Chapter 485: Breaking the Chains and Advancing
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 485: Breaking the Chains and Advancing
He struck.
Following the arm, another cannibal stepped forward, thrusting his foot out.
"Rise, leg of the warrior."
This one seemed less skilled than the one who had cast the previous spell. He wore a colored band around his head, his face smeared with messy, painted patterns.
His filthy leg turned pitch black, then shattered.
Crack, crunch.
It was the backlash of the magic.
"Ugh..."
He gritted his teeth, suppressing a groan as muscles, bones, and skin twisted. With a sickening sound that made one's skin crawl, his leg snapped off below the knee and melted into a black puddle. From that dark sludge, a muscular black leg grew in its place.
After fashioning one arm and two legs in this gruesome manner, one of the cannibals finally succumbed, blood pouring from his eyes and nose. His body curled inward, dissolving into a pool of black blood. From that pool, a pitch-black torso was born.
It had slender limbs but no head.
The newly created "single" arm and two legs attached themselves to this torso. Ultimately, it took the shape of a human formed from clumped soot. It possessed only a left hand, which gripped a long rod. The rod was longer than a sword, shaped into a wicked spear.
It was a warrior with a body of pure shadow. A black warrior born from a dark pit—or perhaps a dead soldier who had crawled back across the river of death.
Peculiarly, it had no right arm, only a left. It was a one-armed combatant with a head that was nothing more than a rounded, featureless lump.
A knight raised from the dead is typically called a Death Knight. It is the pinnacle of necromancy—the manifestation of a monster possessing the martial power of a true knight.
The magic these cultists had just cast was of a lower tier.
It began by capturing an exceptionally skilled warrior, ripping out his heart, and using secret arts to keep him from truly dying. For seven days, they would keep him in a state of stupor, a daze so deep he wouldn't know if he was dead or alive.
Since his heart was gone, he was technically dead. Yet, the secret art tricked the warrior’s mind into believing he still lived.
Whose heart is that?
The flesh was dead, but the mind remained trapped in the living world. In that state, they killed him again with necromantic arts. That was how a Death Warrior was made.
I am not dead yet. Therefore, I can fight. If I fight and win, this nightmare will end.
Because he was dead, the words of the living could not reach him. The Death Warrior could not speak, either. He would have had to communicate telepathically, but he possessed no will to do so.
All that remained was the urge to struggle.
Fight. Kill. Riddle their bodies with holes using the spear. It didn't matter who or what stood in his way.
Luagarne's whip lashed at the black warrior's head.
Crack!
The warrior swept his spear shaft upward, blocking the strike. The tip of the whip wound tightly around the wood. Simultaneously, Luagarne rushed forward, swinging her Loop Sword.
The blade flew in a horizontal arc. The heavy blade, imbued with Frok's strength, looked ready to slice the enemy's torso in half.
The black warrior pulled the spear shaft with sheer, unnatural force to block.
Clang!
The black rod shimmered as it met the Loop Sword. Despite the spear being wrapped in a whip, the warrior’s strength overpowered Frok’s. His only hand slid down the shaft, gripping the base. Then, with a violent thrust, he slammed the whip-wrapped spear forward.
Luagarne let go of the whip handle, gripped the Loop Sword with both hands, and twisted, deflecting the spear shaft with the flat of her blade.
Clack, screeech!
The black spear and the Loop Sword grated against each other, sparks flying as they slid apart. Luagarne used the recoil to take a large step backward.
A Death Warrior is a creation of a necromancer, meaning its skill depends entirely on its craftsmanship.
How skilled is this bastard, swinging a spear with one arm?
At least an Associate Knight.
If she were alone, she would have struggled to face him. Fortunately, having only one arm seemed to halve his combat effectiveness. As she wondered where the other arm was, the realization hit her.
Ah, it’s that bastard’s arm from before.
She had killed one of the cultists back when they were slaying the gnolls—the one who had cast the "Warrior's Arm" spell. That cultist had possessed a single, powerful right arm on a clumsy, weak body. Encrid had cut him down.
They had searched for the owner of that arm, and here he was.
As Luagarne retreated, she flicked the whip handle—which had unraveled from the spear—with the tip of her sword and caught it mid-air.
The moment her fingers closed around it, she commanded:
"Burn."
The will infused in her voice activated the spell carved into the weapon. When dealing with such an opponent, a magic tool was the most efficient solution. Flames erupted from the center of the whip, the blazing heat warming the frigid air.
Even so, her instincts told her the chances of victory were slim. Her eye for talent and her combat intuition warned of mounting danger. It wasn't just the Death Warrior; it was the bastards watching with glinting eyes from behind it.
And that wasn't all.
From the canyon where the enemy forces had gathered, another group emerged. Most had patterns painted on their faces, but two individuals stood out: a Half-Elf and a Half-Giant.
They weren't from the West. She could tell by their race and their strange attire. The Half-Elf had a crushed ear, leaving only a hole where the auricle should be, while the Half-Giant had a flat nose and a square jaw that made his face look like a block of stone.
Encrid was still occupied, chasing the enemy mage. Rem and Dunchabel were busy slaughtering the giants. A wolf born of sorcery tore through the giants' ranks, protecting the allied warriors who were thrusting spears and throwing stones.
A few Westerners approached Luagarne, clutching obsidian spears.
This isn't going to work.
Her instincts predicted defeat—or more accurately, a dog’s death. Dying in vain. That thought became a certainty when she spotted a man with black hair and pupilless white eyes. He had a pattern of dripping tears painted under his left eye and a dagger pointing upward under his right.
The moment she saw him, an ominous premonition gripped her.
We will lose.
That would be the case if only she and the Western warriors fought. Though usually dull, Frok's combat instincts became razor-sharp the moment blood was spilled. From her perspective, defeat was the only logical conclusion.
But so what?
The things in front of her were cultists. The cult was the enemy. Therefore, she had to kill them. Whether victory was possible or not didn't change the necessity of the fight. With enemies right in front of her, her rage was entirely justified.
Gurgle.
Half amusement, half rage. Luagarne puffed out her cheeks.
Besides, to be honest, she didn't truly believe they would lose. Her predictions had excluded one vital factor: that out-of-spec force of nature, Encrid.
*
Do you think the giants are the only thing I have prepared?
The Apostle of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult struggled to think as his mouth was forcibly shut by a succession of incoming blades.
I divided the West and created the giants. Do you have any idea how many other seeds I have sown? This is a plan years in the making. How do you expect to stop it?
He intended to sprout the seeds of the cult here, gathering monsters to create a precursor to a Demon Realm. To achieve this, he had planned to herd the Westerners into one place and slaughter them. Their blood, their flesh, their fear, despair, and even their feeble hopes would serve as the ingredients to forge a pseudo-Demon Realm on this land.
The sword strikes kept his mouth shut. His mana could not flow. Every time he tried to form a hand seal, the attempt was thwarted.
This bastard...
Anger welled up, but the Apostle knew that blind rage was useless. To calm himself, he began to pray inwardly.
Our God slumbers within the Demon Realm.
He would awaken Him to rule this land. He would inflict divine punishment upon the foolish. He would hang those who usurped the title of king. He would split open the hearts of those who insulted the one true God with their false faith.
Die, all of you, and be reborn. And so, the world shall answer the call of the true God.
Meanwhile, the Fortune-teller Tribe joined the fray, and his two hidden weapons—the two warriors—began to approach. They would stop the bastard who kept swinging his sword at his mouth and hands. Once Encrid was blocked, the Apostle would bind him, force him to his knees, and finally speak.
Why do you use such power to walk a false path? Stand by my side, feel true joy, and praise the God of the Demon Realm. If you refuse, I will make you die and be reborn to serve this Apostle. Regardless of your will, I shall make it so. For that is my duty, and that is the path for my God.
The Apostle was a talkative man by nature, and he was bursting with things to say. But every time he tried to speak, a blade flew at him with a violent whoosh.
If he hadn't used Astral Projection to let the blades pass through him, he would have died long ago. But for now, he was safe. Of course, it was frustrating; he couldn't properly manifest his Spell World while in an astral state.
Still, surely there would be a gap to speak?
Thirsting for a conversation, the Apostle resorted to a trick. He only needed to convey his message. And if he could let his voice slip through, wouldn't he also be able to spit out a prepared spell?
The Apostle forced open a gap.
*
"You!"
"Bastard!"
"Listen!"
"To!"
"What!"
"I!"
"Am!"
"Saying!"
The man certainly had talent. Since he was prevented from speaking normally, he spoke by breaking his words down syllable by syllable between strikes.
Encrid ignored the chatter, driving the mage into a corner using Aker, occasionally punctuated by a thrust from Spark. With that pressure alone, the mage couldn't chant or use his fingers for seals.
"If you block their spells and hand seals, they have to cast through sheer will, but no mage can do that easily. So just cut their mouths and fingers."
Esther's teaching was perfect. Encrid did exactly that. The opponent couldn't cast a single proper spell.
But how long could he keep this up? Even if he slashed for three days and nights, would this guy back down? He didn't know.
With his mouth blocked, the bastard kept trying to communicate with his eyes, rolling them incessantly as he spat out syllables. At this rate, it felt like he might try to cast a spell with his eyeballs.
If Audin ever lost his mind, he’d probably make eyes like that. Wait, is that an insult to Audin? Never mind.
The blade sliced through the opponent's body, but it was like cutting smoke. There was no resistance. Even so, Encrid did not stop.
"Be!"
"Re!"
"Born!"
"Once!"
"More!"
"Now!"
After a few more slashes, the opponent's intention shifted. Instead of nonsense about listening, he moved to a spell. A surge of mana registered in Encrid's sixth sense. Even while suppressed, the Apostle chanted by spitting out one syllable at a time.
The Apostles of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult were geniuses in their own right. This one moved his mana with calculated precision, accounting for the fact that Encrid’s sword was blocking his speech. He didn't need a long incantation; he already had something prepared.
"Come!"
"Forth!"
"Now!"
Thanks to Rem and Dunchabel, the number of giants had dwindled. However, at the Apostle's command, a dead giant rose once more.
Gwoooooh!
Burst flesh coalesced, and a head regrew atop a severed neck. Wriggling meat clumped together to form eyeballs, a nose, and a mouth. It was a nauseating spectacle. With vacant eyes, the revived giant began to move exactly as it had before death.
It was a regenerative power that surpassed even a troll or a Frog Kin.
The mage finished his summoning formula. Suddenly, a red cockscomb popped up right in front of Encrid—a comb larger than a human head. Beneath it appeared the head of a rooster and a body covered in steel-like feathers. Its yellow feet and sharp talons looked capable of shredding a man in seconds. Finally, with a sharp shhhk, a snake's tail swept across the ground.
A magic circle had formed, and the monster had surged upward. It was a Cockatrice, a beast capable of firing petrifying beams from its eyes.
The moment it emerged, it prepared to fire its beam and strike with its venomous talons. But before its neck muscles could even twitch, a flash of light severed its head.
It almost looked as if the monster had offered its neck to the blade. It was simply the result of a staggering difference in speed.
Slash!
With a thud, the head soared into the sky. The light in the Cockatrice's eyes faded instantly. It died without a single cry.
However, that sacrifice bought its master a window of opportunity.
"Chains of Gullak!"
The Apostle deactivated his Astral Projection and chanted the spell without hesitation. From beneath Encrid's feet, green chains erupted, wrapping tightly around his calves and forearms.
Trying to slash an opponent who has undergone Astral Projection? How ignorant.
Encrid heard the voice like an auditory hallucination. He ignored the chains and the voice alike.
What is will? It is the determination to act. Encrid infused his mind with a single purpose: to advance and slash.
Crack, bang!
The chains shattered, unable to withstand the force. It was the power of thigh muscles forged through endless regression. Encrid broke the spell with sheer physical strength.
If Audin had seen this, he would have offered a loud prayer to the gods in shock.
"You bastard!" the Apostle screamed. He had just deactivated his Astral Projection to prepare another spell, and he was utterly stunned. Who breaks a high-level binding spell with raw strength?
Before the startled Apostle could react, his subordinates—the Half-Elf and the Half-Giant—rushed forward to seize Encrid. They managed to catch his feet for exactly half a breath.
Encrid moved both arms simultaneously, splitting a single tempo in half. In that off-beat, he swung his swords to slash and thrust.
Boom, crack! Stab!
The Half-Elf was fast, a master of sleight of hand who hid daggers before thrusting. He reacted to the sword strike, crossing his daggers to block. His judgment was sound; it was too late to dodge.
But the heavy blade of Aker pressed down, splitting the elf's head halfway open before passing through. A booming roar followed as the skull shattered, the shockwave crushing the elf's neck bones.
At the same time, a hole was punched through the Half-Giant's face.
As Encrid brought Aker down with his right, his left hand thrust forward with Spark. He executed two lethal strikes in a single half-tempo—a technique mastered through dozens of rigorous training sessions. It was a variation of his dual-wielding style: block with Aker, kill with Spark.
The Half-Giant, who had raised a mace to strike, died with blood pouring from his face mid-swing. The mace struck the ground uselessly.
In the same motion, Encrid swung toward the barrier of the mage. It was a relentless flurry, leaving no room to breathe.
Whoosh, crack!
A single slash cracked the barrier.
The Apostle's pupils trembled.
What is this bastard?
Why was he so good at fighting? Along with the confusion, the Apostle felt a sudden, fleeting terror. An ominous whisper filled his mind, telling him that no matter what he did, he was going to die.