Chapter 314: Like a Piece of Brown Shit
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 314: Like a Piece of Brown Shit
Crack!
"You—!"
Esther grabbed his forearm and snapped it like a dry twig.
Galaf stared in horror as his barrier was breached. The agony didn't register until a heartbeat later, slamming into his brain with the force of a tidal wave.
"Urgh...!"
That was the reality of magic. A battle between mages was a contest of wills within the spell world, but they still possessed physical bodies. Physical damage translated to mental disruption.
Simply put, when you’re in pain, you can't focus.
Moreover, despite the absolute difference in the amount of mana they could draw from the spell world, the fight had been progressing on nearly equal terms. That meant his opponent knew how to cast and utilize spells with far more efficiency than he ever could.
Galaf broke into a cold sweat as he endured the pain. Her method of attack was utterly absurd. He had chanted a defensive spell, but that wicked witch, Esther, had conjured flames in her hands and literally ripped his barrier apart. Monstrous strength had vibrated through that single movement.
Whoosh!
Steam instantly obscured his vision—the result of combining a Blue Lake spell with a Heated Hand spell.
Flustered, Galaf tried to unleash a counter-spell, but his arm was caught and broken before he could finish the thought.
Why is this witch so strong?
Galaf's mind raced with frantic questions. Was she always this good at fighting? Was her moniker, the 'Fighting Witch,' given to her not because of her temper, but because she actually fights this well?
There were very few mages who possessed as many aliases as the woman before him. Galaf had assumed it was a trick—a tactic of spreading multiple titles to obscure her true identity. Whether it was a ruse or not, he now knew one thing for certain.
Of all the monikers belonging to the witch standing before him without a trace of a smile, 'Fighting Witch' was the absolute truth.
"You won't be leaving in one piece," the witch with hair like black silk said expressionlessly.
His two disciples had already been neutralized by her summon, which now stood motionless to the side. It looked like a flesh golem stitched together from raw meat, but its craftsmanship was astonishing. The stitch marks on its face and its hollow, unfocused eyes proclaimed its identity as a golem—one that looked as if someone had dedicated their entire life to its creation.
"Eeeek!"
Galaf resisted. He considered fleeing, but the gap in their skills had been clear from the start.
Esther's moniker, the 'Fighting Witch,' wasn't a title she had sought out. It was a rumor that had spread naturally because she fought like a madwoman. Galaf was her polar opposite; his daily life consisted of building a domain and managing disciples. That difference was a chasm.
Esther had sensed the disparity from the beginning. This was a fight he could never win. The density and solidity of the spell world? Galaf was superior in that regard. But spells only hold meaning when they are used in the right place at the right moment—especially in combat.
Esther mastered that timing. Galaf did not.
"Farewell."
She offered a parting word that felt almost refreshingly light.
Thunk.
Instead of a spell, Esther drew a knife, plunged it into the mage's heart, and twisted.
Stabbed through the vitals, Galaf coughed up a spray of blood, gasped, and collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud.
"F-fucking... bitch..." Galaf mumbled, his head lolling to the side.
Esther ground her boot down onto his mouth. A mage's mouth was a weapon that could never be left free. Then, she squatted down and drove her knife through the back of his hand.
Thunk!
The blade pierced through his palm and embedded itself deep into the ground. Just like their mouths, a mage's hands were not to be left free either.
"Mmph!"
Galaf's body convulsed one last time. That was the end. A formidable mage had met a pathetic demise. One of the key cards Abnayor had relied upon had been removed from the board.
Esther checked the corpse for a moment, wary of hidden traps or lingering spells. There was no movement of mana. She swept her long hair back, gathering it in her hand.
I wish I had a hair tie.
Blood was splattered through her hair, her black velvet coat, and the fair skin hidden beneath it. Drops of blood trickled down the curve of her cleavage. It was unpleasant enough that her first instinct should have been to wash, but another thought crossed her mind first.
"I wonder what my nest is up to," she muttered to herself.
She wondered what Encrid was doing. For all she knew, he might be getting beaten up somewhere.
Galaf, the one who held sway over the river, was a mage whose name even she had heard of. If a mage of this caliber was here, there were likely more waiting elsewhere. Esther searched Galaf's pockets, took everything of value, unsummoned her golem, Bonehead, and set off.
Operating the flesh golem was possible, but Esther's body wasn't yet in a state to sustain it for long. Since her mana pathways were damaged, its operating time was limited. Though the fight had looked easy, maintaining her human form had nearly depleted her stored mana.
I'll have to live as a panther for a while.
Without lingering regrets, Esther transformed into a panther and vanished into the brush.
* * *
The Azpen troops, standing in formation, watched a man charge in like a lunatic all by himself.
What is that?
Is he crazy?
Should we kill him?
He had breached the front lines in an instant and was now positioned at the rear of their formation. A few Azpen soldiers quietly turned their spears. Formation be damned, the man who had slipped behind them looked dangerous.
Three soldiers locked eyes. Let's kill him quickly and get back. Their squad leader nodded in silent approval.
Just as they were about to pounce, a nearby platoon leader barked, "Hold."
He recognized the intruder's face. To be precise, the man's distinctive features were impossible to miss: blonde hair, pale skin, and red eyes. This was one of the descriptions Abnayor had personally gathered all the commanders to deliver.
"Leave him be."
The soldiers froze. The platoon leader's eyes followed the enemy soldier.
The intruder, who wasn't even wearing a helmet, strode inward, heading in one direction without a moment's hesitation. He wasn't running, but his pace was incredibly fast. He forged ahead, sword in hand, eating up the distance. It was as if he were compressing two of an ordinary person's steps into one.
Ahead of him was an Azpen soldier holding a short sword—an ally wearing hardened leather armor, distinct from the standard uniform. The man slipped a finger under his helmet to scratch his head and muttered, "You really followed me all the way here."
Instead of answering, Ragna took another step forward.
Thwip!
The Azpen soldier threw a dagger. Ragna tilted his head slightly to dodge it. The blade embedded itself in the ground behind him. Ragna kept walking without even looking back. The projectile hadn't halted his steps for even a fraction of a second.
Since we've greeted each other, we should see this through to the end.
He pursued, keeping his eyes locked on the man's back. There was no way he would lose track of that presence. The target seemed like he might pull away, yet he never did. The fact that he had penetrated deep into enemy lines didn't even register in Ragna's mind.
Encrid had once said that, depending on the situation, the members of the mad company could do things even wilder than Rem. Ragna was someone who had a track record of slaying hundreds of enemy soldiers and returning simply because he had gotten lost. Something like this was nothing to him.
Besides, no one ever expected strategy or tactics from Ragna anyway.
"All you have to do is fight," Krais had said.
And Encrid had added, "Just fight however you want."
Ragna did exactly that. He fought however he wanted. That was how he had been fighting all this time, putting in just enough effort. But right now, things were different. Something extra had been added on top of "just enough."
A single word: drive.
"Hey, are you going to keep following me?" the enemy soldier asked, scratching his head again.
Yet, his pace did not slacken. He was no ordinary soldier; Ragna recognized that at a glance.
I'm going to catch him.
Why did he want to catch him? If asked for a precise reason, it was vague. But one thing was certain: if he pursued this bastard, he felt he would find whatever it was he had been anticipating. That alone was enough to fill Ragna with the drive to keep moving.
His red eyes were entirely focused on a single purpose.
The enemy soldier deliberately drew further away from his main army, moving out of the line of sight of both Naurilia and Azpen. They had run far enough to be quite out of breath.
He's keeping up remarkably well, the enemy soldier thought. He was more confident in his footwork than anyone else, yet this was the result. The guy pursued him relentlessly. His chest heaved, but his breathing wasn't even ragged.
Wow, this is bruising my pride.
His original affiliation was the Ducal Knights. He was a Squire, and when it came to footwork, he considered himself the best among them. Even if his opponent was at the level of an Associate Knight, this was a blow to his ego. The opponent had spent less time catching his breath and looked far less fatigued.
"Seriously, what are you?" the Squire asked, utterly baffled.
Ragna stared at him intently, then asked, "You're not alone."
The Squire didn't nod. What would change even if he knew?
Ragna felt his vague resolve surge. Drive, desire—how should he describe it? An impulse to fight hammered against his chest, but it wasn't solely because of the opponent before him.
Ragna raised his sword.
The Squire of the Ducal Knights took a step to the side. From amidst the tall grass, the opponent who had truly sparked Ragna's drive emerged.
"I warned you, so why are you acting surprised?" the newcomer said to the Squire.
She was tall with dark skin. Her long hair was tied back, and she wore a custom-made helmet with the visor raised. The back of the helmet was open to let her hair flow through, and two sharp protrusions, resembling the ears of a wild beast, flared from the top. Judging by her slightly unusual accent, she was not a native of this continent. Her skin tone and features suggested she was from the East.
"You really are fearless," she said.
She stretched out her long arms, which were roughly the same length as Ragna's. Ragna quietly steadied his breathing. His rhythm had already become perfectly even.
Seeing this, the Squire scowled. What is up with this guy's stamina?
In truth, it was only natural. Ragna frequently got lost. As a result, wandering was his daily routine. A journey that would take someone else a month often turned into a year-long trek for Ragna. He never studied maps or hired guides. For someone without a destination, the concept of "getting lost" didn't even exist.
When luck was against him, he would travel on foot for over three months without ever stopping at a town. Running and sprinting—it was only natural that his physical endurance had developed to an extreme degree.
"If he's at the level of an Associate Knight, shouldn't he be similar to me?" the Squire said, toying with the hilt of his sword.
"He is a level above you," the dark-skinned woman replied immediately. Her eyes never wavered from Ragna.
"Are you sure?"
"Are you questioning my eyes? Or is it just stubborn pride? Neither is a good look."
"...My mistake. I just hated the thought of losing when it came to leg strength. This guy is strangely irritating."
"Calling him an Associate Knight rather than just 'Associate Knight-level' wouldn't be an overstatement," she noted.
Ragna tried to find an opening in the woman's stance as he listened. It wasn't a conscious calculation, but a natural instinct. In his mind, four attacks had already played out.
A wide horizontal slash.
A Heavy Sword Style snap strike from top to bottom.
A lunging thrust.
A semi-circular rising slash.
In his mental simulation, the female knight effortlessly deflected all four. Following that, her counterattack struck his shoulder or abdomen.
Can I dodge it?
He could dodge if he moved his feet, but that would put him on the defensive. Once on the defensive, it would be difficult to turn the tide. No matter what, there was no clear path to victory. The genius's eye and talent were already mapping out the course of the battle.
Of course, it could all be a delusion. One never truly knows the outcome of a fight until it begins.
Without a change in expression, Ragna wiped his palms against his thighs. They were sweaty.
"Still, you're not a real Associate Knight. It seems you can use a bit of Will, though. Sigh, though I was ordered to kill you without fail..." The female knight took a few steps forward. "I am Aya of the Azpen Ducal Knights. Any interest in defecting to our side?"
An Associate Knight of the Ducal Knights. Aya was brimming with confidence. It was her fourth year in an elite order. She knew better than anyone that not all Associate Knights were created equal. An order was a gathering of individuals with similar talents. The difference between an Associate Knight who had trained relentlessly within such an order and a mere wanderer was night and day.
Because defeat was not even a consideration, Aya made the offer.
Ragna wiped the sweat from his hands again. Then, gripping his sword with both hands, he raised it in front of his face. The cold winter wind split against the honed blade. The sunlight split as well.
It was a fine day.
His heart pounded. The drive that occasionally welled up within him when watching Encrid now hammered at his chest like never before.
Why? Why was this drive surging so intensely? Was it an impulse to kill?
No. It was because his opponent was a formidable foe. Not only was her movement extraordinary, but her affiliation was as well. The Azpen Ducal Knights—the very symbol of military might.
Ragna's drive had been constantly provoked all this time. The impulse he had received through Encrid had left him with a deep thirst. It was what drove him to immerse himself in training. But a thirst, once awakened, could not be quenched by that alone.
Only then did Ragna realize.
Ah.
He needed a catalyst. A catalyst to push himself further forward than where he stood now. Something that mere drive could not resolve. He couldn't kill Encrid or the others in the company, so he could never truly give his all.
But what about the female knight before him? She was an opponent against whom he could unleash his absolute best. An opponent he could measure himself against on the brink of death.
The offer of defection didn't even register. He simply wanted to fight, right this instant. In that case, provoking his opponent would be helpful. Ragna had learned a thing or two from Encrid, and he did exactly as he had been taught.
"What are you talking about, you piece of brown shit?"