Chapter 128
Chapter 128
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: crow
Chapter Title: EP.31 – The Knights Call Themselves Losers (4)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The forest, shrouded in unusually dark and eerie clouds, was filled with unrest.
Was rain about to fall? The wind stroked the leaves fiercely, and with each gust, the sinister, chilling aura grew stronger.
The reason night forests are dangerous might not just be the darkness, but because the inherent ferocity of the woods intensifies.
However.
"-Perfect weather for hiding."
To some, this gloom and savagery felt more welcoming than ever. A certain man lay on a rock like a bed, finding the eerie forest downright cozy.
Drip. Drip.
A light drizzle began to fall.
Soon, the raindrops grew heavier, pattering steadily.
Yet even this rain was welcome to him.
After all, it would wash away any sounds or traces on its own.
"Today's luck isn't bad at all."
He murmured softly, savoring the rain and the earthy scent of the forest with his whole body.
Thud.
"Enjoying your alone time?"
Muddy footsteps announced the end of his solitude.
He wasn't surprised—he'd sensed the approach long ago.
"Back already? You're late."
"...You're unbelievable. Some of us have work to do, you know. Others just lounge around."
"Everyone has their role to play."
"Pretty words."
"......"
He didn't scold her insolent retort.
Such whining was routine, like the chirping of sparrows in daily life.
Of course, he wasn't generous with just anyone.
"You brought him."
"Just the corpse."
"Still impressive. Well done, No. 2."
She had brilliantly recovered what was thought to be the priest's body, buried underground with even the bones unrecoverable.
Though dead, the holy power in that priest's body made it worth the risk.
Those with ability deserved commensurate respect and kindness.
It was his motto, and he showered her with unstinting praise.
...Though the recipient looked less than thrilled.
"Call me the 2nd Apostle. That's ancient history."
"Has it been that long already?"
Time flies...
He muttered to himself again, and the woman dubbed the 2nd Apostle shook her head.
Sometimes, he seemed like a scholar.
Or a priest truly devoted to salvation efforts.
His kind aura and intellectual gaze didn't suit the organization at all.
With his faint, captivating smile, he was the picture of charm.
Anyone meeting him for the first time, unaware of who he was, would likely approach with friendly warmth.
But if they did...
'...They'd end up like that.'
Drip... Splatter...
A sound unlike falling raindrops.
Slower, and chilling to the spine.
"How many did you kill?"
"Wouldn't it be better to ask how many survived?"
"...You're right."
...The source was blood dripping from what were once human—now mere chunks of meat. He gazed at it impassively, like an inorganic object.
As if he hadn't killed living beings, but merely played with talking, bleeding "mud."
'...I'll probably fear him for years to come.'
The 2nd Apostle shivered.
Causing such carnage with that gentle tone and soft expression...
To put it bluntly, if he weren't a comrade, she'd never associate with such a spine-chilling monster.
As she inwardly recoiled from him,
"The 4th Apostle—Drak—is he dead?"
The man asked, and she snapped back to reality, as if shaking off odd thoughts.
"No body. Either pulverized beyond recovery or taken prisoner."
"Hm. Which do you think is more likely?"
"The latter. I'd have taken him alive for intel."
"Really? That's fortunate, then."
"You mean you're abandoning him?"
"Don't twist my words. It's not abandonment—just coincidence."
"...Sure."
"You don't believe me."
She snorted at his aggrieved shrug.
Drak.
One of the organization's 12 Apostles, uncertain if alive or dead.
Yet, tasked for over a decade with breeding troops and monsters alone in a burrow, far from the group...
'...He's just dead weight for the mission. That's why we discarded him.'
A pitiful pawn, ultimately expendable.
His savage, radical nature caused endless issues.
Letting him roam freely would invite trouble.
So they distanced him under the guise of a "mission."
And in the end...
'The intel he knows stopped at ten years ago.'
Rivers change in a decade; organizations shift a dozen times over.
Even if Drak lived and they tortured him for info...
'It'd be useless.'
At best, details on Apostles or the Blood Crusaders—but meaningless now.
"If current Drak saw us, he'd be shocked. Changing faces, builds, voices is one thing, but 'gender' too?"
"...Yeah."
Even he, ever composed, paused here.
When his comrade, the 2nd Apostle, suddenly appeared as "she," even he had been flustered.
"Why stare? Am I that pretty?"
"......"
"...Sorry."
"Apology accepted. Anyway... time to head back."
The rain was letting up.
Soon, it wouldn't mask the blood scent.
So.
"Let's return."
"Music to my ears."
"Ah, the passage—sealed?"
"Completely."
"Good. Then..."
The man suddenly turned his head.
Toward the scattered corpses he'd ignored until now.
And gradually.
"-Leave your last words. No lingering attachments to this world—you're hell-bound anyway."
He offered a final mercy.
What point in addressing the cold dead?
Mockery, perhaps?
But the man.
"I see. No response—such a shame."
They squandered the chance.
As his soft mutter ended, black mist erupted from his body with a whoosh.
The swirling mass merged with rain-soaked earth, gradually forming beast shapes.
Whoosh!
[------.]
The moment the beasts took form and their eyes gleamed,
"W-Wait! P-Please wait! N-No, s-spare me, I beg...!!"
The "corpses" jolted up—pretenders rising in panic.
Terror seized them at the beasts' presence.
They knew how many had died by those beasts, how vicious and cruel they were.
"Why keep them alive?"
"Not for sport. Some feigned death before battle even started. Or tried fleeing."
So he let them be.
Curious what "last words" they'd utter upon rising.
"...Sick hobby."
He nodded lightly at the 2nd Apostle's blunt assessment.
Sick hobby—spot on.
However.
"-Mustang de Varga. One of the culprits who doomed Britannia. I have a question."
"A-Ask away, a-anything!!"
Mustang de Varga, once a Britannian general, deemed an "honorary Pendragon citizen" by enemies for his incompetence and countless defeats.
Brits trembled at his name, yet Mustang was ever shameless.
Why? He'd brazenly spout lines like:
'Why blame me for the loss? The soldiers were incompetent!' 'Why should I take responsibility!? The knights should!' And more, enraging even foes.
Frankly, surviving this long with so many grudges was miraculous.
Arrogant, brazen beyond Aren, utterly blind to his faults.
Now, he knelt weeping, begging for life.
And to him.
"You survived well. Roy Vant, was it? Never dreamed you'd use him as a shield and flee."
"......"
"I thought you kept the dying wretch out of camaraderie, but seeing that crushed any lingering hope."
The man addressed Mustang to confirm his conviction.
Ah, these truly deserve no life.
-That conviction.
Thus.
"Thank you. For proving my choice was right."
"S-Spare me! J-Just spare me, I'll do anything! Aren't you curious about the Varga family's hidden wealth!? B-Britannia's royal secrets, their slush funds!! Just say the word, all...!!"
Crunch!
"Gaaaaahhh!!"
But Mustang could speak no more.
In that instant, the [beast] tore into his lower body.
Mustang writhed in agony, but the man leisurely enjoyed the screams, toying with him before death.
Crunch! Grind! Snap!!
"A... Aaah?!... Aaghh...!!"
The torment felt eternal, and Mustang's body finally slumped.
Death—the thing he'd so desperately fled—approached.
Drip.
...The rain stopped.
Fierce winds scattered the dark clouds, revealing faint moonlight. Mustang finally saw the man's face in the darkness, at life's end.
And...
Gasp!
Recognizing it, Mustang realized much.
A revelation, perhaps—drawing near a secret unknown to all. Like a dying testament, he called out.
"...Crown Pri—"
"Haha, haven't heard that in ages."
Splurt!
But the man had no intent to listen.
The beast mercilessly tore out Mustang's throat.
Thud...
Mustang died with eyes wide in vain regret, and the man shrugged lightly.
"Never thought anyone still remembered my face. Hm, was he more important than I thought?"
"...The Vargas topped Britannia's military. Probably crossed paths at some event."
"Possible."
"...Sigh, you're Britannian by birth—how do you know less than me?"
"Stranger things happen."
Crunch!
The beast's jaws sounded again, snapping the survivors' necks like Mustang's.
Yet the two ignored them.
Only the 2nd Apostle asked.
"Still, we raised those half-demons over ten years—fine wasting them?"
She seemed regretful, but he shook his head firmly.
"What use for failures? The real prize is the experimental data from their bodies. With that, we can produce endless troops. Time is on our side. Don't worry, 2nd Apostle."
"...If you say so."
She voiced regret but trusted him.
He was the wisest she knew.
Thus.
"Let's go, No. 1."
"Haha, cheeky. It's 1st Apostle."
In a blink, they vanished.
Like clouds fleeting by.
Four days later, a hunter discovered the half-demon—prisoner—corpses reduced to meat chunks, reporting to the knights much later.
*
*
*
......Lee Han was swallowing a groan.
Why?
Why, upon returning home, couldn't he rest and had to endure this?
'...I just want to rest.'
Unfortunately.
"-This princess is disappointed."
...His counterpart showed no mercy for rest.
"Failure is fine. I don't mind the burrow's collapse. But to think...!!"
Isis Irene de Pendragon glared, grinding her teeth as she berated him.
"...You only drew with some northern brute! How infuriating!!"
"...It wasn't even a draw, I think."
"I said only Vodka beats the north! Will you disappoint your sister like this!!!"
"......Why exclude Vodka?"
"How dare you...!"
"......"
...Lee Han shut his mouth.
He knew a superior's lecture ended only when they were satisfied.
Meanwhile.
'Gotta try that northern vodka later.'
He was mildly curious how strong the stuff was that even she admitted losing to.