Myth of Resonance [Delayed Isekai - Progression LitRPG]

Chaos erupted like a badly rehearsed play suddenly forced to improvise.

The hobgoblin moved with purpose that made its lesser kin look like puppets. Where goblins charged, it advanced. Where they flailed, it struck with economy. The first swing of its club carved air where Brick had been standing, the dodge barely successful despite the big man's Earth-enhanced stability.

"Circle pattern!" Sera barked, her crossbow already singing. The bolt struck the hobgoblin's shoulder, punching through crude armor but barely staggering it. "Brick holds attention, everyone else hits and moves!"

They fell into the formation with the ease of experience. Brick became the anchor, shield raised, Earth Resonance making him a gravitational center the hobgoblin couldn't ignore. Sera relocated after each shot, never giving the creature a stationary target. Lin maintained careful distance, her enhancement flickering between party members as needed.

And Invia... Invia found himself moving in prescribed patterns, filling gaps in their formation like water finding its level. It should have felt natural. It was textbook adventurer tactics, the kind that kept groups alive.

Instead, that stifled feeling grew stronger.

Strike when Brick creates an opening. Fall back when Sera needs a clear shot. Support but don't overextend. The thoughts weren't his own—they were the group's, imposed by necessity and tactics. Each movement was calculated not by his instincts but by the formation's needs.

His blade work remained technically perfect. When smaller goblins tried to flank, he cut them down with mechanical precision. But something was missing. The rhythm he'd felt earlier, that marriage of instinct and training—it was trapped beneath layers of coordination.

"Good!" Sera called as another bolt found its mark. "We're wearing it down!"

Were they? The hobgoblin bled from multiple wounds, but its movements remained strong. Worse, Invia could see it learning. Each exchange taught it their patterns, their rhythm. Soon—

The club came around in a devastating arc that caught physics and tactics equally off guard. Brick raised his shield, Earth Resonance making it momentarily indestructible.

It didn't matter.

The impact was like watching a child's sandcastle meet the tide. Brick's enhancement held—his shield didn't shatter, his arm didn't break. But momentum was momentum, and seven feet of muscle swinging a tree trunk had plenty to spare. The shield-bearer flew backward, all that earth-aspected weight working against him as he carved a furrow in the dirt before crashing into a boulder.

"Brick!" Lin started toward him, healer's instincts overriding tactical sense.

"Stay back!" Sera commanded, but the formation was already broken.

The world snapped into sickening focus. Brick's crumpled form against the boulder. Lin's aborted lurch forward. Sera's shout hanging sharp in the air. And the hobgoblin – a wall of scarred muscle and crude iron – turning, not towards the healer, not towards the leader, but towards him.

Invia's breath hitched. His body felt suddenly alien. The fluid precision of the practice yard vanished, replaced by a terrifying sluggishness.

His boots, so sure on packed earth moments ago, now slid on loose rock debris. His sword, an extension of his will during drills, now felt heavy and unresponsive in his sweat-slicked grip.

The hobgoblin didn't roar. Its club came up in a deceptively casual backswing. Not the telegraphed overhead smash, but a brutal, horizontal sweep aimed to pulp his ribs.

Dodge left! Mono's voice echoed in his mind.

His muscles fired, but too slow, too stiff. The sheer speed of the creature, the suffocating pressure of its presence – it wasn't in the training manuals. He jerked sideways, the club whistling past his chest close enough to buffet him with displaced air.

He stumbled, off-balance, the world tilting. A smaller goblin, seizing the chaos, darted in, rusty knife aiming for his thigh. Instinct and drilled reaction saved him – a jerky downward chop severed the creature's arm – but the interruption cost him precious fractions of a second.

He regained his footing just as the hobgoblin recovered, already reversing its momentum. The club came back, a blur of stained wood and iron bands. Parry high! Angle the blade! Redirect! He wrenched his sword up, bracing for impact.

The shockwave jolted up his arms, numbing his fingers to the knuckles. It wasn't the clean ring of steel on wood; it was the sound of a tree being split. Pain flared in his wrists and shoulders.

He hadn't redirected the blow; he'd barely stopped it. The force drove him backwards, boots ploughing twin furrows in the dirt.

His teeth rattled. The world narrowed to the club grinding against his blade, the hobgoblin's rancid breath hot on his face, the burning protest of his overtaxed muscles.

He tried to push back, to find leverage, but the creature was immovable, a landslide given form. Its free hand lashed out in a backhand swipe.

Invia ducked wildly, feeling claws snag and tear the shoulder of his tunic. Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through the adrenaline haze. This wasn't practice. This wasn't controlled.

He disengaged, scrambling back, gasping. His arms trembled. Sweat stung his eyes. The perfect forms, the balanced stances – they felt like lies told in a safe room. Here, the ground was uneven, the enemy unpredictable, and fear was a tangible thing coiling in his gut, tightening his chest, making his movements jerky and desperate.

He parried another savage blow, more by luck than skill, the impact sending fresh waves of pain up his arms. He was reacting, not acting. Barely surviving. The hobgoblin pressed, relentless, each swing heavier, each grunt more guttural.

It was learning him. Learning his desperate blocks, his frantic dodges.

I'm losing, the thought cut through the fog, cold and clear. I'm going to die here because I don't know how to be in this chaos.

He risked a glance. Brick groaned, trying to rise. Lin was frozen, torn between him and Brick. Sera was reloading, her face tight with concentration. No one was coming.

This gap, this terrifying space between the shattered formation and death, was his alone. The prescribed patterns were gone. There was only the hobgoblin, the club, the screaming of his own body, and the suffocating weight of his inexperience pressing down.

The creature raised the club again, its small, hate-filled eyes locking onto his. It saw his tremor. Saw his exhaustion. Saw the novice drowning in the reality he'd only ever simulated. It took a final, heavy step, settling its weight, telegraphing the killing overhead blow.

Time crystallized.

The club rose, its arc already visible in the air like destiny written in motion. Invia's training screamed at him: dodge, roll, get clear. Basic survival when facing a stronger opponent.

But something else whispered. Not thought—deeper. The sword in his hand hummed with subtle warmth, and suddenly he could see it. Not just the club's path, but the forces behind it. The rotation of the hobgoblin's hips, the tension in its shoulders, and the way its weight distributed through its stance.

More than seeing—understanding.

There. The realization came like dawn. Thirty degrees offset, rising to meet the descent. Not blocking—redirecting. Use its power against itself.

His body moved before conscious thought could interfere. The parry was nothing Mono had taught, nothing traditional swordsmanship would approve. His blade met the club at an impossible angle, not opposing but guiding, turning crushing force into rotational momentum.

The club whistled past, its path altered by degrees that meant everything. The hobgoblin, expecting resistance that never came, found itself overextended, twisted by its own strength.

And there it was. The opening sang to him, a line of perfect clarity from his sword's position to the hobgoblin's exposed neck. Not just any strike—the strike. The same fundamental slash Mono had demonstrated that first day, but transformed by context into something lethal.

His body flowed through the motion without hesitation. Hip rotation generating power, shoulders guiding, wrist firm but not rigid. The blade carved through air and flesh with equal ease, finding the gap between helmet and armor like it had always belonged there.

The hobgoblin's expression shifted through surprise, rage, and finally nothing, as life left its eyes. It toppled backward, dark blood painting the ground in abstract patterns.

Silence.

Then the System erupted:

[System: Combat Epiphany Achieved]

[System: Special Technique Learned - Riposte (Proficiency: D)]

[System: Base Sword Sub-Mastery Advanced - Slash (Proficiency: C-)]

[System: Achievement Unlocked - David's Echo: Defeated significantly stronger opponent through technique]

Invia stood there, sword still extended in the follow-through, trying to process what had just happened. The technique hadn't come from training or repetition. It had emerged from necessity, from that moment when prescribed tactics gave way to pure instinct.

"Holy shit," Sera breathed. "That was—how did you—" She visibly collected herself. "Brick! Check on Brick!"

The shield-bearer was groaning but mobile, Lin already working her expensive magic on what looked like bruised ribs rather than broken ones. He'd live, though his pride might need more healing than his body.

"That was early Conceptual at least," Sera said, studying the hobgoblin's corpse with professional interest. "We should be dead. Would be dead if—" She looked at Invia with new calculation. "That riposte. Where did you learn that?"

"I didn't," Invia said honestly. "It just... happened."

"Epiphanies," Lin said quietly, looking up from her healing. "Sometimes, when the gap between what you know and what you need is just right, the Resonance bridges it. Rare, though. Most people train for years without experiencing one."

Sera was already shifting into business mode. "This changes everything. Hobgoblin wasn't listed, which means the guild fucked up. They'll have to compensate—hazard pay at minimum, probably triple rate. Plus, killing an early Conceptual as a Physical Realm party?" She grinned. "Our advancement prospects just shot through the roof."

As they collected proof of kills—ears, unfortunately, as was standard—Sera outlined her plans. "Got a D-rank lined up. Missing livestock, probably a mutated bear. With this on our record, they'll approve us for it. You interested?"

The safe answer was no. He'd completed his first mission missions, nearly died on it. D-rank was a significant jump, the kind that killed overeager adventurers regularly.

But that moment of clarity, that perfect unity of instinct and technique—he wanted more. Needed more. Even if it meant pushing beyond safe boundaries.

"I'm in," he said.

"Good man." Sera clapped his shoulder. "Let's head back. Guild's going to shit themselves when they see what we brought in."

The return journey passed in exhausted silence. Invia found himself replaying the fight, particularly that stifled feeling when moving with the group. It wasn't that they were bad—their tactics had been sound, their coordination solid. But something about subsuming his instincts to the group's rhythm felt fundamentally wrong.

Like wearing clothes that don't fit, he thought. Functional, but constantly aware of the constraint.

The guild's reaction was everything Sera promised. The clerk went pale when they presented the hobgoblin's tusks, immediately calling for a supervisor. Forms were filled, statements taken, and most importantly, compensation calculated.

"Standard rate was five silver per goblin," the supervisor explained, clearly unhappy but bound by guild rules. "Plus the hobgoblin... an unlisted Conceptual-tier threat. Factor in hazard pay, survival bonus..."

When the math finished, Invia stared at the stack of coins. Even after Lin's healing fees—more substantial given Brick's injuries—he was left with seven gold.

"Welcome to the fun part of adventuring," Sera said, dividing the take. "The part where you survive long enough to spend it. Same time in two days for the D-rank?"

"I'll be there."

They parted ways outside the guild, each heading to their own recovery. Invia made his way back to the academy, body tired but mind racing. The epiphany had shown him something profound about his own nature, about the way forward.

But first, he needed to talk to people who might understand.