Starting out as a Dragon Slave-Chapter 49: The Narukami principles

Isaac stared intently at the page of the manual, his gaze running over every word, every detail of the diagram illustrating the Narukami’s attack posture. The more he read, the more he understood that this technique was more than just a super-powered strike. It was much more than that.

The text emphasized two fundamental elements: controlled imbalance and exploitation of the field of vision.

Isaac squinted slightly as he analyzed the detailed descriptions. Unlike the first two techniques of the Lightning Kata, which emphasized fluidity and continuous acceleration, Narukami imposed an abrupt break in body movement.

"Thunder doesn’t follow a linear trajectory. It strikes in an instant after a sudden release of energy. To reproduce this, the user must voluntarily enter a state of imbalance, forcing his body to abandon its anchor point to accelerate beyond normal limits."

Isaac straightened slightly on his bed, thinking intensely. A state of voluntary imbalance... This was exactly the opposite of everything he’d learned so far. Normally, sword techniques, even those based on speed, sought to maintain perfect balance to ensure fluidity and control.

But Narukami was playing with a different logic:

1. Disconnect the body from the ground - no longer seeking to be anchored, but instead forcing a controlled fall.

2. Exploit the acceleration of gravity - Transform body weight into a power multiplier.

3. Strike at the exact moment when the body reaches its breaking point - The moment when accumulated energy becomes impossible to control other than by attack.

He now understood why this technique was described as unstable and difficult to master. All it took was the slightest delay or error in timing to turn a lethal attack into a useless imbalance... or worse, a fatal opening for the enemy.

The Field of Vision: the instant the enemy loses sight

The other critical element was the field of vision.

"A top-level fighter reads not only his opponent’s movements, but also his intentions. The moment he can no longer follow a blow with his eyes is the moment he is most vulnerable."

Isaac frowned. It was a notion he’d already touched on when facing fast-moving opponents, but Narukami took it to another level.

The manual described three blind spots that every human fighter instinctively possessed:

1. The upper blind spot - A blow from too high up was difficult to follow accurately.

2. The lateral blind spot - Moving too quickly to the side forced the opponent to turn his head, creating a split-second blind spot.

3. The speed blind spot - A movement too fast to be followed naturally led to a loss of bearings.

And therein lay the heart of Narukami:

"The fighter must disappear from his opponent’s field of vision for a fraction of a second before landing his blow. If the enemy can no longer see the attack, he can no longer block it."

Isaac felt his mind light up with a flash of understanding.

Narukami wasn’t just a fast attack. It was an attack that suppressed the opponent’s reaction by forcing him to lose sight of the fatal blow.

He now understood why this technique was so dangerous:

Too early, and the enemy might react.

Too late, and the user himself would lose control of the blow.

Everything depended on absolute timing, perfect reading of the enemy’s field of vision and acceptance of the imbalance.

Isaac slowly closed the book, his heart beating faster.

Isaac had barely closed the Lightning Kata manual when a violent, brutal sensation took his breath away. His body stiffened, an invisible pressure crushing him as if a giant hand were tearing him away from reality.

The transition was instantaneous.

He opened his eyes abruptly and was immediately greeted by a searing pain in his side. A massive boot had brutally crushed his ribs, forcing him to sit up with a painful jerk.

- Get up, you vermin!" roared a deep, merciless voice.

Mordred-Isaac in this brutal world-immediately recognized the massive silhouette of a dragon guard, his scornful expression illuminated by the dim light of the slave dormitory.

All around him, other prisoners were already on their feet, their eyes deadened, their bodies tired, all ready to relive another day of hell.

- Come on, out! You’ve already slept too much!

Mordred rose slowly to his feet, his body numb from the excruciating conditions of sleep. His back was still scarred by the injuries of the previous days, every movement awakening a dull, omnipresent pain.

But this pain meant nothing. It was nothing compared to the rage still burning inside him.

The look on Akane’s face, broken but still dignified in the arena, came back to his mind. The image of Belgaroth brandishing his body as a trophy, his cruel smile, his unbearable arrogance... All this was etched in his mind.

He had no right to flinch.

Without a word, he followed the other slaves out of the dormitory, where the blinding draconic sunlight hit their abused skin hard.

The dragon guards quickly lined them up, inspecting the prisoners with absolute contempt. One of the slaves, too slow to react, immediately received a brutal lash, his muffled scream echoing in the heavy morning silence.

Mordred didn’t move, his face impassive. No weakness was to be shown.

After this routine inspection, they were finally taken to the underground mines, those infernal caverns where stifling heat, dust and sweat formed a suffocating cocktail.

- You know the rules!" shouted one of the guards, his voice echoing against the rock walls. You dig until you fill your quota! No quota, no ration! And don’t even try to cheat, or you’ll learn what real suffering is!

The slaves immediately set to work, some with resignation, others with a hint of hope for survival.

Mordred grabbed a pickaxe, quickly observing the walls before striking with precision.

He was stronger than before.

Thanks to the statistics he had absorbed, he could feel a distinct difference. His blows were more powerful, his movements more fluid.

His body, once tired and sore after a few hours, now held up much better to intense physical effort.

But he couldn’t afford to attract attention.

He had to absorb power, but stay under the radar.

So, as he had done before, he made a simple decision: absorb every other moonstone.

[Ding!]

[Absorption available: Would you like to absorb the moonstone?]

Mordred glanced around. The dragon guards were focused on the weaker slaves, keeping an eye on those showing signs of fatigue.

He discreetly clutched the stone in his hand and murmured silently:

- Absorb.

He quickly stowed the other stone in the basket dedicated to slave quotas. He couldn’t risk being spotted.

And so he continued his work for endless hours, striking the rock relentlessly, slowly building up power while making sure not to arouse suspicion.

The other slaves were struggling to keep up. Some collapsed to their knees, their breath short, their bodies broken by exhaustion. Every time a slave stopped, the whip of the guards fell mercilessly on them.

- GET UP, SLAVE!

A cry of pain, followed by the smell of blood on burning stone.

Mordred, impassive, continued to dig, methodically absorbing his power without ever showing the slightest sign of fatigue.

He couldn’t afford to weaken.

He gritted his teeth as he struck the rock again and again, repeating in his mind like a mantra:

"I will survive. I will grow stronger. I’ll destroy Belgaroth and that damned dragon."

A stone absorbed. A stone left for quotas.

The suffocating heat of the mines was inhuman. The air was heavy, saturated with dust and sweat, making every breath difficult. There was barely enough light, provided by crystals embedded in the rock, casting pallid glows that made monstrous shadows dance on the cavernous walls.

Mordred, his hands covered in dirt and sweat, tirelessly struck the rock, his pickaxe sinking into the stone with mechanical precision. There was no apparent emotion on his face, only icy concentration, a precise aim.

Around him, other slaves worked with greater difficulty, their breath coming in short gasps, their muscles tense with effort. Many were already shaking with fatigue, and some were teetering on the brink of collapse. But they kept going, because they knew what would happen if they stopped for too long.

The whips cracked regularly, breaking the silence of the cavern. One man, a little too slow with his pickaxe, collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Immediately, a dragon guard stepped forward, raising his thick whip.

CRACK!

The sound of leather striking flesh resounded brutally. The man screamed, but immediately got to his feet, resuming his work, the pain still visible on his face.

Mordred didn’t even look away. He couldn’t afford to feel anything.

[Ding!]

[Absorption available: Would you like to absorb the moonstone?]

A quick glance around. The guards were watching other, weaker slaves. He clutched the stone in his hand and murmured softly:

- Absorb.

A wave of subtle energy passed through his body, slightly strengthening his resistance. He placed the next stone in the quota basket. He had to continue without arousing suspicion.

The Pause: A Stolen Moment of Respite

After hours of infernal toil, the break bell finally rang. The sound echoed through the tunnels, signaling a brief moment of respite for the slaves before they returned to their daily ordeal.

The prisoners immediately moved to a corner of the mine where they were allowed to sit for a few moments. They almost collapsed on the stones, some panting loudly, others simply standing still, trying to save their strength.

Mordred leaned against a wall, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His body was burning with effort, but he showed no sign of weakness.

In a corner, an old slave leaned against a rock, silently observing the group of frazzled humans around him. His face was marked by age and suffering, his skin parchment-toned by time and abuse. But in his tired eyes, a glimmer of wisdom persisted, something that time and oppression had failed to extinguish.

The other slaves looked at him expectantly. He was the storyteller of the group, the one who, despite the hell in which they lived, still retained memories of the past.

After a moment’s silence, he took a deep breath and spoke:

- "There was a time when humans were not slaves."