The Academy’s Weapon Replicator - Chapter 423 - The Academy’s Weapon Replicator

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Frondier released Antero’s neck and bound his body with Black Thread.

Having lost his Pegasus, Antero couldn’t stay afloat in the air.

“Cough! Cough! Ugh…”

As soon as his neck was freed, Antero coughed violently and glared at Frondier.

His face, having taken two direct hits, was a complete mess.

Yet, he still hadn’t lost his hostility.

Honestly, that much was admirable.

“You…damn bastard… If I had brought enough artifacts…”

“You still have more?”

Frondier thought Antero was already decked out with enough trinkets, but apparently, there were more.

“Why not always be fully armed, just in case?”

“As if I have time to get approval for every single energy weapon! I only get authorization for the bare minimum!”

Antero’s outburst made Frondier’s lips thin.

‘…I’ve already seen three artifacts on him. That’s the bare minimum?’

And another thought struck him.

‘So energy weapons require approval. This guy’s a Royal Knight, so it makes sense he needs state approval.’

He wasn’t sure if every artifact was under state control, but at least Paladins seemed to need individual approvals.

‘That’s…odd.’

From what Frondier had seen, Antero relied heavily on artifacts for a significant portion of his strength.

The way he effortlessly converted his excess Mana into Aura, and his mastery over the peculiar movement of the artifact on his back, the so-called Pegasus, all pointed towards it.

His tendency to pour excessive Aura into his weapon, his lackluster defense, his loose grip on his sword… It all made sense if he originally had items that compensated for those weaknesses.

‘But for those crucial artifacts to be state-owned, not personal…’

It meant that a portion of an individual’s strength was essentially subordinate to the state. It wasn’t a perfect analogy, but imagine shackling the limbs of Falind’s Zodiacs with heavy chains and keeping the keys in the royal palace.

‘artifacts are incredibly powerful, just like Arald predicted. Their potency makes people dependent, and with the state controlling them, loyalty becomes the price of power. The more loyal you are, the more powerful artifacts they grant, fueling further obedience. Whoever came up with this system must’ve been a diehard royalist.’

Frondier had heard that except for Atlas, which he attended, most educational institutions incorporated the use of artifacts early on. He initially struggled to understand it, but now it was clear.

Artifacts this powerful… Students at lower levels wouldn’t stand a chance against this power difference.

Someone like Constel, who focused on personal growth, honing Aura, magic, and overall development, could easily surpass them. However, such growth required at least a year, if not more.

Imagine forgoing that and enduring a long period of weakness while everyone else surged ahead with artifacts. It was not a choice most would make. Besides, who knew if anyone even remembered how to become strong without them?

‘I thought Atlas lagged behind Falind in combat and magic, but in this regard, we’re actually ahead.’

Any weapon, any tool could be mastered with enough time. While learning early on might feel like rapid progress, tools like artifacts, designed for a specific purpose, had a limited skill ceiling.

Meaning anyone could reach that level, minimizing skill gaps.

In contrast, Atlas students graduated without relying on artifacts. Once they started incorporating them post-graduation, they would hold a significant advantage over students from other academies.

“…Still, you’re weak.”

Frondier said, looking at Antero. His tone was so matter-of-fact that Antero momentarily thought he was talking to himself.

“I get that the average level here is low. But you’re pathetic even by those standards.”

“W-What did you say…?!”

“You’re one of the twelve who protect this nation? I don’t see it. What makes you any better than other mediocre talents using the same artifacts?”

“Shut up! What I use is top-of-the-line! Ordinary people can’t even touch these!”

“…Just because they can’t touch them doesn’t make you stronger.”

If everyone relied on artifacts, people would still seek out the strongest among them. Especially when there were only twelve spots.

And this guy was a Paladin? Imagine if Aias, a promising student from Atlas, had access to this kind of arsenal. No, Aias would probably win in a straight fight with a 60% chance.

‘And even if he was a complete idiot, how could he blurt that out in this situation?’

Whether he had all his gear or not, even if he had hypothetically won against Frondier with them, such assumptions were meaningless now.

He should have felt the gap the moment Frondier slammed him against the wall with Black Thread in their initial clash.

If not then, then during their fight in the hallway, or when he was thrown, or when he dropped his sword, or when he was pummeled barehanded without any Aura.

If he still didn’t understand after all that, then right now,

Looking at himself, unable to break free from the Black Thread despite his best efforts, he would realize the reality of the situation.

Yet,

“Release me right now! I’ll kill you! You goddamn bastard!”

“…”

Antero continued to rant. He should be begging for his life, yet…

‘Don’t tell me he believes I won’t kill him?’

Killing a Paladin would undoubtedly put Frondier in danger. In truth, Frondier had no intention of killing Antero. His controlled strength was a testament to that.

‘…No. Even if he believes that, the fear of pain and despair should be overwhelming.’

Everyone Frondier had fought had experienced it. The more arrogant they were, the greater the humiliation of defeat. Antero should be no different. He had to be.

‘…Something’s off.’

Thump!

“Ugh!”

Frondier kicked Antero’s stomach.

Thud.

And Antero collapsed.

“…”

Frondier watched him silently. Antero showed no sign of getting up.

He was in pain, struggling to breathe, and had no will to move.

Frondier wasn’t a sparring partner now. He was Antero’s enemy.

Yet, here he was, lying there in agony after a single blow to the stomach.

‘…I remember scolding Pielott for his childish tantrums. I’m still worried about that habit resurfacing.’

Compared to this, Pielott’s behavior was practically heroic. A true warrior with unwavering spirit.

‘…No way.’

Thump!

“Gah!”

Frondier kicked Antero’s jaw upwards. Caught off guard, Antero lost a few teeth.

‘There has to be something more. This is absurd.’

Frondier scrutinized Antero, utilizing all his senses. Was he trapped in an illusion? Was his dominance over Antero a mere figment of his imagination, a carefully crafted illusion?

Thump! Thump!

“Ugh! Gah! Hrk!”

Antero let out a symphony of strange noises as he was beaten.

Frondier struck him mechanically, devoid of killing intent or fighting spirit.

‘There has to be something, anything. A hidden ace. A way to turn the tides. Something befitting a Paladin.’

Antero’s face was now unrecognizable from the relentless assault, his legs trembling uncontrollably. He was at a point where even if he wanted to do something, the damage was too severe.

Besides, if he had any tricks up his sleeve, he would have used them by now.

However, not a single plea for mercy or forgiveness escaped Antero’s lips.

In truth, Frondier didn’t expect any different.

He merely sought to comprehend Antero’s broken rationale.

Thwack! Thump!

After enduring a prolonged beating, Antero’s trembling lips finally parted.

“…Strange…”

“What?”

He had definitely said something. A crucial clue for Frondier.

Frondier quickly approached and grabbed Antero’s jaw.

“What did you say just now?”

“…This is…strange…”

Antero muttered.

Strange.

An utterly incongruous statement in this situation.

However, at this point, it was a welcome one for Frondier.

Antero’s behavior was beyond comprehension. If understanding it meant enduring more bizarre utterances, so be it.

“What’s strange?”

“…I’m…supposed to win, but…”

Supposed to win. A peculiar choice of words.

To some, it might sound arrogant, but in this context, it wasn’t arrogance.

Antero genuinely found it strange.

‘No matter how strong someone is, they can never be certain of victory. Especially against a formidable opponent, that’s just absurd.’

Yet, Antero was certain. Of his victory.

For him, winning wasn’t a matter of skill disparity. It was simply how things were supposed to be.

‘Alright. This is it, isn’t it?’

Frondier waited expectantly for Antero’s next move.

“…”

But Antero simply remained silent.

“This damn…”

Frondier raised his fist again. Maybe a few more hits would do the trick? He eyed Antero like a malfunctioning vending machine.

[…Damn it.]

Just then, a voice emanated from Antero’s mouth.

A purplish haze began to rise.

[Stop it. You’re going to actually kill him.]

The voice, though coming from Antero, was distinctly different.

As if his previous, battered state had been a lie, Antero slowly rose to his feet.

Frondier took a step back, observing.

An enemy, seemingly defeated, rises again with newfound power. In gaming terms, this was phase two.

Facing him, Frondier…

‘Yes!’

…smiled brightly, a look of pure joy on his face.

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