Chapter 284
Chapter 284
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 284
Chapter Title: One Empire, Three Legends
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“Lathura.... Echo Maria....”
“Block her. Don’t let the light that abandoned us reach Him....”
Beings whose faces had melted down to the skin, their features twisted together in a frenzy of ecstasy, despair, and rage, lunged toward me.
*Thwack!*
Despite their shambling movements, these things packed a decent punch.
In my prime, I could shatter castle walls with a single fist—feeling that recoil meant they had that level of strength and durability.
‘If this keeps up.... there’s no end in sight!’
Not hyperbole—this really felt like battling these melted zombies here for centuries wouldn’t bring it to a close.
Because they were cursed wraiths who’d escaped the boundary between life and death. Deprived of true death, their souls lingered, clumsily reassembling piles of flesh into approximations of their living forms—monsters driven by restless spirits.
No living creature could die like that, so no matter how much I smashed and pulverized them, new piles would clump together again. The purple sanctity of Echo Maria, dark as the night sky, granted them the defense of a knight in full plate.
....Yeah. Just plate-armor knight level. With thousands of these cursed masses moving as one, it was like toppling a small hill of iron. Not impossible for me right now, but—
*Crunch.*
“These fucking bastards!!!!”
From within the waves of flesh, every time I unleashed a full-power strike, spears and blades slipped in without a sound to disrupt it.
Silent attacks carrying no weight at all.
Not even fast, no aura or energy—just spear tips creeping in slyly. The moment one emerged from the flesh piles and grazed my arm loaded with raw force—
*Splatter!*
“Guh....!”
A needle-prick stung, and my arm twisted in an unnatural direction before exploding.
[It’s a reversal curse! The witch’s holy knights twist a portion of your power’s direction through physical contact! Don’t go all out on your attacks! It’ll rebound right back at you!]
Professor was on the verge of losing it at Aldrich’s frantic explanation.
Endlessly swarming from all sides: annoyingly tough melted wraiths.
The witch’s malign aura growing more refined by the second.
The moment he tried to push through with real power, those cursed holy knights lurking in the wraiths’ midst stabbed in like they’d been waiting—spears that turned your own strength against you upon contact, clashing mid-limb and blowing arms and legs apart. An inescapable quagmire.
He’d faced all sorts of tough foes in Gedroits’s Game, but none made combat this unfair, frustrating, and downright filthy!
Immortal hordes pressing in with numbers, but any attack strong enough to repel them got blocked by ambushers gunning solely for curse counters! Drag this out, and defeat was certain!
His only hope was the soul mage—Aldrich, Nell, and he were devouring the cursed spirits themselves to carve out some space....
[No spare capacity to help there! Maintaining Notum’s ‘exit’ is our limit! That’s the only reason we’re holding on—if this witch’s tower seals into a closed space, we all become part of the curse! Not just our strength—our gaze, blood, even thoughts will reverse and lock us in place!]
Even that was barely contained thanks to Aldrich.
Ottman was pouring everything into probing and suppressing the tower’s core to halt its relentless growth. Notum and Aldrich held the ‘exit.’ Professor was fully entangled in the enemy’s defensive mechanisms, mobility zero.
‘....Guess I have to charge in recklessly again.’
One final possibility lingered.
Unleash a full-power strike without holding back, tank the counter completely, and shatter the wraith waves in one blow.
Problem was, that went beyond accepting damage—it turned him into a living bomb hurled into the enemy heart.
Matching his unrivaled physical attack power head-on.
The dilemma had long shifted past “Will I have strength left to fight the witch?” to “Can I even survive this stunt?” But staying put meant defeat. No choice but to go for it.
‘Hide, switch with me if I lose consciousness.’
[Got it.]
Full-power charge. Even that was no picnic—the ground he needed to kick off from was blanketed in cursed flesh, sinking deep and absorbing all rebound.
But he had something solid to grab onto.
With a light leap as the wraith wall closed in, Professor thrust his fist forward with all his might.
In that head-to-toe focus, his fist extended toward the wraiths’ tangled flesh in slow motion.
*Slide—*
There, amid it all, a blade overgrown with veins crept in silently.
An attack not at full power. He could dodge the reversal-cursed spear now, but Professor didn’t pull back.
*Crunch—*
The spear tip’s sensation hit once more, and—
*Crack!*
Not full force, but his fist carrying solid power rebounded straight through his arm.
Recoil. The very thing he’d craved here, where he couldn’t even stomp the ground for a strong swing—to blast enemies away in one hit!
“Hrngh!”
Muscles exploding from fingertip to shoulder, he slammed down on the rebounding attack surging through his bones.
Like using that fully extended punch as a launch— in that split-second equilibrium of reversal force meeting downward arm strength. A foothold for the next strike!
“Counter launch, you fuckers!!!!”
Stomping the ground like a springboard, the clashing forces propelled his body forward.
Right arm downward, so the force skewed sideways.
His spinning body tore through the air with a whistling roar, hurtling into the flesh wall.
Mid-air spin gathered first strike’s remnants and full power into his toes, aura flames igniting between split skin.
Like a blazing giant hammer, the rotational tip’s force shredded air as it plunged into the wraith wall.
“Get the fuck out of my wayyyyyy!!!!”
*Boom!*
The wraith wave, kicked like a monster’s leg, erupted as if bombed.
.
.
.
.
.
*Drip. Plop plop.*
“Hahk, hahk! Cough.... Blech!”
Right arm: compound fracture to the shoulder.
Left leg: exploded from toe to near-hip, no trace left.
Professor steadied his churning guts from the shock, quickly assessing the aftermath.
Arm and leg not severed—vaporized. Regen: about 30 seconds.
Raining down like from the sky: fragments of the wraith wave shredded by his kick.
A warped hole punched in the once-indistinguishable wraith wall.
And.
“Cough, urk.... This is why I hate guys who don’t think about dying....”
In the explosion’s moment—unlike before—a cursed spear had stabbed deep, skewering him.
“We.... won’t be.... abandoned.... again....”
“We won’t.... let you.... repeat the tragedy.... of this world....”
*Crunch. Crunch.*
Using the exploded wraiths’ flesh as shields, the barely surviving cursed holy knights.
“Fucking tough.... Cough! Holy knights wielding curses and sanctity at once.... You serious....”
Even Echo Maria’s endlessly reviving masses couldn’t easily recover from outsider forces like Edon-equivalent aura damage—the scattered flesh clumps repeatedly merged and shattered. But it was only a matter of time.
Both sides crippled, if those cursed holy knights stalled even a little longer, everything reset, trapping him in the quagmire again.
‘Gotta clear those bastards and break out.... Only then can I do anything....’
Something burrowed into his pierced chest wound, taking root. Wraith corpses flung like grenade shrapnel from his attack. Streams of water trickled from the hole they’d punched in the tower wall; faint message spells chimed, saying something.
*Squelch, crack crack!*
“Grahhh!”
*Splurt!*
Yanking out the spear already devouring part of his chest tore away a chunk of flesh. Curse roots sprouted; the hard-won hole began sealing. Purple-sanctity holy knights. Somehow, somehow—just them. Before the witch’s star completed. Drain their power here. Delay even a second.
Time.
Time.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*Crackle. Zzt—*
That was the moment. As Professor raised himself on knees just regenerated to that point, a small spark flared before him.
From the hole in the witch’s tower, inward. Irregular threads of sparks connecting.
『Cal—』
The raspy voice that had chilled him spine-to-skull just by starting, intoning the grand spell targeting him.
『Blue Lightning』
*Kraaack!*
At the spark’s end—through the shrinking hole in the tower—a faint flying silhouette unleashed a barrage of blue lightning onto the cursed holy knights’ heads, searing and ripping the sealing hole wide.
Visible through the clear gap: a bearded elder.
“Omm.... No wonder the winds felt unlucky.... Guess I ran into the homewrecker....”
The lightning mage who called himself the second-deepest wind on Storm Hill: Galrud of the Tempest.
“Muto, Muto!!! Hurry up and get down here to escort the elder! This guy gets dementia-like every time he casts!”
“Yes, sir! Coming now!”
“Servant! Bring my dictionary too!”
Another elder appeared behind him, face brimming with stubborn arrogance. More followed.
All faces Professor recognized—or had heard rumors of.
Arched brows like inverted blades, piercing eyes, ornate imperial judge robes, a battered thick tome. And his ever-present servant. Head of the Imperial Supreme Court, nemesis of all mages, ‘Hall of Reason’: Duke Glen and servant Muto.
*Slash!*
*Clang!*
“Sword houses traditionally stay out of imperial throne wars, but this crosses the line. Scarrad, you may hold an empty duke title, but prepare excuses fit for Duke Glen’s presence.”
“Look at this. Hack their necks clean, and they wouldn’t crawl back with lingering regrets. Dukes or whatever— as executioner sanctioned by the first emperor, I just properly send the doomed off. That’s it. Never minded whose eyes were on me doing my job.”
Leaping from their contraption, they cleaved cursed knights and lopped heads in a flash.
Master of masters. Current head of House Schwartz. The swordsman called Great Master: Sword Sage Dyke Schwartz.
The living undead. Last mercy for the condemned: Executioner Scarrad.
“A curse tree mimicking Mother Tree’s form? Blasphemous and pathetic, for worldly refuse.”
He bore a true world tree branch that dispersed surrounding curses just by drawing it—clad in woven grass and bark, face impassive with utter contempt: the pure elf best known to players, Moonlight Gatekeeper Taurea.
And finally.
“Somehow, you look like another part of you’s gone missing each time I see you.”
“You....! The others, fine—but how are you here?”
“The winds whispered it. Good to see you, Professor.”
His wind-fluttering robe slipped back, revealing another mage’s face.
The lingering wind. Touched by wind’s gaze, granted eternal stay on Storm Hill by their consensus. Elected unanimously as their homeland’s representative mage.
Fourth-tone mage guided by the seven winds.
Astrad Delhast.
One by one, the empire’s famed, pinnacle hero units revealed themselves.
Astrad gazed up at the crimson giant blotting the sky, gathering a small breeze.
Then, atop that wind, he floated an ancient vow.
“Storm Hill repays the debt lost by Wind Archduke Felix to the emperor.”
“House Schwartz upholds its eternal oath so long as the name endures.”
“Heh heh heh.... Stray dog Scarrad.... lived solely for this day....”
“The forest branch remembers man-emperor’s promise.”
“Read it, Muto.”
“Yes, sir! Er.... Chief Justice Glen.... to fill the final blank page of the oldest code....”
As green winds passed each, the heroes voiced their ancient pacts.
With each utterance’s power swelling, golden waters filled the green wind’s core.
Small but so condensed even the focused witch would glance back. Beneath the crimson star like a glaring eye, Duke Glen’s face soured at the incomplete vow.
“Five.... two short? Hey, storm lunatic manager. Count one as Him, where’s the last? Someone skip out midway?”
Astrad, stroking a hole in his staff at Duke Glen’s words—whistling faintly leaking—passed the vow onward, flustered, saying.
“This is the place. Didn’t expect her as the final vow-bearer myself.”
‘....Her?’
With that, Astrad shot Professor a cryptic glance.
As Professor puzzled it out, a large hand lifted him from the cursed-corpse floor.
“Ah, thanks. Notum.”
“....”
“Notum?”
Notum, who’d held the tower’s curse imperfect via ritual at the entrance. Her ritual tattoos aglow, she reached for the vow vessel from Astrad.
“....Sorceress, bramble-eyed Agtak. Body returned to earth, soul mere trace. But borrowing descendant’s flesh, answers old friend’s call.”
*Whoosh!*
With ritual flames blooming from Notum’s fingertips, golden waters finally filled the vow vessel.
‘Bramble-Eyed Agtak. Red eyes. Sorceress.... Grand Sorceress of Red Eyes! One of Notum’s ancestral spirits! The empire summons what it needs! My god!’
Notum’s ancestral spirit—one of them—had borrowed her impossibly talented descendant’s body to voice the ancient promise.
“All ancient vows gathered. Muto! Open the book! Now!”
“Yes, sir!”
Duke Glen reached for the final page his quick servant displayed in the code—now bearing golden script where nothing had been.
[Survive. And thus, prosper.]
The vow the first emperor spoke when imperial skies parted.
....*Rip!*
Hesitating uncharacteristically, the duke sighed once—then tore out the empire’s first edict, the page of 500-year bondage.
Thick code crumbled; crumpled paper scattered golden dust, reforming as a quill in his grip.
Quill to pen new law. Ink of ancient vows.
Preparation complete, Duke Glen tucked the vow-laden quill carefully away and turned to Professor.
“Hey, you wreck. What now?”
“....Me?”
Professor blankly echoed, never expecting the question here.
“Yeah, you! The guy in ill-fitting judge robes!”
“Why ask me?”
The sword sage who’d bisected the curse tower in one stroke before his eyes—empire legend, master of masters Dyke Schwartz. The gaunt elder who’d separated witch holy knights’ heads from torsos in a blink: Executioner Scarrad, top-five monster in raw power across three worlds.
The questioner himself: Chief Justice Duke Glen. Master debater who cornered mages on personal biases, dismantling contradictions with airtight logic to strip their magic.
Astrad aside, even the elf was the true forest elves’ gatekeeper. Not one inferior—why hand reins to him?
“....Because we’re all bound here by musty pasts.”
Duke Glen answered Professor’s question calmly.
“We’re drawn by past-tied power. The witch’s too—an old thing risen from history—so it stands to reason we counter with ours. But ultimately, the witch transcends past into present existence. Ending it.... must fall to one living in this era. Otherwise, no closure.”
“Past and present....”
“Now you get it—decide quick. What to do, and how.”
*Boom—!*
Mid Duke Glen’s words, Scarrad’s felled curse tower crashed. Clinging masses shattered at the core by Ottman’s water jets, the malign skyscraper toppled. Simultaneously, corpses rained from the malign aura, piling dozens of new towers.
Hoped-for reinforcements. Choice handed to him. Endless attrition unfolding.
“Send me up there.”
“Up.... ready?”
“Going up to get ready.”
Professor glanced where Aldrich had gone quiet.
The wedge. Herald of this grand story’s start, declaring himself witch’s nemesis from the outset.
If the empire’s tale had its protagonist, the witch-prepared story’s was him from the beginning.
Hands clasped with Nell in prayer-like chant, preparing an unknowable incantation.
Aldrich’s power lay not in physical force but uniqueness—Professor’s role was getting him to the witch.
Professor nodded; the skeletal elder swinging his axe approached.
Baring blackened teeth in a grin, Scarrad offered his broad axe face.
“Climb on. Fresh meat.... brace your hips tight..... heh heh heh....”
That was it. No wind-up, no power focus.
*Whoosh!*
Defying physics, the axe swung clean—Professor’s body rocketed skyward, skin rippling from sheer speed.
Up close, into ever more horrific malign aura.
Beyond, to where the witch waited.
Watching Professor shrink to a dot, Duke Glen murmured quietly.
“Three legends gathered to part imperial skies. Fitting their finale unites as three.”
Their domain wasn’t above, so Glen turned from the sky—to cursed masses piling on the ground.
As past heroes, their role: bar past-summoned evil from that final fight.
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