Chapter 191: White Lion
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 191: White Lion
Audin was quite literally toying with the manticore.
He made the high-grade beast look pathetic, doing nothing more than backhanding it across the face whenever it tried to snap at him.
The battered manticore tucked its tail and slunk backward, a low growl vibrating in its throat. Grrr.
Its sharp teeth, clumps of shed fur, and dark blue blood were scattered across the stone ground.
As the manticore retreated, Audin gestured with his hand, his smile as benevolent as ever. "It is time to go, Brother Monster."
His tone was gentle, but the words were a death sentence.
The manticore drew one paw back. Anyone could see it was terrified, looking as if it would bolt at any second. Most of the watching soldiers thought it was about to flee, but not Audin.
The manticore was a high-grade monster—an incredibly cunning beast.
It backed away, only to suddenly spring forward in a surprise attack, completely devoid of presence or sound. It thrust with its unsheathed claws while its tail whipped down fiercely from above.
Having anticipated the move, Audin deflected the forepaw first, then snatched the tail out of the air. Using the beast's own momentum against it, he slammed it into the ground with the force of a shoulder throw.
Crash!
A deafening boom echoed through the night.
Groan!
A pained, wet wheeze escaped the manticore. It was a high-grade monster, a beast capable of slaughtering an entire company on its own, but its opponent was simply too overwhelming.
As it hit the ground, stone fragments sprayed in all directions. The startled soldiers had now practically turned into a cheering squad.
"Nice!"
"Whoa!"
"You madman!"
Why someone threw "madman" in there was anyone's guess, though it wasn't inaccurate.
Audin walked over to the dazed manticore and slapped its face a few more times. After thrashing the monster into submission, he suddenly straddled its back, grabbed its neck, and snapped it backward with a sickening crack.
The manticore's snake-like tongue lolled out. Its eyes rolled back, and with one final, faint breath, it collapsed. Its forehead hit the ground with a heavy thud.
The high-grade monster that had been getting slapped silly was now a highly valuable corpse. Everything from its teeth to its hide and organs was worth a fortune.
"What the hell are you?"
A voice filled with utter disbelief came from the side—the opposite direction of the soldiers. With Audin in the center, the soldiers were to his right, and the voice came from his left.
"I did not think such a monster would come alone. From where have you come, Brother?"
Audin stood up from the manticore's back, the moonlight silhouetting his massive frame.
Where his words were directed, atop the gallery at the edge of the wall, stood a cultist who had slipped up there unnoticed.
Audin had expected this. He had to. High-grade monsters were clever and intelligent; charging blindly at a human-made fortress was a stupidity that did not suit a manticore. Especially attacking to the bitter end even after being beaten like that? It made no sense—unless it was driven by extreme hunger.
But even then, it had kept attacking until the very end, despite Audin leaving openings that would have easily allowed it to slip away. This meant someone was controlling it.
Audin had been waiting for that controller to show themselves. That was why he had dragged out the fight. The moment he sensed the controller's presence, he had killed the manticore. It had outlived its usefulness.
"How dare you!"
A bluish light shimmered in the eyes of the shouting man. Audin recognized it instantly. It was the mark of a cult.
For he was a servant of God, and he knew his enemy.
"So you are a brother who serves a cult," he murmured softly.
Among his days spent as an Inquisitor, there had been many times like this—days spent hunting down and breaking cultists.
The blue-eyed cultist raised his hand. It was in the middle of that very motion, while the soldiers were too stunned to speak, that Audin saw his opening.
Boom!
Audin vanished. Or so it seemed. Launching himself off the ground, his body closed the distance even faster than the manticore had.
Bang!
A roar distinct from the sound of his launch erupted. To the soldiers, all they saw was a mass of flesh flying to one side and slamming into the wall. It was a twitching heap, fingers spasming in the air—now nothing but a corpse.
"May God watch over us," Audin's voice echoed faintly as he recited a prayer alone.
Where the soldiers' gazes landed, there stood a bear-sized monster of a man, frozen in a pose with his right fist extended.
Audin of the Mad Platoon. A member of the unit rumored to soon become an independent company.
The soldiers hadn't even been able to properly register Audin's strike. The event had simply occurred, leaving only the aftermath. Audin brought his hands together from his extended fist posture, returning to his usual, calm self.
The soldiers examined the mass that had been sent flying. They saw a broken body slumped against the gallery wall. Something was missing from the half-crushed torso. It was empty above the neck.
"Where did his head go?"
No one knew. The only certainty was that this crazy religious fanatic had erased a man from the face of the earth with a single punch. The blood sprayed radially across the gallery wall was proof enough.
"...I literally just pissed myself," one soldier whispered. The smell of urine began to waft from between his legs.
Because they hadn't seen the strike clearly, it was all the more terrifying. How could such a human even exist?
The dead manticore and the cultist—most of the soldiers couldn't even fully grasp the situation. At least a platoon leader, who had climbed up to the gallery late, began to take control.
"An ambush—wait, you neutralized them? Judging by the commotion outside, it seems more of them have arrived, so everyone head down and support—"
"There is no need, Brother."
Audin, who had been staring blankly down from the wall after his prayer, spoke.
"Huh?"
"It is nearing its end."
In Audin's eyes, his company commander was visible, fighting below. He had known from their past sparring sessions, but seeing his company commander in actual combat was different.
You have grown even stronger, Brother.
In the way he moved his body and swung his sword, Audin could see things that hadn't been there before. Confidence, along with faith—things of that nature. For anyone who knew how he had been at the start, it was a truly astronomical leap in progress.
He couldn't help but feel pleased. He had simply come to wish for the man's success.
Your servant asks: Is this Your will? Did You guide him?
His Lord still did not answer. However, he didn't necessarily need an answer anymore. Audin, too, had gained a small realization here. And its beginning had been through Encrid.
To demand an answer is proof of my weakness. I shall move forward without seeking proof, without doubt.
There was a man living exactly like that down there. A human who overcame hardships, unyielding to anything, in accordance with the words of the holy scriptures. How could watching such a person not bring joy?
Audin had hoped for blessings upon Encrid, who was burning away his own life. But Encrid was seizing those blessings for himself as he forged ahead. Therefore, while he would pray for him, he no longer needed to beg God for anything on his behalf.
"Good."
Wondering what was so "good," the platoon leader blinked at the bear of a man. But did they really not need to go down? Still unable to ignore the commotion outside, he moved his feet anyway. Heading down, he saw a soldier with a hole in his stomach and another with blood pouring from his thigh.
"That guy is a spy," said the soldier clutching his stomach. He was pressing down hard on his abdomen with his own clothes to stop the bleeding.
The platoon leader spoke to the soldier who had followed behind him. "Secure him."
After taking custody of the spy Encrid had left behind, the platoon leader peered out of the open side gate. It was a fight that hadn't been clearly visible from atop the wall. There, he saw a single man slashing and stabbing a group of black-clad figures to death.
It was a very familiar face. The most famous figure in the Border Guard right now—none other than the Mad Platoon Leader.
*
The Black Sword Bandits were losing their minds. Especially Dunchabel—this was a first-time experience for her.
"A knight? No, an Order Knight?" Dunchabel spoke, her hand resting on her scimitar. Was this opponent just too bad of a matchup? Or had they come here completely blind?
Five of those who had come with her were already corpses. Two had had their legs severed. Even if a high priest came and poured divine power into them right this instant, they were destined to be cripples. Of course, not only would such a priest never come, but even if one did, there was no way they would bestow divine power on bandits. They were bound to be disabled—and that was only if they were lucky. Judging by the blood loss, they would be dead in moments anyway.
The opponent who had brought about this situation could be seen turning his sword over, examining it front and back, and giving a slight nod. He didn't even pretend to hear her words. He exuded an air of leisure.
"What the hell are you, really?" Dunchabel asked in disbelief.
Encrid merely shrugged his shoulders. Unless he was going to explain to a person full of murderous intent that his dream was to be a knight and that he wasn't one yet, he had nothing to say.
More than that, Encrid examined the blade. It cuts incredibly well.
He had swung the sword with the intention of slashing a thigh, and it had cleanly sliced right through thick leather pants. Its cutting power was extraordinary. Was this because the blacksmith had sharpened it so well, or was the sword itself magnificent? He decided to believe it was both.
The center of gravity, balanced by the pommel, was excellent, and the wrapped leather strap clung nicely to his hand. Along with its cutting power, he also favored the strength of the blade itself. Its sturdiness was palpable. Even though it didn't seem to be Valerian Steel, it was a high-grade sword of remarkably good quality.
For Encrid, it was practically the first luxury item he had ever possessed. A sword of this caliber was truly a first for him.
"Are you not coming?" Encrid spoke, his voice carrying his desire.
He wanted to test the sword more. And, of course, the techniques he had now mastered. He had dismissed Rem as merely being starved for a fight, but...
Am I the same?
Somehow, he was itching to fight more.
Dunchabel frowned at his words. Where did a guy like this come from?
Even his scent was different. A beastman's sensitive nose could serve as a gauge to determine an opponent's level—though, strictly speaking, it belonged to the realm of survival instinct.
Dunchabel was slowly getting a feeling. It seems this is where my grave will be.
So, should she run? She didn't want to. She had lived her life half-expecting to die anyway. If so, closing the book of her life at this point wouldn't be so bad. She was here because she wanted to die fighting; Dunchabel steeled her resolve.
Above all, the man who had stepped up as her final opponent wasn't bad. An opponent whose looks and skills she both liked.
More than enough.
Dunchabel chuckled to herself. It was a laugh completely out of place given the situation. At that sound, the only other remaining member of the Black Sword Bandits glared at her. He gave off the distinct scent of someone who was terrified—a smell similar to urine.
"By any chance, do you want to live?" Dunchabel asked her remaining companion, a bandit whose name she didn't even know.
"What?"
Was he wondering what this crazy bitch was talking about?
"Never mind."
No sooner had she spoken than her fist, bulging with muscle, slammed into his face with a heavy smack.
Crack!
"Gah!"
Letting out a short, strange death rattle, the man's feet flew into the air. With a single punch, his right eye was crushed inward with a sickening crunch. Blood sprayed, and his shattered facial bones jutted out sideways. The man, who had been tensely watching only Encrid, had one side of his face completely caved in. He died instantly.
"It's a good place to die," Dunchabel said, her fist still extended. She didn't explain her actions. Instead, she revealed her true nature. "Hey. Let's have a real fight."
The moment Dunchabel spoke, her eyes changed. Her pupils slit vertically, turning into those of a beast.
Grrrrr.
What was the difference between a mere werewolf and a beastman? It started with their appearance. Originally, beastmen only had beast-like traits added to a human form. Because of this, they did not undergo transformations like this. Even if something wild possessed them and caused a slight physical shift, they didn't grow a wolf's head or anything of the sort. Their fangs might grow, their eyes might change, and their fur might get a bit longer, but they still wouldn't stray far from human form.
At least, that was the case for ordinary beastmen. But Dunchabel was different.
While retaining something human, the beast blood coursing through her entire body caused Dunchabel to begin transforming. With a soft rustling sound, long, white fur began to sprout all over her body. And with a grinding crunch, her facial structure shifted into that of a lion.
Encrid had seen a few beastmen in his life, but he had never seen anything like this.
Why is she transforming?
Though the explanation was long, the transformation happened in the blink of an eye.
"A monster?" Encrid asked. Could this bastard even speak? Didn't that form resemble a lycanthrope?
Of course, the opponent's appearance was like a lion—a lion with flowing white fur—and the aura she exuded was vastly different. Honestly, rather than a monster, she looked like a guardian protecting a heavenly temple in some legend or myth. At least, that was how Encrid felt, though the first word that came to mind was indeed "monster."
"Grrr... I've heard that a lot," Dunchabel growled. It was a verbal habit she had whenever she transformed.
Encrid felt a strange sensation from his opponent's aura, attitude, and tone. It was as if the "grave" she mentioned wasn't meant for him, but rather that she herself wished to die.
Well, that probably wasn't what mattered.
"Are you coming?"
"Of course! Grrr!"
No sooner had she spoken than the White Lion kicked off the ground with a bang and lunged forward. Slashing wide with the claws that had shot out from her left hand, she swung the scimitar she had drawn with her other hand. The claws and blade crossed, aiming for Encrid's chest and waist.
Without missing a single detail, Encrid held his sword upright and struck downward twice in rapid succession, as if shaking it. Both were snap strikes, blows packed with impact. Activating the Heart of Monstrous Strength in that instant, it was a defensive technique that didn't even leave room for a bind. It was a deflection through sheer force.
Clang!
Clash!
He deflected the claws and batted away the scimitar. Yet the beastman did not back away. It was an indomitable charge, an assault prepared for death.
Encrid might have been momentarily flustered. That was how close they were, and the White Lion, as if fully expecting her attack to be blocked, threw her head back and lunged forward with her forehead.
Valen-style Mercenary Sword?
A headbutt following a charge—it was a familiar offensive technique.