First Battlefield Commander! - Chapter 137

Chapter 137: Soul

If there were rankings, Lian Sheng would undoubtedly be the person Yan Shuo disliked the most.

This person was impossible to converse with. Truly unlikable.

Under the twilight sky, a one-armed mech faced its opponent, spouting words dripping with provocation.

Even now, when at an absolute disadvantage, she seemed completely unfazed.

She was relaxed. Every fiber of her being radiated that relaxation.

The Sanyao spectators were quite familiar with this sight.

"The One-Armed General makes her comeback?"

"Sounds heroic but comrades must face reality. She's lost an arm for defense—how will she fight from here? Pojun's defenses are trash."

"Western swordsmanship seems stronger? Currently has every advantage. And it looks more elegant too—even that pig-tonnage heavy mech has become agile."

"Screw you, insulting pigs."

"What's strong isn't Western swordsmanship or Eastern ancient martial arts—it's the person. Who can wield it better. I think the General didn't perform well earlier."

"Yan Shuo might seem easygoing, but he fights viciously. She should surrender now to avoid humiliation later."

"If you've surrendered, don't talk about face."

Losing a left arm meant for defense wasn't just about losing a hand.

When a mech lost components, its surface integrity was compromised.

Earlier, Lian Sheng could still use her left arm's special material to block some attacks, but now she had to avoid them entirely. The mech's internal circuits were interconnected—if her opponent focused fire on the wound, Lian Sheng would soon be ejected from the cockpit due to circuit failure.

Did she even understand her current predicament?

Apparently not.

Lian Sheng said, "I really like swords. So I also like people who like swords."

Yan Shuo frowned. "What?"

"You can tell a person by their sword. Even the same techniques, practiced by different people, develop distinct flavors." Lian Sheng raised her head. "Your sword tells me you're pragmatic—every strike lands exactly where it should."

Yan Shuo had no idea what she was talking about. After a long pause, he said, "I told you I don't like you."

Lian Sheng said, "Oh, whether you like me or not isn't my concern. Also, I like your swordsmanship, not you. Don't misunderstand."

Yan Shuo: "..."

Yan Shuo: "..."

Lian Sheng lifted her sword—she was still so unfamiliar with this blade.

"If possible, I'd like to understand you better. Spar longer." Lian Sheng shrugged. "But since it's a match, forget it. Any longer and I'll lose."

What the hell was this nonsense?

Yan Shuo was the first swordsman she'd met here. And Western swordsmanship was her first exposure to such techniques.

Both filled her with a sense of kinship—kindred spirits.

Yan Shuo said with a tone of utter disbelief, "Are you saying you've been going easy on me?"

Lian Sheng extended her sole remaining arm. "Come at me now."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Yan Shuo's voice suddenly turned sharp. "But I don't like you, and I don't like swords!"

Lian Sheng tilted her head. "You don't like swords?"

Yan Shuo shouted and lunged forward, his long sword aiming for Lian Sheng's left side—targeting the gap where her arm had been, trying to pierce through to the cockpit or dismantle her mech piece by piece.

Yan Shuo's sword was agile; Lian Sheng's was clumsy.

Yet with that clumsy blade, she mirrored Yan Shuo's movements.

Using the sword's forte (strong part of the blade), she blocked his tip, then angled her wrist to deflect it aside. Adjusting her stance with small hops, she thrust forward.

Her improvised imitation successfully forced Yan Shuo back.

The spectators were stunned. They thought they were seeing things.

Those feints, the footwork adjustments, the subtle wrist flicks, the timing...

They unmistakably saw Western swordsmanship reflected in Lian Sheng's movements.

Pojun was lighter than Liba, making its actions swift and fierce, its attacks fluid.

Compared to Liba's image, Pojun seemed to embody the soul of a Western swordsman more.

How was this possible? Had she... stolen his techniques?!

Yan Shuo was first surprised, then retreated to regain distance. His opponent now mirrored his exact starting stance.

Having practiced Western swordsmanship for over a decade, he knew Lian Sheng's posture wasn't just similar—it was textbook.

It was the stance he'd spent winters and summers perfecting in his backyard. The stance his body had memorized.

His shock was indescribable.

Rage. Rage erupted like volcanic magma. Yan Shuo couldn't accept this.

"You're copying me? You think longsword techniques can be learned by watching?" Yan Shuo roared furiously. "Stop flaunting your talent!"

Yan Shuo charged again.

As if deliberately provoking him, Lian Sheng abandoned ancient martial arts, using only her clumsy broadsword to replicate his moves—every attack he'd previously used against her.

While Western swords primarily thrust, longswords could also slash like sabers.

Since used techniques got copied, Yan Shuo switched to unused moves, adopting an Italian fencing style that balanced offense and defense.

Yet Lian Sheng disappointed him again.

Someone who could only mimic couldn't mimic well.

Lian Sheng had immersed herself in swordsmanship for years. She'd mastered various schools' techniques and understood each move's purpose. She knew why one move followed another, and thus what should come next in any situation.

All techniques surviving millennia had their brilliance—something only repeated combat could reveal, and only through repetition could their redundancies be shed.

Perhaps Yan Shuo didn't understand.

His every movement carried the soul of swordsmen past.

And when this sword was in Lian Sheng's hands, she imbued it with her own soul!

Pojun couldn't match Liba's strength, but there were ways to compensate.

So Lian Sheng incorporated thruster-assisted techniques learned from Bright Bulb.

Yan Shuo's longsword slashed diagonally.

His blade was weighted toward the forte—its balance suited his style.

Seeing this, Lian Sheng accelerated backward. Yan Shuo adjusted mid-swing, closing the gap with quick steps to press the attack.

But Lian Sheng feinted, suddenly weaving in ancient martial arts—leaning back, pivoting on her heel to evade the blade.

Yan Shuo couldn't anticipate this. Before he could react, she'd shifted from defense to offense.

Fast!

Too fast!

Her form blurred. Yan Shuo's eyes and reflexes barely kept up.

How could she maintain fluidity at such speeds?

Was this Pojun? Ruthless and relentless.

Was this the same clumsy, reckless Lian Sheng from before?

In Lian Sheng's eyes, Yan Shuo's image reflected. She dissected each movement, visualizing her blade piercing him.

Then, without hesitation, she struck.

The slender blade overlapped with her vision, cutting through all obstacles to slam into his chest.

Pojun had only one arm left but showed no fear. Its movements were bold and unexpectedly effective.

They exchanged blows, neither yielding, each showcasing their swordsmanship to determine the superior.

Somehow, the East vs. West duel had become a Western swordsmanship internal clash.

Perhaps Yan Shuo was rattled, perhaps Lian Sheng's speed disrupted his rhythm. Though his form remained textbook, his strikes came faster.

He'd lost composure!

Seizing the moment, Lian Sheng shifted footwork again, her blade twisting back to her preferred style. She reclaimed initiative, launching a fierce assault on his cockpit.

Again. And again.

Repeated strikes finally cracked Liba's thick chest armor!

Yan Shuo's expression finally fractured. He swung wildly with his sword while yanking out a remaining cannon with his left hand, firing to create distance and escape close combat.

He was retreating.

The tide had turned—advantage now lay with Lian Sheng. No one dared predict the outcome, but they wondered: if Yan Shuo lost to his own techniques, how would he feel?

The crowd gasped and cheered. This was too thrilling.

"God, she's... so fast! Can Pojun move like that?"

"That's not Pojun's speed—it's thruster-assisted."

"I don't play Sanyao much—don't lie. Thrusters can do that? Are you joking?"

"Not something just anyone can learn. Lose balance and you'll crash hard."

"Proof it's possible—she's doing it right now. Deniers blind?"

"If anyone calls the General a mech noob again, I'll gouge out their cyber-eyes!"

Yan Shuo stared at Lian Sheng, breathing heavily.

Different people, different flavors?

No. From start to finish, his swordsmanship had only one flavor.

Since childhood, every thrust, every angle had been precisely calculated. His actions could be represented by numbers. He'd spent over ten hours daily perfecting those numbers.

Back when he didn't understand Western swordsmanship. When he didn't know its purpose. When he'd had no choice.

He'd been forced onto a path chosen by others.

Legacy? He hated this meaningless, mechanical inheritance. Why should he bear this responsibility?

Years of training brought mostly his father's disappointment and scolding. Others called him talented—he only heard mockery in those words. They understood nothing. He should've been better, but couldn't.

This was Western swordsmanship to him.

So he hated Western swordsmanship. Hated weakness.

...He hated swords.

What soul could a technique so easily copied possibly have?

Yan Shuo took deep breaths, then circled before charging again.

Lian Sheng raised her sword to meet him.

But Yan Shuo lowered his blade, drawing a cannon from his back instead.

Lian Sheng startled. Was he planning a point-blank high-yield shot?

A mutual kill?

No. Liba's armor was tougher—Pojun would die first.

The audience held their breath, rising in excitement to watch the screens.

No one knew what happened inside, but amidst the explosion's gray smoke, a broadsword went flying—shattered midair by the blast. Half embedded in a pillar, half clattering to the ground.

As the smoke cleared, the crowd gasped again.

Pojun still stood, but its right arm was half-destroyed—only the upper arm and mounted weapon remained.

Now both Lian Sheng's arms were gone. As a close-combat mech, weaponless—could she continue?

Liba fared slightly better, but not by much. Its body showed damage everywhere. The vulnerable cockpit was exposed.

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