Chapter 16: The Starving Saint Draws Her Sword

Fingers, pale and flawless, gracefully tore open the packaging and poured its contents into a bowl.

With a clatter, the faded aluminum dish quickly filled with small brown pellets the size of fingernails.

Poverty forces the impoverished into harsh decisions.

Jean Valjean stole bread not because he was a kleptomaniac but to save his starving sister and siblings.

However, the world isn’t kind enough to consider each individual’s desperate circumstances.

Poverty pushes people into environments so oppressive that individual strength and willpower alone cannot resist.

While some saints rise above and etch their stories into history, most humans—including myself—kneel before the walls they encounter.

Instead of dreaming of a better future or moving forward, we find contentment in merely maintaining the status quo and surviving.

The cruelest part is that, at some point, our senses dull so much that we can no longer recognize how harsh life has become.

Before tossing the now-empty package into the trash, I glanced at its exterior.

Bright, vivid depictions of various vegetables adorned the packaging.

Below that, strings of text detailing nutritional values and calories continued endlessly—irrelevant details.

It looked unmistakably like a bag of delicious vegetable crackers.

If not for the small cartoon dog smiling in a corner, barely noticeable, anyone could have mistaken it for human food.

That’s likely why those students I met a week ago near the shuttered convenience store had carelessly grabbed this, unaware it was dog food.

What defines cruelty?

Perhaps it’s not that we become numb from wear and tear or crumble to the ground, unable to lift our gaze to the sky.

Perhaps we’re just overreacting.

You know, back when the country was ravaged by war, people couldn’t even eat porridge made of weeds, and many starved to death.

During the era of slavery, laborers bound by their status worked for three days and nights only to receive half a bowl of rice.

Compared to that, people today complain about not getting to eat what they want for three meals a day, blaming poverty, their surroundings, their parents, or the government for their misfortune.

But perhaps, as society evolved and human rights came into focus, people gathering under that light are simply being melodramatic.

A wealthy person who lived in a hundred-square-meter apartment but was forced to downgrade to a twenty-square-meter one because of failed business ventures might find their new life cramped and uncomfortable, believing it cruel.

However, after some time, once they adapt to life in the smaller apartment, they might think, “Actually, this isn’t so bad.”

And that’s likely my situation now.

Even as we speak, there are undoubtedly countless people dying of starvation, their stomachs shrinking from a lack of even a single weed to eat.

How would they view me?

A rich person evicted to a smaller home.

A person fussing over food that feels a little unappetizing.

Though the contexts differ, the tendencies are undeniably similar.

So perhaps this physiological aversion I’m feeling is just exaggeration or fuss.

Yes, let’s think of it that way.

Maybe it’s not so bad.

I filled the dog food with tap water.

[The sound of chewing, woofing:]

[Crunch crunch, munch munch, crunch-crunch… hearty crunch♥]

[?]

[What kind of lunatic is this?]

[What’s the streamer eating?]

[Your donations have been replaced with the streamer’s snacks.]

[The fact that Nuna buys snacks with the money I sent… heuhhh]

[What the heck is so heuhhh about that?]

[She’s eating something tasty all by herself, smh.]

[Nuna… I want to become your snack…]

[Even the sounds Nuna makes while eating are beautiful…]

[Why are there so many insane water buffaloes here?]

[This chat is kind of gross.]

[Streamer! Streamer! Streamer! Streamer! Streamer! Streamer! Streamer!]

[Streamer, interact with us.]

“Ah. It was so good… I’ve already finished it.”

[What was it?]

[Does it taste that good, feasting on snacks funded by our blood and sweat?]

[Blood and sweat? It was willingly donated, wasn’t it, sir?]

[Haha, nobody even asked you to, though.]

[Hey, how many days until the streamer’s competition?]

[It’s not ‘how many days,’ it’s ‘how long.’]

[Whatever, smh.]

[It’s not even a few days. It’s tomorrow at 6 PM.]

[You lazy bum, just look it up instead of asking.]

[Oh.]

[So, streamer, you’re a warrior, right?]

[Of course.]

[With skills like this at breaking skulls, no way they’re a priest or something, lol.]

[20 ==]

[Having someone like this waste their talent as a healer would be a national tragedy.]

[And yet, that’s exactly what happened…]

[Please, can’t you consider changing your class even now?]

“I like being a priest.”

With those words, I moved the mouse and tapped a few keys on the keyboard.

An incoming sword thrust was thwarted effortlessly with a short sidestep by the “Saint.”

This time, I addressed someone beyond Discord rather than the viewers.

“Mohe, I told you, stop using thrust attacks against someone like me, with a light frame and no weight-penalized gear.”

Thrusting is a pinpoint attack.

It’s too easy to counter when used against a fast-moving target.

If their main weapon was a rapier, that’d be one thing, but Mohe was a user with only a longsword and no secondary weapon.

Mohe protested, clearly feeling wronged.

“But it works just fine against other people…”

“Who taught you this sloppy technique?”

Sloppy technique.

There’s no better way to describe it.

For a longsword, thrusting is nothing more than a second-rate move.

Since it lacks a shield, a longsword user needs to rely on the interplay of blade movements and seamless transitions for both offense and defense.

“I didn’t learn it from anyone. I just use it sometimes. People generally assume longswords are only for slashing, so…”

“And honestly, it works in most cases unless…”

“Because your reaction speed is absurd, Saint.”

Was it perhaps because they exploited a blind spot in awareness?

Certainly, less experienced players might have been caught off guard by an unusual attack.

The problem was that the players in this competition—those in Yellow or Orange tiers—were not inexperienced.

Reaction speed wasn’t even the issue.

“I’ve said it repeatedly, haven’t I? A longsword must overwhelm. It’s a class that requires as aggressive play as dual-wield rogues.”

After saying that, I clicked a button on the training interface.

The mace in the Saint’s hand disappeared, replaced by the same longsword Mohe was holding.

With a keypress, the Saint raised the longsword in both hands, bringing it parallel to the ground.

Standing slightly sideways with their left foot forward, they placed their thumb under the blade and drew their elbow back, positioning their hand near their temple.

The tip of the sword pointed directly at the opponent’s face.

Ochs—the basic stance of the Liechtenauer school, meaning “ox,” was complete.

I muttered softly.

“Here I come.”

I cautiously took one step forward, then another, gradually closing the distance.

Dilated pupils captured even the slightest movement of my opponent.

The armored warrior locked their gaze on the Saint, signaling they wouldn’t lose track of my movements.

I studied Mohe closely and seized the moment between their inhale and exhale.

A longsword is a weapon that utilizes the blade to control angles and zones.

Moreover, the Liechtenauer school is a style where merely transitioning from one stance to another constitutes an attack on the opponent.

Clang!

The sound of metal clashing echoed as the swords met.

In the locked blades, the combatants used only their grip direction and the momentum of force to engage in a battle of offense and defense.

In an instant, thirty exchanges took place.

The metallic reverberation continued to flow through the speakers.

The Saint toyed with their opponent as if dancing.

If this were a real battle, Mohe’s head would have fallen at least ten times over.

The difference in skill was stark between Mohe, a perennial Green rank 4, and me, who had once climbed to Orange.

Perhaps realizing this, Mohe spoke in a slightly curt tone.

“How can you be so good with a longsword when you only play as a Priest, Saint?”

“After playing this game for ten years, you naturally learn everything.”

The class is the class.

A Priest who only looks at the health bars displayed on the interface to heal is an amateur, plain and simple.

You have to pay attention to your opponent’s focus, their invisible stamina, and even further, the stances taken in close combat and incoming long-range attacks.

You also have to deliver just the right amount of healing to your allies.

Otherwise, resource management becomes a nightmare.

That’s why a Priest must always observe the entire battlefield.

After watching more than 8,000 matches, witnessing the offense and defense of various classes and weapons, failing to understand at least this much would have been stranger.

In the past, I might have stopped at this level, but ever since taking on the Saint’s body, I had abandoned the no-melee concept.

The newfound fingers, twitching like fresh sashimi, were gradually brought under control through training and repeatedly cracking my teammates’ helmets.

When leveraging the miraculous physicality of the Saint’s body—a gift that could only be described as divine—handling the weapons I had studied all this time was no challenge.

The Saint’s combos traced countless paths, like stamens nestled within plum blossoms.

But there were limits to this.

The only reason the fight had continued so long was that I was going easy on Mohe.

The Saint is a character that, due to customization, lacks strength, stamina, endurance, and total energy compared to typical warriors.

She was soon panting heavily, and I had no choice but to withdraw my blade and step back.

Mohe didn’t miss this opportunity.

As if to vent his frustration over being dominated so far, the bulky warrior lowered his stance and swung his blade in an instant.

This was the sharpest attack he had executed so far.

If it landed, it would undoubtedly be a fatal blow—a perfect slash.

Moreover, moving forward is naturally faster than retreating.

The sinister edge of the longsword aimed for the Saint’s nape, like the fangs of a snake.

Ping-

That sound,

something only possible because Rainbow Tales is a game,

a phenomenon utterly inconceivable in real swordsmanship,

manifested in the span of a fraction of a second, divided into frames.

It was the sound effect of a perfect key input, performed with absolute precision at the frame level.

The result: a successful parry.

With what little stamina remained, the Saint deflected Mohe’s blade.

A brief moment of stiffness followed.

Too little time to swing the sword again.

And so, with the parry still in effect, the Saint drove the hilt of her blade into the warrior’s helmet and shattered it.

“Parrying works that way. To increase your success rate, you have to predict your opponent’s play and guide them into doing exactly what you expect.”

“So… you completely baited me?”

“I’m glad you understood.”

“… ”

“I hope you don’t overuse it. Parrying may be the most efficient defense, minimizing health and stamina loss, but it’s fundamentally flawed as a defensive tactic—it’s too difficult to pull off.”

“Then… what should I do?”

“Like I just demonstrated, save it for the most critical moments where the outcome of the battle hinges on it. Narrow down what your opponent is likely to do and make them believe their next attack will succeed. When you finally execute the parry, they won’t stand a chance.”

“I’ll need some time to think about that.”

“You will. That’s it for training today.”

I exited the one-on-one voice chat with Mohe.

The tournament finals are tomorrow.

The players, including the coach, were immersed in practice.

Staq was receiving one-on-one lessons from the berserker.

Frappuccino was getting personal coaching from Director After.

Leaving Mohe alone for a bit seemed like the better choice.

Now then…

I entered the team’s general voice chat, where only one person was present.

Ding.

“HoldMedic.”

“Kyaa—!”

What was that?

This burly, bearded man just gave the reaction of a high school girl being touched inappropriately.

Admittedly, considering my past behavior, I do feel a twinge of guilt.

“You’ve been practicing a lot, haven’t you?”

“Go away…”

Haha, this cheeky little brat.

Brother…

No, sister?

Whatever.

It’s time for me to fix your Priest gameplay.