A Nightmare Spilling from the West
A Nightmare Spilling from the West
"Charge!"
Five knights, aura blazing around them, raised their cavalry lances and rushed forward. The ground cratered with every step they took, and by the third step, already at maximum acceleration, their charge carried a destructive power incomparable to that of mounted cavalry.
No matter how confident one was in their own skill, avoiding a situation where you had to simultaneously deal with attacks that well-prepared was the correct choice. Knights who had spent years fighting the Demonfolk and honing their teamwork were experts at producing results greater than the sum of their parts. Finding an opening in an assault coordinated down to the very rhythm of their breathing was no easy task.
But even though he recognized their approach, Irap couldn't make a decision easily.
There was only one reason. The reaction Eldmia had shown the moment he voiced his conclusion was simply too shocking.
Unless he had grasped the context in that brief instant and was putting on an act specifically to rattle him, that was real. As that judgment settled in, a single question dominated Irap's mind.
Did the command staff know about this?
'Right now there was no way to know, but probably not.'
The details of the operation carried out years ago were top secret even within the Demon King's Army, so Irap hadn't fully grasped them either.
Now he had risen to the position of division commander, but back then he was nothing more than a centurion. Even as a successful soldier, he was far removed from covert units and operations. Even learning that such an operation had existed was something he'd overheard by chance long after becoming a division commander. Retracing those circumstances, those within the Demon King's Army who knew about it would be extremely few.
At most, what was known was that there had been an operation to retrieve a relic from a demon god's temple located in what used to be Demonfolk territory. But even that was little more than rumor, so what was recovered, what processes were involved, how they managed to move in secret—it was all vague and unclear.
Except for one thing. That they had annihilated a Human Race village.
"...It seems you'll have to die here after all."
To ensure no one ever learned what the Demon King's Army had aimed for, that small nearby village had to be erased from the map.
That was all that was known, but it was more than enough to make Irap reach his decision.
"I hold no personal grudge. A soldier must follow orders, isn't that right."
The very purpose of the massacre was to maintain secrecy, so the mere fact that a survivor had lived until now was a grave problem in itself.
If he let him live only to lose him and a clue about that operation was found, what would become of those members of the Human Race—not even soldiers—who had to be slaughtered for secrecy, and of those who had to endure the guilt of that slaughter through loyalty alone?
Even if it was hypocrisy and self-satisfaction, as one who bore a portion of responsibility for the Demon King's Army, cutting Eldmia's life short here was the only courtesy he could show the already deceased people of an enemy nation.
Even if he hadn't participated in that operation, he was one who led this protracted war, and thus he bore that responsibility.
"For the Demon King's Army and for those who have already died... die here."
He hurled the broken javelin at the knights with all his strength. That alone wasn't enough to stop those charging in with the resolve to die, but it could create the slightest distortion. For some, they dodged by a hair's breadth; for others, they skillfully let their armor deflect it. But for Irap, it was gap enough.
He stomped the ground with his leg, creating cracks and disorder. Charging straight in, Irap's hands and feet raged like a storm, shoving aside the lance of the one who was—by the slightest margin—leading the charge to create an opening, then crumpling the knights' armor.
-Crunch!
Each individual blow was a killing strike, but the knights' armor was sturdy enough to grant its wearer a brief reprieve, and the knights, the moment they realized they couldn't withstand it, threw their bodies to mitigate the impact as much as possible, thus escaping death.
As a price, two lances ended up in Irap's hands in perfectly usable condition, but the knights believed in Eldmia, whose deeds had made him known as a miracle worker.
With his skill, even this short instant was unmistakably an 'opening.'
"Listen to this fucker spouting off with his goddamn nonsense. You piece of shit."
And Eldmia did not betray their trust.
"It is you who will die for those who have already died!"
At a speed that could rival the charge the knights had just demonstrated, Eldmia rushed in, and from all directions, needles and severed javelin shafts flew toward Irap.
◈
A person couldn't achieve awakening through anger.
Well... you might momentarily display superhuman strength, but if the guy you're facing was someone you could kill just by using that once, you'd have already chopped his limbs off and started interrogating him. If I could awaken through anger, I would've awakened a hundred times over and become a god by now, so you could say this has been scientifically proven.
The only things that can make a person strong were always repetition, mastery, adaptability, and talent. The shittiness that anger triggered instead became an obstacle to rational thought and only increased the odds of getting killed.
But the thing is, even if you rationally knew that fact, there were times when you just got fucking furious.
For example, when the bastard who was the perpetrator suddenly told you to die for the sake of my parents and the people of my village who had died unjustly, or something like that.
"Eat shit and die, you fucking bastard!"
I didn't know about other things, but that, I couldn't tolerate. It was an insult. Even though there were too many things I needed to find out to kill him, it was so insulting that the word 'kill' just came out.
Not stopping at just throwing needles and javelin shafts, I accelerated the attacks by detonating Magic Power at their tails, the same method I'd used when I threw my sword at Envelde. They were definitely fast. If even Water Buffalo Horn—who had been handling the knights without so much as looking at them—had to move his eyes around to track the attacks and swing his weapons, then they'd done their job as a feint.
Now all that was left was to trust what the spirit had told me after I dealt with those orc bastards, and push myself.
The moment I became conscious of it, Magic Power began rampaging like mad inside my Magic Organ.
Was it because it had become a bit more stably established since then? The sensation of resistance as I used Magic Power, feeling almost like pouring oil into an open fuel cap, was barely at the level of receiving an antibiotic injection in a blood vessel.
It was a sensation similar to when I'd split Siegfried's greatsword at the academy, but maybe because of the sheer volume of Magic Power I was drawing, even my muscles and skin were tingling and numb.
But unlike that relatively negligible resistance, my movements and the sword I swung were sharper than ever.
"Hup!"
Water Buffalo Horn quickly crossed the two lances like short spears to block my attack, but it was a futile gesture. I had cut through Magic-Armament Alloy—what reason would there be for me not to be able to cleave a Human Race weapon?
But the bastard, having already experienced it once, must have anticipated this. Instead of aiming to block my attack, he attempted a counterattack of a seriously deranged nature—using the severed cross-section of his weapon in that brief instant it was being cut, pushing against my sword.
-CLANG!
If this were a game, it would be like attempting a parry with literally frame-perfect timing. The thought that once I grew to a level on par with him, I might be able to pull off bullshit like this too, and the thought that this was fucking bullshit, both flickered through my mind simultaneously.
And faster than those thoughts, my foot, swung out on pure reflex, shot toward the bastard's solar plexus.
-Bang!
"Ghk!"
"Fuck!"
Was his armor Magic-Armament Alloy too? Even with Magic Power wrapped around it and iron plates driven into the boot, it hurt so much I wondered if my toe bones had broken instead. Fortunately, the bastard couldn't properly respond to this surprise attack either and flinched hard, otherwise I, the one attacking, would've nearly left an opening instead.
Yeah, trading blows like this, showing openings once in a while—that's what gave it humanity and real feeling, right?
"Long live the damn Silver Eagle Independent Combat Brigade!"
For our team, that is.
Even wearing that massive iron club and armor, Ranje, who came charging in nimbly like an actual squirrel, swung her weapon at Water Buffalo Horn's head with a battle cry. The reason she acted like that, even though common sense dictated shutting up and attacking quietly, was simple. She wasn't confident her attack would land, so she was drawing aggro to set up a pincer attack.
The problem was that while it was just me and Ranje currently engaged with Water Buffalo Horn, the bastard had more than enough skill to keep both of us in check simultaneously.
With no time to even be grateful that what was in his hands were lances with only their shafts left, his disgustingly fast attacks spread out toward both sides.
Naturally, the moment my sword, swung in anticipation of Ranje's attack not connecting, cut off the bastard's lance shaft again, I was parried. Ranje's iron club, which had been coming down to crush the shaft he was holding, had its trajectory forcibly diverted just when it was about to pulverize his hand.
It didn't end there. In a flash, he spun his body, launching a spinning back kick at me and throwing the remaining shaft that I'd cut off at Ranje like a dagger, forcing us to naturally open the distance against him.
Was this bastard at a level where you could call it Body-Spear Unity by now? It was clear he hadn't just mastered javelins—his entire art of the short spear had reached the pinnacle.
Just as I was about to lunge back in, since I had no idea what he'd pull if we stayed at range.
-Fwoom-boom!
"Ghaak?!"
Three arrows formed of flame simultaneously lodged themselves into the bastard's breastplate—left open from throwing his weapon at Ranje and kicking at me—and detonated upon impact.
They were threatening enough that even I flinched slightly, so I turned my head to see who had helped with a surprise attack at such perfect timing. In the distance, above her head, Ragnis was rotating what looked like over a dozen flame arrows in a circle, her spear and shield aimed directly at Water Buffalo Horn.
"I'm joining the fray!"
The sight of her raising her round shield, engraved with a laurel and shield crest, and swinging her banner-lance to command her magic, was honestly more badass than I'd ever seen her.