Chapter 120
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 120
Chapter Title: The Soul's Promotion Match
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Oil dripped from the blade in thick streams.
A brilliant idea often elevates humanity to a whole new level. Einstein did it, Edison did it. There are probably others, but I wouldn't know. Those were the only scientists I could name anyway.
Anyway, the Wright brothers.
The Wright brothers were the legendary siblings who turned humanity's dream of flying into reality. In short, Legend Brothers.
Obsessed beyond reason with the idea of wings that could soar through the skies, they poured their blood, sweat, and tears into creating the framework for the airplane—and then made it happen.
They lifted humanity to greater heights, not just figuratively, but literally.
However.
That also ushered in the age of aerial warfare. Humanity reached new heights, but by conquering the skies, its true nature plummeted into an endless abyss.
Fighter planes massacred people.
Bombers rained down explosives, slaughtering countless souls in droves.
Children screamed as they died under hails of bullets and bombs from above, while adults cried out to God before being reduced to ash.
Airplanes were humanity's sin incarnate.
Death itself, scattered from the heavens—a floating reaper. The Wright brothers never intended this, but groundbreaking ideas inevitably evolve into better ways to kill. Dynamite was much the same.
New technologies and ideas only truly shine when wielded violently.
Oh, Edison. Einstein. Wright brothers. Nobel.
Dripping down the blade wasn't just oil.
It was the tears of joy from scientists who laid the foundations of progress,
and the tears of war's countless victims, butchered by those innovations.
"Roel. Hit me with a Fire Bolt."
In that distant haze, I murmured softly.
"To the innocent victims of war... my condolences."
The blade gleamed stickily, soaked in oil. One touch of flame, and it would ignite. Perfect. Time for some fireplay after so long. Let's have some fun. No mother here to demand salt even if I pissed the bed.
My idea would blaze into destructive violence.
"Hurry up and fire! Fire Bolt!"
"...!"
Roel jumped at my shout, staring at me in shock.
Serka was dodging the dryads' attacks while spewing all sorts of nonsense. True to her shit-for-brains martial artist ways, all she knew was running, but her evasion was solid thanks to her training. Her whole body was already drenched in blood, though.
"What are you waiting for? Fire already, you fucking bitch!"
"Eek! I'm really gonna shoot!"
Shoot already, you idiot.
You'll miss anyway.
Roel leaped up, channeling mana. The air shimmered with heat. Magical flames gathered into a sphere, growing larger as the incantation built.
Soon, it swelled to the size of a baseball.
Roel glared at me. She thrust her staff forward—
—Whoosh!
The Fire Bolt hurtled toward me.
"Play ball."
Memories of baseball flooded back. As a boy, I was a pretty decent hitter among friends. Well, "decent" only counted locally—I was useless in real games, just a kid who loved the sport.
I loved baseball.
Hitting the ball felt better than anything.
Watching fly balls, I dreamed of being a pro.
But.
What shattered that dream? My own limits.
I swung the bat.
Swung and swung again.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hit properly. Monster pitchers from rival schools. Ghostly curveballs from upperclassmen. Physically impossible for a kid like me.
Couldn't match their power or skill.
So I quit baseball.
Changed the channel whenever it came on TV,
and got beaten by my dad for it.
Baseball was my childhood dream—and my hatred.
Hatred.
—Whoosh!
The fireball rushed in.
Mana, the incomprehensible source of power.
The blazing Fire Bolt reminded me of a baseball—the one I couldn't hit, the one that crushed my dreams.
"But why is it..."
Now, it looked so small.
Small enough that I could surpass it.
Strength surged into my arms.
"Cleanup hitter stepping up."
—Fwoosh!
The baseball approached.
The pitcher's skill made it slow yet impossibly erratic. I gripped my bat. No—my sword.
Stance set.
Breath in.
Eyes sharp.
Torso twisted.
"Now."
—Swing.
The fiery orb. I slashed through it like a home run. Karin's swordsmanship wasn't shallow. It was the essence of darkness, cleaving life itself. Trained shoulders and forearms channeled perfect power into the honest blade.
In that frozen moment.
—The fireball split in two.
"Sliced it."
Time resumed—Boom! An explosion roared. Heat washed over me, but the severed Fire Bolt was just flames now. The mana dispersed on detonation.
—Fwoooosh!
The flames reignited.
"Flame Magic Swordsman—Kim Katt."
Fire enchanted my blade.
The blaze devoured the oil, becoming infernal flames that engulfed my sword. Like Elise's buff, the edge burned with primal fury. Yes. The oil was for this.
"Descent."
Surpassing my boyhood self, I awakened fully. I eyed the dryad beating on Serka. She looked back—eyes wide with fear. Plants fear fire, after all.
One step.
Two steps.
Three.
I exploded forward at the dryad. My flaming blade traced sharp afterimages in the air. A symbolic strike—appeasing war victims while proving science leads to victory.
—Shaaa!
The terrified dryad dodged.
"Weak."
Bushes grew where she fled. My flame sword mercilessly incinerated them. The dryad recoiled in horror. "Come on." I taunted, swinging again. Petals burned; severed grass ignited midair.
Do you know wildfire's terror?
The all-consuming fire demon dwelled in my blade now.
—Shat, shaaa!
Unable to watch longer, the dryad charged. Vengeful assault for her kin. But plants can't beat flames. A diagonal slash, and she flinched away.
"Come at me, honorable warrior of the plants. Stand for your kin and face me."
Utterly exhilarated, I spewed nonsense while slashing wildly. Deadly serious in this moment. Victory was certain. So enjoy it earnestly.
Confidence and pride swelled uncontrollably.
—Shat!
"Slow."
Vines sprouted from the ground, lunging with her.
I severed them. They burned. Centrifugal force slashed the dryad. With fire damage added, she faltered, caught in my rhythm.
—Sha, shaa! Shaaa!
Her body singed as she barely evaded. Now! Her steps tangled—I unleashed flaming slashes. Blades traced arcs, burning flowers, cleaving air. The dryad screamed.
Monster cries always sound like outdated jazz—pleasing.
"Pathetic."
I pressed her retreat.
Then.
"Ahh!"
Overwhelmed by heat, her plant coverings crumbled, revealing massive breasts. They jiggled free. Remarkably, nipples on a plant—nature's mystery.
I couldn't hide my shock.
"Y-You fucking slut! Using seduction mid-battle? No warrior's pride, you?"
Furious beyond endurance, I roared.
Unbelievable. This was an honorable duel. Warriors staking lives, loser becomes fertilizer, winner glorified.
Yet she unveils her chest—man's weakness—to cloud my eyes. Sneaky, contemptuous.
Trashed warrior honor like garbage.
Reduced me to a lust-blind trash heap.
—Sha, shaa...
The dryad steadied. Heavy breasts swayed with gravity. Sway, sway. Hypnotic. Disgusting. Seduction plus hypnosis.
"You fucking bitch, still at it?!"
Unimaginable rage erupted.
I'll carve off those nightmare tits.
I'm a breast abuser, after all.
"Dinner's dryad tit steak tonight!"
Couldn't forgive her mockery of a warrior.
Seducing with tits in a life-or-death slaughter? Stunning fairy-like dryad, but I'm not swayed by lust in battle.
Cloudy's a hundred times prettier anyway.
Breasts aside.
"Raaah!!!"
Half-mad, I charged berserkly.
Proven armor ignored her attacks. Sword still burned, but time was short—seconds left. All-in now.
—Whoosh!
Full power and skill in the thrust.
Half-charred dryad, stats plummeted. Advanced relentlessly, wrapping arms, twisting wrists for combos. Grimacing in flame pain, she barely parried with claws or twisted away.
—Shaaak!
Finally, a solid hit.
Blade shattered claws, shredded hand. Expected blood—none. What? Structure? Puzzled, I thrust leg forward, twisted tip toward her chest.
Pfuk. Blade sank, fire snuffed. Her knees buckled. I yanked free, raised high, smashed down full force.
—Slash!
Dryad bisected. Unsatisfying cut... like hollow inside. Doubt cleared instantly. Split halves fluttered like leaves in wind, crumbling.
—Whirl.
Half blackened, scorched; rest scattered skyward. Dryad's end.
Astonishingly, no loot.
"No fucking way. Seriously?"