Chapter 410: He Should Have Fallen
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 410: He Should Have Fallen
Dean Molsen—that was the Count’s name.
Dean had been born with extraordinary talent.
"He has a gift for sensing mana."
"He masters the sword with effortless ease."
"He is brilliant enough to serve as a high administrator in the capital."
With peerless talent, a powerful family at his back, and the finest mentors, Dean’s upbringing was flawless. He wanted for nothing. His world consisted of magic, his father, and his mother; there was almost nothing that did not go his way.
To a young man of such exceptional ability, the world was a remarkably easy place.
His twenties passed. His thirties flowed by.
He killed the two uncles who coveted his position as clan head. Dean did so not with magic, but with a sword. It wasn't a particularly grand achievement, yet his father was struck with awe.
"You are my son, but you are truly magnificent."
It was then that Dean realized taking a human life was also incredibly easy.
It must have been in his mid-thirties when he finally inherited the position of clan head. By then, his father had begun to look at him with eyes tinged with fear.
Why?
It started after Dean began participating in the clan's affairs. His father would make the wrong choices on matters that required only a modicum of thought to resolve. Dean corrected those mistakes behind his back. In front of him, he spoke bluntly. Sometimes, he even let a hint of contempt slip through.
The eyes that had once looked at him with pride gradually changed.
Then came the day Dean directly opposed his father's decision. Dean knew he was right, but his father roared at him in a fit of rage.
"It is for the prestige of the nobility!"
It was a crude excuse. A mere pretext. Was he supposed to play along even while knowing the truth? Dean refused.
"How hideous."
At those emotionless words, his father gave up on the clan.
His mother had never been a warm person to begin with.
Thus, Dean became the clan head. A few years later, his parents fell into a trap set by a neighboring territory and ended up heavily indebted in Krona. For his mother, it was gambling; for his father, it was alcohol.
Even though such matters were usually overlooked among the high nobility, the neighboring lord did not let it slide. He drove Dean's father to the edge of a cliff, and his father hanged himself. His mother followed him in death shortly after.
Was I too indifferent?
But there was no law stating that one must feel unconditional affection for their parents. Still, shouldn't he avenge them?
He decided he would. Exactly half a year was enough.
"Forgive me..."
The neighboring lord knelt, begging for mercy, but Dean cut off his head without hesitation. It was a revenge devoid of any gratification.
That was when House Molsen, which had been a respectable family until then, began to truly grow. Exactly three years passed. Dean saw people gathering around him. Because of his actions, the military might and influence of the county were expanding like never before.
And so, a question arose.
Why must I remain trapped here?
The moment the question arose, the answer came with it. There was no reason to stay. A bird must break out of its egg to fly. Dean decided to expand his world. He would break the shell and enter a wider world.
The throne.
It was the moment his lust for power truly awakened. Since everything in the world had been easy, he assumed that would be easy, too.
And indeed, it had been a continuous series of easy tasks—until someone broke through his Ten Thousand Wraiths and stood in his way.
*
"Fine," Encrid answered indifferently when asked how he was doing. His arms were trembling, but they were still usable. That was enough.
"Ha."
The Count let out a sharp sigh. In his eyes, the figures standing behind Encrid came into focus.
The barbarian-born soldier, Rem, rested the head of his axe on one shoulder, staring blankly.
The bored-looking swordsman, Ragna, holding a sword broken in half, was wiping blood from his brow.
The large-framed soldier standing right next to him, Audin, was snapping his twisted forearm back into place with a gentle smile. As if he felt no pain, he popped the bone back into its socket while maintaining that same pleasant expression.
Finally, he saw the assassin, Sachsen, who had targeted him before he summoned the wraiths. The man held a short stiletto in his right hand, his posture asking if the Count was ready to die.
The Count raised a hand to his chin and scanned them all once more. They were truly an unimaginable bunch. If everything failed and he were to die, he had assumed he would be surrounded by at least three knights. He had also expected Naurilia to fall because of it.
This was entirely unexpected.
His panic lasted only a moment. As a hollow emptiness rushed in to fill the void, a laugh naturally bubbled up. The Count burst into a dry, hollow laugh and asked, "Is it not only natural for the capable to stand at the very top?"
It was a question asking why they were blocking his path.
"That is why we came," Encrid replied.
At those words, the Count felt a surge of irritation, an urge to grab Encrid's tongue and rip it out. The bastard always spoke in such short, clipped sentences. He was almost curious to see what would happen if he forcibly stretched that tongue.
"Indeed, words are useless now."
The Count spoke as he reached out his hand. Following his gesture, black soot coalesced in midair, quickly shaping into a bird before lunging forward.
Though the description was long, the bird had appeared and flown out the instant he raised his hand. Had Esther been here, she would have recognized it as the spell 'Charner's Vitality-Draining Crow,' a type of necromantic summoning. However, none of the people present knew the name of the spell.
Instead of knowing the spell, they simply reacted. As the black bird lunged toward Encrid, a dagger flew through the air and struck it.
Bang!
The bird exploded in midair. The thrown dagger also shattered into three pieces, scattering to the left and right.
The Count frowned. An artifact?
No. What kind of lunatic enchanter would carve such a spell onto a throwing dagger? It went beyond wastefulness; it was sheer madness.
Sachsen had wrapped a scroll around the dagger before throwing it—a unique, improvised method. He already held several similar daggers in his hand.
"The one who will sit on the throne is me."
The Count remained resolute. It was only natural that he wouldn't just surrender, even if they had broken through his wraiths. While continuously unleashing Charner's Vitality-Draining Crows, the Count cast another spell.
Following the incantation, dark red lumps formed in the air, transforming into living, moving swords. They flew on their own, homing in on Encrid.
Audin, the bear-like man, blocked their path.
"O pitiful souls who cannot even return to the Lord..." he murmured, moving his hands and feet. Striking with hand speed and footwork that belied his massive build, he caused the dark red swords to explode one after another in midair.
These bastards...
The Count reclaimed a portion of his wraiths. Several groups of wraith soldiers that had been targeting the common soldiers collapsed and vanished, dissipating in midair like fading mist.
"Rise, Wraith General!"
It was a spell created by condensing the reclaimed wraiths. In front of the Count, a massive figure wielding a black greatsword materialized. It was even larger than Audin.
Ragna blocked its path.
Having dragged his feet forward, Ragna raised his head. Holding his half-broken sword, he swung it without a word. Before the creature with the black greatsword could even react, Ragna's blade slit its throat, slashed its chest, and cut its waist in half.
Encrid was astonished anew by Ragna's talent. What on earth had he just done?
He had swung his sword three times in a single breath. Even though all three slashes extended in completely different directions, they looked like a single, fluid motion. He had eliminated the recovery phase of the swings, calculating the trajectory of his sword as he swung to minimize all unnecessary movement.
A high horizontal slash, followed by a vertical downward slash, and finally, a mid-level horizontal slash. And he had infused all of them with the Will of Severing.
It was as if he were painting with his sword, but because it was so fast and decisive, the opponent couldn't have even dreamed of blocking it. Even Encrid doubted he could have parried that.
After swinging his sword, Ragna took two steps back and plopped down onto the ground. Even though he had clearly collapsed from exhaustion...
"Whew. Time to watch for a bit," he spoke nonchalantly, pretending he had sat down on purpose.
The Count’s jaw nearly dropped. What kind of monster was that? A Wraith General, capable of easily tearing apart an associate knight, had been killed in a single strike. To the Count's eyes, it had looked like just one swing.
A sense of crisis filled the Count's chest. He felt a wave of dismay, but he forced himself to ignore it. Did he not still have cards left to play?
The Count bit his tongue with his molars.
Crunch.
The metallic scent of blood wafted from his mouth. The Count opened his jaws, and crimson blood trickled down. He pulled his left hand to his chest. The blood flowing from his mouth did not fall to the ground but pooled above his palm.
"Come forth, Guardian Blood Mass."
The Count swung the staff in his right hand. At his call, the blood mass on his left hand began to squirm and grow. In the blink of an eye, it reached the size of a human, sprouting arms and legs.
To fill the summon's interior, the Count had to reclaim even more of the wraith soldiers from the battlefield. Naturally, the wider battlefield grew quieter. The number of soldiers who barely escaped death increased as the wraiths vanished. Most of the soldiers who had been possessed also regained their senses.
In his desperation, the Count was pouring everything he had into this single spot, completely disregarding the rest of the war.
Soon, a Blood Golem, entirely crimson except for two hollow eye sockets, stood before the Count.
"You've done some weird sorcery tricks to this one, too, haven't you? Judging by your handiwork, you must have hooked up with the Immortal Madman."
It was Rem’s voice. The moment the Count looked at him, the barbarian was pulling something out of his shirt. From behind the golem, the Count watched.
Rem began spinning what he had pulled from his shirt over his head. He had taken out a sling, loaded it with a bead-shaped bullet, and was spinning it with increasing speed. The action soon made itself known through a terrifying sound.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whirrrrr.
Rem was using the bead talisman—the last totem he had stolen from the Immortal Madman—as a sling bullet. He hadn't expected to use it as ammunition, but it was perfect for the current situation.
Whirrrrrrrrr!
It was a noise that sent shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it. The golem's gaze turned toward the sound. The creature, born of sorcery, brought its hands together, intending to unleash a torrent of blood.
Watching this, Rem's arm snapped forward.
Whir, whoosh!
The noise above Rem's head stopped instantly. At the same time, another sound erupted.
Bang!
The Blood Golem's head exploded. Normally, a physical strike alone shouldn't have been able to damage a golem. However, the loaded bullet was far too special. It was the crystallization of sorcery that the Immortal Madman had gathered over more than a decade. As it exploded, it consumed the golem's life force along with it.
"Ugh!"
The Count clutched his chest with his left hand and slammed his staff onto the ground with his right. In that instant, a wave of loss and emptiness washed over him, making his heart feel as if it had stopped.
The Count realized the golem was dead. An endless wave of despair washed over him, stirring up gloomy emotions. It was a summon woven from his own blood and heart; it shouldn't have been defeated so easily.
"You bastards!" the Count roared in anger.
Meanwhile, Rem felt all the strength drain from his body after using his last sorcery tool. Am I going to die like this?
Surely not, but he felt so weak that the thought actually crossed his mind. The price of using a talisman containing someone else's sorcery power was catching up to him.
Rem lost his balance and tottered backward, falling flat on his backside with a thud. He glanced at Ragna, having landed right next to him.
Rem looked at Ragna and said, "Time to watch."
Ragna nodded. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. Neither had the energy to curse the other, and now was not the time to bicker. For once, they were of one mind.
Audin, too, unable to easily destroy the remaining dark red swords, endured the agony of his restriction and channeled his divinity. The flying swords were formidable opponents, magical creatures usually only seen in the Demon Realm. It was a testament to the Count's power.
Audin had no choice but to endure the pain.
Father, forgive me.
Audin briefly drew upon his divinity. Instead of letting it emit light, he channeled it to protect his body.
My left hand is a treasured sword, and my right hand is steel.
Barehanded, he was like a blade and a rock. But now that he held even a fraction of divinity, he was a legendary blade and pure iron.
The moment Audin's left hand made contact with an incoming blade—
Clang!
The dark red sword shattered upon touching his hand. Then, he struck with his right.
Boom!
The crumpled sword lost its power and stabbed deep into the ground. Bent at a right angle, the wraith contained within it vanished, and the blade quickly turned to dust.
As he crushed the swords one by one, the pain from his restriction surged through his entire body. It felt as though he wouldn't be able to move for a long time. Audin's limbs trembled violently. Soon, his body stiffened like a log, leaving him standing there blankly.
"Tsk."
Watching this, Rem clicked his tongue. Why wasn't that guy falling over?
"Hmm."
Ragna also glanced over and furrowed his brow. It was an annoying sight.
The religious fanatic should have fallen, too.