Settlement
Settlement
Envelde didn't draw his sword.
The resistance he felt in his hand alone was enough to tell him it wouldn't come out in a single pull.
He had no intention of taking the unnecessary risk of some bastard on death's door lunging at him with all his might to snap his neck just because he tried to yank it free. Too many had died exactly that way on the battlefield.
His aura alone marked him as no pushover—enough that there was a clear gap between what he sensed and what he was. Despite his outwardly composed demeanor, a cold sweat had broken out in an instant.
No matter how deep he'd driven the blade into his gut, if he closed in showing even a half-assed opening, there was a real chance the tables could be turned on him.
His own sword was perfectly intact, and there was also the one Eldmia had let go of, so he wasn't short on weapons. He decided to take his time.
"Substitute" wasn't quite the right word, but Envelde drove his fist into Eldmia's face.
With a dull thud, Eldmia's head snapped to the side with each hit, but unlike moments before, he didn't go flying. It wasn't so much that Eldmia had countered as it was that Envelde had properly adjusted his aura.
"Enjoy your life in the capital? Thought the whole world belonged to you? You arrogant little shit."
A mistake—or flaw—that talented young knights often made.
The baseless belief that their talent transcended generations.
"Yeah, you're strong. If I were your age, I would never have beaten you. I didn't have your talent back then. But decades of battlefield experience aren't something a measly handful of talent like yours can just shit on. You stupid child."
He threw another punch, cracking him across the jaw. Realizing that Eldmia was still reacting even through that, that there was no clean, satisfying connection, Envelde inwardly admired him and felt a pang of regret.
The bastard was extraordinary. Enough that even now, pushed to this brink, he was still covetous.
Which was why Envelde ignored the barely-resisting Eldmia, walked over to the desk, opened a drawer, and placed an emergency potion he kept on top of it.
He watched Eldmia's gaze fixate on the potion he'd set down with a pointed 'thunk,' and spoke.
"Leave it like that and you die without treatment. Pull the sword out, and you'll bleed out before long. You can't even beat me. If you want to live, crawl over here and swear your loyalty, Eldmia."
"Your last words... are seriously fucking retarded."
Even though he had to know exactly what state he was in, Eldmia sneered, clutching the embedded blade.
At that sight, which could only be described as tenacious, Envelde let out a deep sigh and continued.
"Even I was useless on the front lines against the Demonfolk. You ever actually run into a real Demonfolk? The Expert-level centurions commanding soldiers who are already hard enough to handle, and the chiliarchs and myriarchs above them, are all absolute monsters. Unlike humans, they worship strength."
Even the King's Ten Swords, once considered warriors who'd be acknowledged anywhere on the continent, couldn't dictate a one-sided fight. The very act of staking your life against such things, just because there happened to be an oracle, was fundamentally wrong.
"Have you really not held even a single shred of doubt as to why those knights joined my rebellion? Did you think they were losers just because they're weaker than you? That you couldn't guess why they turned their backs on the battlefield and decided to join a rebellion—that arrogance of yours—"
"Fuck... it hurts, so quit with the jokes, you prick. I can't concentrate."
It was impressive that Eldmia could still chuckle and shake his head, but Envelde paid it no mind. He had no doubt it was merely one last desperate struggle before death.
"Anyway, no matter where you go in the world, shitty humans are all the same. Judging everything at face value, acting like they know so goddamn much and handing down verdicts with their own dicks. You maybe know some secret about my birth that I don't?"
Contrary to his expectation that Eldmia would soon collapse to his knees, he held his stance and kept talking.
"I've already thought about and reached rough conclusions on every last thing you just said, you son of a bitch."
"What?"
"I've confirmed with my own two eyes that there are humans cooperating with Demonfolk, and I've confirmed that their relationships are that of colleagues. So naturally, that means somewhere in the Demonfolk Territory, humans and Demonfolk coexist normally. Which is to say, if the Kingdom surrenders, it might just amount to becoming part of the Demonfolk Territory. Isn't that what you bastards believed too, planning to bow your heads to the Demon King after the rebellion?"
Envelde didn't refute it. Instead, he simply glared at Eldmia with suspicious eyes.
"Knowing that, did you think I'd cooperate with you? That I'm hostile because I don't know? That I'm just some arrogant prick convinced I'm hot shit and can slice up Demonfolk? Spare me the bullshit, Envelde. I have never, not once in my entire fucking life, been arrogant. I just swing my sword at anyone who swings one at me. I'm not strutting around claiming I can kill someone who won't die from a blade; I'm just making noise about killing someone who very clearly will die if you stab 'em. How the fuck is that arrogant."
"You say that, even when you ended up like this because you couldn't gauge the enemy's skill?"
"Gauge? Heh, ah, fuck."
He wasn't just laughing to mock him. The fact that he seemed to be genuinely laughing was incomprehensible.
He could laugh? In a situation where if he pulled the sword out, he might bleed out and die within moments? He could see the bag that probably held a potion, but he had absolutely no intention of letting him get to it. Yet even though it was clear his situation was anything but relaxed, Eldmia genuinely laughed.
"Yeah, I get it. You guys go through life roughly knowing whether your opponent is stronger or not. But I've only lived a life where I can't know shit like that, so I don't give a damn. Still, I always prepare. This time, embarrassingly, I prepared and still got my ass beat, so I admit my ability was lacking and... fuck, the sword. I never expected him to grab it, so I admit my judgment was off too. I'll remember it well, and if I ever run into a bastard who uses something similar on me, I'll use that too. But I have never, not once, held the baseless belief that there wouldn't be a single person stronger than me when charging into some traitor prick's house."
"Sophistry. If you knew that, you should have run."
"Run? Ruuun?"
The laughter grew louder than before. And sounds of agony followed right after.
"A perfectly adequate performance-measuring tool conveniently shows up on its own, and why the hell would I run? Gotta experiment."
"Experiment?"
"What I'm capable of. Isn't that obvious? When a chance to fight a bunch of guys way weaker than your target appears, isn't running away the far stranger choice?"
It was a gaze so steeped in madness you'd never think it belonged to a man with a sword in his gut. Envelde felt it before he even realized it.
"My life's core premise is already fighting strong bastards. Annoying little shits keep picking fights on the road there, but I don't weigh strength before I lunge."
Gish had acted like he craved battle with the strong, but the reality was different. That guy wanted to fight the strong 'on the level of fellow humans.' That's why he never returned after leaving the battlefield, pursuing more fights against people and joining the rebellion.
But this bastard... wasn't like that.
Whether they'd harmed Eldmia or not was the only standard by which he judged the situation. And if they had, no matter how strong they were, he would bite back without fail.
That was why, even now, facing death in this very spot, he was still aiming for some unidentified Demonfolk who wasn't even here.
Bastards like this don't give up easily.
Amid an unidentifiable unease, Envelde pointed at the sword he'd stabbed in and spoke.
"And isn't this the result?"
"That a situation exactly as predicted—a sword flying at my gut—happened, and since there was absolutely no way to block it, I steeled myself mentally, dodged the vitals, and caught the sword with my body? Someone watching might actually think I'm dying."
That vicious smile Envelde had seen in front of the courthouse spread across Eldmia's face.
"If you wanted to kill me, you should've gone for the neck, you dumbass. It's you who dies because of that arrogance, Count Envelde da Bosha. When they ask who killed you and how, remember it well and answer... that you got killed by a technique called Sword Control."
At actions that could only be called madness, Envelde shook his head and closed the distance he'd opened. He deliberately took the hit and caught the sword with his body? Clearly, he lacked a proper sense of crisis.
"Then try to endure it, somehow."
Just as he was about to step forward to pull the sword out, Eldmia raised his left hand, the one holding the blade, up to his shoulder, clenched his fist, and said.
"...You got killed by a technique called Sword Control."
At the same moment, an intense pain suddenly tore into him from his back, ripping through his lungs.
"Wha—"
In the illusion that he'd heard a 'thud.'
Envelde could only stare with baffled eyes at the sword blade that had pierced diagonally through his left chest.
It was caked with clotted blood, but it was unmistakably Eldmia's sword, the one he'd knocked away.
◈
"Victory and defeat in battle aren't just about pure strength; variables play a part too, my child."
What I possessed.
A superior body, a sturdy sword, a magic-blocking gauntlet, a curse-blocking ring.
And Magic Power.
"Well, it's not your fault. How could you have predicted this? You're no prophet."
What I attempted while spouting all that bullshit was synchronization with the sword I'd had knocked away. I'd already had a hole put in my side once before, so I figured it'd be no big deal, but the burning sensation was different from that time, so it took longer than I thought.
Maybe thanks to the experience of linking with a living, breathing lifeform, connecting with just a sword was far easier. The only problem was figuring out how to launch it like an arrow.
Fortunately, that was simpler than expected too. Using the same sensation as physical enhancement, I applied reinforcement to the pommel, and it shot back at incredible speed, unable to contain the repulsive force.
Honestly, when Envelde walked over to the desk and the sword he'd deliberately sent flying entered his field of vision, I had a bit of a fright, but thanks to that, I could secure the potion, so now it was all good.
I moved my Magic Power and pulled out the sword embedded in his body. Envelde, who'd been staring at the blade now sprouting from the center of his chest as if he still couldn't comprehend it, spat out blood.
"Cough, h-how...?"
"You link up with the Magic Power inherent in the sword and manage it this way and that. You use aura, so you can't do it, though."
Watching blood spurt from the bastard's chest, I passed by Envelde without a care, picked up the potion from the desk, and drank. He might have pulled out a fake to psychologically torture me, but I had to at least try it.
Even in what had to be a highly confusing situation, Envelde correctly grasped the gist of my words.
"M-Magic Power? Magic Power...?"
Of course, I had no intention of humoring him.
A fear of the vast unknown, large enough to cover all emotions—panic, bewilderment, consternation—was etched on Envelde's face.
To the bastard who couldn't even think to lift a single finger and could barely turn his head to look at me, I answered flatly. After taking a gulp of the potion, I pulled the sword out of my own gut, set it aside, then sprinkled potion on the wound and kept talking.
An agony followed that the word 'stinging' couldn't fully describe, but it beat dying.
"It's unfair, but isn't that just how the world is? Just like you're a guy who tears shit up left and right for your goal of rebellion, I was just a guy who tears shit up left and right for my goal."
I could see Envelde's eyes growing cloudy. If only his chest had been pierced, he wouldn't have collapsed like that. Either a vital spot was hit, or his heart was damaged. Something must have connected properly.
In that case, it was certain he only had a few seconds left. So I wrapped it up simply.
"For the purpose of spreading the warning: never fucking touch Eldmia Ega. I told you last time, didn't I? The important thing is the message."
"For such... a reason... the great cause..."
"A criminal piece of shit who goes around slave-hunting dares talk about a great cause? Dying and becoming my warning sign is exactly your level."
Anyone listening would think he was the righteous one.
I didn't know if my last answer reached his ears, but Envelde crumpled to the ground just like that.