. When you were teaching the brat swordsmanship, you told me not to interfere. You said I knew nothing of human swordsmanship and should stop making irresponsible remarks!>

Uncle Gry did not personally teach Roa how to wield a sword, instead entrusting the task to the members of Nostalgia.

Cornelia, the party’s shield bearer, possessed a physique similar to Roa’s and was proficient not only with swords but with other weapons as well, so she handled most of his instruction. Dietrich and Kristoff assisted her and served as his opponents during mock battles.

Uncle Gry had decided that Roa would progress faster if humans instructed him, allowing him not only to acquire their knowledge but also to observe the practical handling of swords and human body movements. Uncle Gry himself merely pointed out the occasional detail that caught his attention.

Dietrich and the others had no objection to teaching Roa. In fact, they eagerly anticipated his growth. They had nevertheless found Uncle Gry’s constant interjections at crucial moments thoroughly irritating.

<I shall settle that grievance of yours as well. I am borrowing this.>

“Huh? Wait, what?”

Wind swirled at Uncle Gry’s words. One of the swords at Dietrich’s waist was pushed from its scabbard, slid smoothly free, and floated into the air.

It was one of the two swords he carried, the blade forged for him by Bruno, the violent blacksmith. Mithril lines ran through it, allowing the weapon to be wreathed in magic.

Uncle Gry conveyed the sword toward himself upon the wind, then gripped the hilt horizontally in his beak.

<I shall demonstrate that I can wield a sword better than any of you. If I defeat the man you exalt as the Sword Saint, you will have no grounds for complaint, will you?>

Still holding the sword in his beak, Uncle Gry grinned.

“Do not mock me!”

It was not Dietrich but the Sword Saint who erupted in anger. He leveled a glare at Uncle Gry fierce enough to kill.

<I am not mocking you. Without magic, my only weapons would be my claws and beak. Their reach is far shorter than that of a sword, placing me at a disadvantage, would it not? I am merely compensating for that disadvantage with a sword. Does that not indicate that I hold your abilities in high regard?>

“Your sophistry!”

<Do you too presume, through nothing more than prejudice, that a magic beast cannot wield a sword? Hehehe… Then crushing such arrogant assumptions should prove entertaining! Come! Let us begin!>

Uncle Gry declared the commencement of the battle without allowing further argument.

The sword clamped in his beak formed a perfectly horizontal line. His stance did not waver by so much as a hair.

Seeing him, the Sword Saint drew one long, deep breath.

The malicious Gryphon before him was plainly provoking him.

He had mocked the Queen, the Sword Saint’s sovereign and secret object of affection, and now ridiculed the sword that embodied the Sword Saint’s very way of life. It was an exceedingly simple provocation, yet it proved remarkably effective against him.

But that was not necessarily a disadvantage.

Some schools of swordsmanship might have regarded suppressing one’s emotions as virtuous, but the swordsmanship mastered by the Sword Saint did not.

So long as his physical movements and handling of the blade remained unhindered, nothing else mattered. The Sword Saint was not so inexperienced that mere anger would disrupt the path of his sword.

Such facile provocation would only prove counterproductive.

“…Do not regret this.”

The Sword Saint growled, surrendering himself to the emotions churning within him, and drew his blade.

At the same instant, he surged forward.

His movement was so swift that even Dietrich failed to perceive it. Before he realized what had happened, the piercing clang of colliding metal rang across the hilltop.

The Sword Saint had struck, and Uncle Gry had caught the blow with the sword held in his beak.

<Hmm. You truly are Sleepyhead’s master. You share the same habits. Swordsmanship I have seen so often is exceedingly easy to predict.>

The muscles of the Sword Saint’s upper arms bulged as he poured tremendous strength into his blade, yet Uncle Gry received the force with an utterly composed expression.

Despite the inherently unstable position of holding a sword in his beak, he did not waver in the slightest. The crossed blades ground against each other with a grating, unpleasant screech.

<Your Body Reinforcement Magic is crude. I presume you have trained diligently for a man of your age, but your application is not founded upon any proper theory. Whatever your overall strength may be, the Noisy Woman is superior to you in her use of Body Reinforcement Magic. You will never overcome the natural strength of a magic beast like me with such paltry technique. Incidentally, I am not using any magical enhancement at present.>

Uncle Gry knocked the crossed blade upward, forcing the Sword Saint away before resuming his stance.

The shove briefly disrupted the Sword Saint’s balance, but he immediately recovered and closed the distance once more.

This time, he unleashed a flurry of thrusts from a multitude of directions. Having been overpowered in strength, he had evidently decided to contend through technique instead.

Uncle Gry held his sword horizontally in his beak. The Sword Saint therefore judged that Uncle Gry could not readily alter the orientation of his blade.

Rather than attacks that swept horizontally or vertically, scattering his strikes across every conceivable direction would be more effective.

The Sword Saint considered increasing the number of attacks by wielding two swords, but using one in each hand against an opponent who had already overpowered him would be reckless. He therefore retained a two-handed grip on a single blade and chose to rely upon thrusts.

After several attacks that alternated between the left and right, the Sword Saint delivered a full-force thrust toward Uncle Gry’s neck.

<Have you forgotten what I am?>

In the very next instant, it was the Sword Saint who was sent flying.

“Guh!”

A tremendous impact struck his side, forcing an undignified cry from his throat.

<How exceedingly shortsighted. I am not a human with only two arms and two legs.>

The Sword Saint had no idea what had happened. However, when he looked toward Uncle Gry, he understood.

“…You coward…”

It had been Uncle Gry’s wing that delivered the crushing blow to his side. The moment the Sword Saint committed to his thrust, Uncle Gry struck him with his massive wing from beyond his field of vision.

<What precisely was cowardly about it? Even humans kick when they see an opening, do they not? They strike with a free hand, do they not? If they carry a shield, they attack with that as well. What is wrong with striking someone using part of my own body? I am merely a magic beast holding a sword. I possess wings and sharp claws as well.>

Faced with Uncle Gry’s wholly unapologetic response, the Sword Saint swallowed the words he had been about to utter.

Uncle Gry was correct.

Even in a contest between swordsmen, attacking with one’s body or armor was not against the rules. More importantly, this was not a formal match in which they were obligated to fight fairly.

Uncle Gry had merely decided on his own not to use magic. He had likewise decided on his own to fight with a sword. Neither decision constituted a promise.

The Sword Saint had asked for a serious fight against a Gryphon, a magic beast. Complaining because that Gryphon struck him with a wing after he had requested such a battle would have been profoundly unreasonable.

The Sword Saint felt ashamed of his own words.

<Now that I have reminded you that I am a magic beast, I regret to say that it is time to end this. Since you are called the Sword Saint, I expected you to provide more entertainment, but you have proven unexpectedly dull. There appears to be no purpose in continuing.>

Uncle Gry deftly raised the sword held in his beak as he made his declaration.

<To ensure that you fully comprehend your defeat… Hehehe… Yes, I believe I shall take one of your arms.>

The sadistic delight gleaming in Uncle Gry’s eyes sent a chill down the Sword Saint’s spine.

In the next instant, pain erupted through the Sword Saint’s left shoulder.

“Wha!”

Before he realized it, a shadow had fallen across what should have been his unobstructed vision. Uncle Gry’s eagle-like head was so close that their noses could almost have touched.

<You could not even react to my movement. I would have expected you to follow me with your eyes, at the very least. How pathetic… Is this truly all the Sword Saint of this generation can manage?>

Black fragments scattered at the edge of the Sword Saint’s vision.

When he recognized them as pieces of his own pauldron, he finally understood what had occurred.

Uncle Gry had closed the distance at tremendous speed and knocked the pauldron away with his sword. Only that portion of the armor had been destroyed. Although the impact had caused pain, the Sword Saint’s body had not suffered so much as a scratch.

It had been nothing more than an intimidating blow, delivered for the pleasure of toying with him.

The Sword Saint hurriedly leaped backward to create distance between himself and Uncle Gry.

Uncle Gry refused to allow it. He followed while maintaining a distance so close that their bodies nearly touched, denying the Sword Saint enough room to swing his blade.

<I have watched the brat maintain his equipment for so long that I became knowledgeable about the construction of armor despite having no desire to learn. Your armor appears to be a rather fine piece, but if one strikes the proper places, even an ordinary sword can dismantle it with ease.>

Uncle Gry spoke as though delivering a lecture.

The weapon he wielded belonged to Dietrich. Though a single line of mithril ran through its steel blade, without magic enveloping it, the weapon was no different from an ordinary sword. It should never have been capable of destroying armor so effortlessly.

What made such destruction possible was Uncle Gry’s swordsmanship.

He struck vulnerable points such as the fastenings with perfectly calibrated force, stripping the armor away without chipping the blade. It was akin to threading a needle in the midst of battle. Even the Sword Saint, who had mastered the sword, could not easily reproduce such a feat.

The Sword Saint ground his back teeth in frustration, producing a harsh grating sound.

The disparity between them was overwhelming.

Neither his attacks nor his defense could compare with Uncle Gry’s in any respect. It was a humiliation the Sword Saint had not experienced in a very long time.

“Tch.”

Just one strike.

Even if he could not win, he wanted to retaliate somehow.

That desire gradually cooled the Sword Saint’s mind. He watched Uncle Gry’s movements, seeking to analyze them. During those moments in which he could not afford even a single blink, his lips slowly twisted into the savage smile of a beast.

The Sword Saint leaped back several times, once again attempting to create distance. Yet his efforts proved futile. Uncle Gry’s movements were superior.

The ability to anticipate an opponent’s movements, the greatest weapon possessed by the seasoned Sword Saint, was completely useless against him.

Having no alternative, the Sword Saint sought to identify somewhere he could attack from his current position.

He desperately tried to evade, but Uncle Gry continued pressing closer. As their exchange continued, the Sword Saint realized that there was one place he could reach even from this excessively close distance, one where his attack could inflict meaningful damage.

The base of the wing.

The wings, which had inherited much of an eagle’s physiology, contained hollow and fragile bones protected by only a thin layer of flesh. An attack would penetrate there far more readily than through areas covered by powerful muscles and thick fur.

Furthermore, if he injured the wing severely enough to render it immobile, it would become nothing more than dead weight. Dragging such a large wing would impede Uncle Gry and restrict his movements.

It was a Gryphon’s weak point.

The Sword Saint had learned of that weakness from Dietrich’s tale of his battle against a Gryphon that wielded dark magic. He had committed the information to memory, thinking that he might test it someday if he ever fought a Gryphon himself.

Now, the weakness Dietrich had described lay within arm’s reach, directly within range of his blade.