Steven also noticed the approaching figure. Even from a distance, he could feel the hostility radiating from the crimson eyes hidden beneath that skull-like stag head.
Yet, it wasn't the kind of hostility meant for an enemy—it felt more like the protective wariness of a father facing the man who was about to steal his precious daughter.
Steven didn't find this displeasing at all. In fact, when he laid eyes on the man's badass black armor, massive tower shield, and bloodstained spear, his mind could only form one thought:
"Damn, what a chad."
He couldn't help but let out an admiring sigh. Everything about this warrior—his style, his eerie helmet (or was that his actual head?), and the sheer presence he carried—hit Steven's aesthetic bullseye.
This was exactly what a real man should look like.
Sure, the guy was probably old enough to be in the "veteran warrior" category, but let's be real—true warriors only get cooler with age.
"Hey, are you seriously not considering running away?" Yelena spoke up beside him, looking both worried and confused. "That old fossil of mine is known for being ridiculously stubborn. Even if you're my friend, he's not the kind of guy to just let a trespasser off easy."
She just couldn't understand why Steven suddenly looked so damn excited—like a kid who had just spotted his favorite toy on a store shelf.
Or worse, like a diehard fanboy meeting his idol.
"Tsk, you just don't get it," Steven said with a grin. "There's no better way for men to bond than with a good, hard clash of fists."
And with that, he suited up, equipping his full set of Netherite armor, looking every bit like a knight accepting a duel. Without another word, he took firm strides toward the towering figure that was approaching him.
Their footsteps echoed heavily across the frozen tundra, each step pressing into the hardened snow. The weight of their armor made every movement sound ominous, as if setting the stage for an inevitable duel.
The black-armored warrior seemed slightly taken aback by Steven's reaction. He hadn't expected the young man to step forward so fearlessly. But when he saw the unwavering determination in Steven's stance, the crimson glow behind his mask softened with a hint of approval.
No words were needed.
Just as Steven had said—there's no purer way for men to communicate than through fists.
The towering warrior seemed to understand his intent. He set down his massive spear and shield, then, like a mighty stag preparing for battle, charged forward with full force.
Each of his heavy steps shook the earth, his armor roaring with every movement.
Yet, in the face of this monstrous charge, Steven's grin only widened in anticipation.
He had no intention of dodging.
Just like his opponent, he rushed forward head-on.
Yelena, the only sane person present, could only watch with a bitter smile.
This wasn't some life-or-death fight—she could tell. It was just like the dueling games that her father's Shieldguards enjoyed, a way for warriors to express their strength and spirit.
What did surprise her, however, was the fact that her old fossil of a father was actually willing to accept such an uncharacteristic challenge.
Even though Yelena didn't quite understand how things had escalated to this point, she could do nothing to stop it.
By now, the collision was inevitable.
Two heavily armored warriors, neither of whom had any intention of slowing down, slammed into each other like two runaway trucks. The impact roared through the air, sending a shockwave rippling outward.
The force of their clash blasted through the camp, shaking the ground and sending loose snow flying in every direction.
Naturally, the rest of the guerrilla fighters—who had been minding their own business—suddenly found themselves aware of the commotion. One by one, they began to poke their heads out, watching the scene unfold.
Yet, not a single one of them looked concerned.
After all, standing at the center of that impact was their leader, their symbol, their unshakable faith—Patriot.
As the dust and snow settled, the onlookers finally got a clear view of the battlefield.
However, what they saw wasn't what they had expected.
Normally, whenever Patriot clashed with someone, the outcome was almost always instantaneous—his opponent would be overwhelmed and crushed within moments.
But this time, that wasn't the case.
Instead of a one-sided defeat, what they saw was their iron-clad leader locked in a deadlock, his fist pressing against the fist of another warrior—a mysterious man clad in deep violet-black armor.
Neither of them used any techniques.
Neither of them tried to outmaneuver the other.
It was a pure contest of brute strength—a battle to see who could overpower the other and force them backward.
And what was even more shocking?
The outsider—the man they had never seen before—wasn't losing.
Not only that, but Steven was deliberately restraining himself.
To show his utmost respect, he had chosen not to use the supernatural abilities that came with his identity as a Minecrafter such as using potion or some mods. Instead, he met Patriot in a battle of sheer physical might, relying only on his own strength.
And as he engaged in this contest of raw power, he had to admit—this old man was strong.
No, beyond strong.
In terms of pure, unadulterated strength, Patriot was by far the most powerful being Steven had encountered since arriving in this world.
Even if he excluded humans from the equation, there were very few creatures that could surpass Patriot in sheer strength alone.
Perhaps only the Fallingstar Beast lurking beneath the mines had more raw power.
Even the monstrous Collapsal, a writhing mass of demonic flesh, might have been inferior to the old warrior standing before him.
Steven wasn't sure where Patriot ranked in this world's hierarchy of power, but one thing was clear—his strength alone was worthy of respect.
Of course, Steven wasn't foolish. He understood that much of this power stemmed from Originium Arts. The energy flowing through Patriot's body wasn't purely human strength, but that wasn't something Steven could criticize.
After all, wasn't he also relying on the unique physical advantages of a "Minecrafter" to hold his ground?
Regardless, he refused to back down.
There was no reason to lose.
At the very least, in a battle of pure strength, Steven wasn't going to let himself be pushed back—not when it concerned his pride as a Minecrafter.
With that thought in mind, Steven redoubled his efforts, channeling even more power into his arms.
And finally, the deadlock began to break.
The massive, stag-like warrior, who had stood immovable like a mountain, was now being forced backward—not by himself, but by the ground beneath him, which was cracking under the pressure.
Rather than taking a step back, the land beneath Patriot's feet was giving way, as if the world itself was the one losing ground in this battle.
Finally, Steven took a deep breath and withdrew his strength, halting the clash.
"—I win."
He spoke softly, yet there was no arrogance in his voice—only certainty.
He knew that even if he pressed further, even if he pushed Patriot all the way to the ground, the old warrior would never yield.
Rather than admitting defeat, he would sooner let himself be buried into the snow before he ever took a step backward.
And that was enough.
Steven had proven his strength.
He had no hatred for this man, nor any grudge—there was no need to push further.
This battle was never about winning or losing.
It was about recognition.
And now, they both understood each other without a single word.
At the very least, this old man had allowed Steven to truly experience what a real duel felt like.
Even Steven had to admit—in that brief moment of contact, he had nearly been forced backward. Just a little more, and he might have lost ground.
But in the end, a victory was still a victory.
There was no need for excessive explanations—he had won.
Even now, Steven had yet to find an opponent who could match him in pure strength.
"Your strength... is formidable."
The man who had just been locked in a power struggle with Steven finally spoke.
Now that he realized Steven had withdrawn his strength, his crimson eyes—still glowing from exertion—flickered for a moment before he finally acknowledged his defeat.
Just moments ago, he had already given everything he had.
Yet, despite using his full strength, he had been completely unable to move the young man before him.
He couldn't comprehend how such a seemingly unremarkable physique could contain such overwhelming power.
But even if he didn't understand, it didn't stop him from recognizing his loss—or acknowledging Steven's strength.
"Of course. When it comes to raw strength, I've never feared anyone."
Steven rolled his shoulders, shaking off the slight soreness that came from relying solely on his physical body.
Not using his abilities had been a bit uncomfortable, but manageable.
As for the old man in front of him, he was probably feeling far worse—yet he endured it without showing the slightest weakness.
Steven had to admit: his pain tolerance was insane.
"But now that we've settled that, can we finally sit down and talk?"
He gave a half-smile before continuing,
"You came storming over here with your weapon in hand—I was seriously worried you were about to chop me down."
"Honestly, if you hadn't pulled that stunt, he really might have."
A new voice cut in before the old warrior could respond.
Yelena—who had been standing by this whole time—finally seized the opportunity to step in, placing herself between the two.
She shot a glare at Steven before turning toward the towering figure of the old man, who stood nearly half a head taller than her.
"He's my friend."
Her tone was firm, but not aggressive.
"Not just that—he's also the one who helped cure my Oripathy.
Can't you at least try to be a little more welcoming?"
She sighed, crossing her arms before continuing,
"I can assure you—he's not a threat to the guerrilla fighters. He would never endanger our people."
She held her gaze steady, as if daring him to challenge her words.
Then, she suddenly turned toward the gathering crowd—a group of guerrilla fighters who had been watching the entire scene unfold.
"And what the hell are you all doing?"
Her sharp voice rang out across the camp, cutting through the murmurs.
"Does the guerrilla squad have this much free time? Or are you all just that eager to slack off?"
The group visibly tensed under her glare before reluctantly dispersing, some grumbling as they did so.
Yet, just as she thought the chaos had ended, she overheard some hushed whispers among the retreating fighters—words that instantly made her face flush red.
"Tch, not worth watching. Big Boss is obviously going to turn the tables and win in the end."
"Exactly. No way Boss would actually lose..."
"But seriously, who is that guy? First, he fights Boss, and now Big Sis is defending him?"
"...Wait. You don't think—"
"She wouldn't, right?"
"Damn, did our little Yelena go and find herself a wild man—"
"SHHH! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"
<+>
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