Chapter 403: Nothing Was to His Liking
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 403: Nothing Was to His Liking
For those who wielded spells, foreboding was more than just a word.
It was a premonition born of the senses.
Esther felt it—something was happening on this land, right now. It was something deeply connected to the spell world. Her intuition warned her that it could easily affect her as well, and she knew she couldn't let it pass without investigation.
She needed to confirm it immediately.
"Protect me," Esther commanded.
At her words, Andrew, who had been about to leap back into the fray, turned his head. "Are you talking to me?"
"Should I call back Enki, who’s already at the front lines, then?"
Esther’s 'kind and thorough' explanation forced him to face reality. She closed her eyes; she was in a hurry.
Andrew hesitated, his momentum halted. He considered his position. He had been accepted into the unit because of Encrid, but his status was awkward. He couldn't exactly command Baron Gardner’s forces, and his own direct subordinates consisted of only five trainees.
He looked out at the battlefield. While not an overwhelming victory yet, the tide seemed to be flowing in favor of their allies. Andrew stopped. For now, it felt right to heed the request of the mage.
"Form up!"
At his command, Andrew and the five trainees formed a protective circle around Esther.
Esther sat in the center, indifferent to the dirt floor. Now was not the time for pleasantries. Her robe pooled around her on the blood-stained earth. She immediately submerged her consciousness into the spell world to find the trap the enemy mage had prepared.
In truth, there was no need to search.
Instead of hiding his work, the bastard was flaunting it. He displayed it openly to elevate his own majesty. That massive presence manifested as a crushing pressure, weighing down on Esther’s shoulders.
But she was no ordinary mage.
She was the witch who wielded the fire of the black world. The witch who had fought, struggled, and pioneered her way through the world. A seeker who realized truth by tempering it in flames.
She chanted a spell to assert her existence and raised her head. Esther began to dissect what the enemy—Count Molsen—had prepared.
There was a saying that while not all mages were mad, all outstanding mages nurtured a seed of madness. Esther found herself agreeing. The opponent playing these tricks was the living embodiment of those words.
He mixed sorcery and spells.
Between the flows of mana, the energy of spirits pulsed. A prayer-like power blanketed the area, revealing the opponent's twisted will.
It was darkness.
Despite the dark space of the spell world, Count Molsen sat upon a black chair that seemed even darker than the void. Draped in a cloak of soot and clutching a pitch-black staff, he glared at her.
"You think you can stop me?"
The Count’s will translated into words, laced with ridicule. Go ahead and try, if you dare.
Esther didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she observed. She looked deeper.
A magic circle.
He had turned the entire battlefield into a massive magic circle. But a circle of that scale required a medium to draw it.
"You are exquisitely mad," Esther whispered as the realization hit her.
The Count rested his chin on his hand, his expression bored. "Do you think knowing changes anything?"
The bastard had used the horrors of war—the blood and the mounting corpses—as the medium for his circle. He was weaving a spell based on sorcery through the dead.
Esther half-closed her eyes, calculating the result of the completed spell. Only a genius of her caliber could have predicted it.
Pitch-black darkness would engulf the entire battlefield. The world would lose its light, eroded by a dark, malevolent will. This was the scheme of a disgusting madman trying to forcibly connect his own spell world to reality.
That was the most revolting part. To a mage, the spell world was their most private space, their shame, something never to be shown to others. It was a taboo.
Count Molsen was trampling over that taboo.
Connect it, and unleash the wraiths.
By blocking the light with the magic circle and spewing darkness, he was essentially tearing off a piece of his own spell world and manifesting it here. Esther could see the black masses lingering behind the Count’s chair.
Wraiths. A horde so vast they filled his spell world.
If that tide were unleashed upon the battlefield, the results would be catastrophic. Wraiths eroded the human mind. Some soldiers would become mindless puppets; others would swing their swords at friend and foe alike; many would simply lose their sanity and die.
Madness would consume them all.
This was the reality the Count desired. He didn't care about winning the war. He only wanted the blood, the corpses, and the death. He wanted to dominate the field with his wraiths.
It was an act so vile that if Krang knew of it, he would be consumed by a righteous fury.
"Will you try to stop me?" the Count challenged.
Esther could incinerate the enemies with her spells right now, but she couldn't stop the ritual from affecting those already fighting. No solution came to mind. The best she could do was shield the few people she wanted to protect.
Should she do that?
The thought crossed her mind, but she knew Encrid would never want that.
I will ask him.
She would convey everything to Encrid. She would let him decide.
It was a choice that would have shocked any other mage who knew Esther. She transformed a portion of her will into an astral form and sent it flying toward the front lines. It was only possible because she had lived in close proximity to him for over a year; such a feat required a deep, established connection.
Fortunately, her will reached him.
"I will ask him first," Esther replied.
The Count blinked, momentarily stunned. He likely wondered what on earth there was to ask.
*
The giant who used his body as a weapon.
That was Benukt’s epithet.
Encrid yanked his sword from the head of the giant. Benukt lay collapsed on the ground, his hamstrings already slashed. As Encrid pressed his foot against the giant's shoulder and pulled the blade free with a wet squelch, a stream of blood followed the steel.
The giant’s fighting spirit had been formidable, but...
Compared to Audin... he was weak.
Benukt had managed to strike Encrid’s flank once and grab his ankle to twist it, but Encrid had been prepared. He had braced his core, enduring the blow while deflecting the brunt of the impact. When his ankle was seized, he had leaped and spun with the twist, rendering the giant's strength useless.
After that, it was a steady execution.
He slashed and thrust with rhythmic precision. Since the gap in skill was clear, there was no need to rush. Using the Capturing Sword as his foundation, he had cornered his opponent until the end.
With Benukt dead, Encrid looked around.
He saw soldiers rushing toward him, gripped by a strange terror. Instead of retreating after seeing their champion fall, they charged.
Why?
Their eyes were wide with fright, and their legs trembled. Encrid hadn't even unleashed his Will of Intimidation yet. They looked like cattle being pushed from behind into a slaughterhouse.
That was exactly what they were.
They were sacrificial lambs sent by the Count to provide more blood and more corpses.
To protect the people behind him, Encrid had to become a demon to the crowd in front of him. He knew this. Even so...
I don't like this.
It grated on his nerves.
Encrid slapped away a trembling spearhead with the back of his hand and snatched the shaft. A lad who looked barely twenty stumbled forward as his weapon was ripped away, landing chin-first on the hard ground.
"Argh!"
Encrid ignored the scream. He sliced through the next spear shaft and delivered a snap-kick to the chin of the man behind it.
Thwack.
The man’s head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his skull as he collapsed. After he knocked down a dozen more, the enemies stopped rushing. They watched him with wary, terrified eyes, their pupils darting as they struggled with their fear.
Encrid hated it all. The blood of the dying. The stench of rent flesh. The death staining the land. It was a displeasure that began as an instinct and culminated in a sharp intuition.
Why?
He was a veteran of the battlefield. He knew the cost of protection. But as he stood there, something like blue smoke approached and touched his back.
It was the astral form carrying Esther’s will.
She showed him what she had seen. She whispered the Count’s "bullshit antics" into his ear.
That was the source of his displeasure. He didn't fully grasp the mechanics of a magic circle, but he knew he had to thwart the desires of a man he found utterly loathsome. Since the bastard had turned the battlefield into a tool, Encrid would break that tool.
As he turned and marched into the enemy lines, the soldiers parted like the sea. There was a limit to bravery; no matter how much the Battle Overseers threatened them, some things were simply impossible.
He had just killed a giant. The man who had slain their commander—a monster in the eyes of ordinary men—was walking toward them. Though he looked like an ordinary swordsman, his prowess was anything but.
A path opened.
On the other side, Liebart stepped forward.
"Even Benukt was no match for you," Liebart noted.
"Didn't you send him knowing that?"
"I did."
"Then you should have stepped up sooner," Encrid rebuked him. His tone was that of a teacher scolding a failing student. He was genuinely angry.
The provocation worked. Even now, Liebart’s noble pride flared. "Your tongue is truly—"
"Shut up. I won't listen to your excuses."
Encrid cut him off.
"You really are a bastard," Liebart said, the last trace of humor vanishing from his face.
Encrid raised his sword. He knew he couldn't move forward without overcoming this man.
Esther, watching through her astral projection, read Encrid’s intent. He had no intention of backing down. His will was an endlessly burning flame.
I will stop him. I will stop him no matter what.
Hearing that resolve, Esther whispered back, "You must not lose."
If he fell here, stopping the Count would be nothing but a pipe dream.
Encrid gripped Silver with both hands, sighting his opponent along the vertical line of the blade. He had spent every spare moment since their last encounter reviewing their fight. He had done it while eating, while sleeping, and while fighting others.
He wasn't bored. He was excited. Liebart was an opponent to be surpassed—an opportunity to evolve.
Moreover, he knew it instinctively.
I can win.
He had rarely felt this level of confidence against an opponent of such skill. Though he never fought with the intent to rely on regression... Encrid believed there would be no need for a repeat today.
"I envy you," Liebart said, raising his sword and shield. He pulled the shield high, covering his mouth and leaving only his eyes exposed.
The duel began. To an observer, it looked like a repeat of their previous fight.
It was not.
Clack!
Encrid suddenly sheathed his sword and lunged forward.
Liebart tightened his defense at the unexpected move, pulling his shield close to hide even his sword hand. Encrid extended both hands. The Whistle Dagger he had drawn sang out.
Screeech!
Two streaks of light flew toward Liebart’s exposed eyes.
Clang-clang!
Liebart jerked his shield up to cover his face.
Blocking my vision?
An Associate Knight didn't need eyes to read an enemy's movements. Liebart’s senses were razor-sharp. He spun his body back, but Encrid had already flanked him and thrown his sword.
It was the Flicking Sword Style.
The Gladius spun through the air like a lethal disc, aiming for Liebart’s back. It was too late to move the shield. Liebart trusted his plate armor. He twisted his torso slightly—a high-level physical technique to deflect the impact of a flying blade. It was the same principle Encrid had learned from Audin.
Clang!
The second attack was deflected.
But Encrid was already airborne, bringing his primary sword down in a crushing vertical arc.
Crash!
Liebart blocked it with his shield, but the sheer force vibrated through his entire frame. It felt as if his feet were being driven into the earth. Encrid had grown significantly stronger since their last meeting.
Encrid had seized the opening with the dagger, restricted movement with the Gladius, and followed up with a Heavy Sword Style spinning slash.
He didn't stop there.
The Breathless World.
Having tasted victory once, Encrid immediately dragged his opponent into his preferred pace. It worked. Normally, Liebart could have fought for a day, but after dozens of high-intensity clashes while focused entirely on defense, his breathing faltered.
Encrid’s stamina was monstrous. Liebart wondered what kind of hellish training could produce such a body.
A spark of steel found the opening. Encrid’s blade tore through Liebart’s abdomen, a precise thrust through a gap in the armor that sliced into his internal organs.
Liebart roared and swung his shield, bashing Encrid away. Encrid, having overextended for the killing blow, couldn't dodge.
Thud.
Struck by the heavy shield, Encrid stumbled back.
"Cough!"
Liebart spat a mouthful of blood. The battle was decided. Encrid looked into his opponent's eyes. They were dark and hollow, like the eyes of a dead fish.
"Whew... I truly envy you," Liebart wheezed again.
Encrid raised his sword to finish it, indifferent to the man's ramblings.
"How do you think one becomes a knight?" Liebart asked, his voice fading.