Chapter 721: This is Fun
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 721: This is Fun
Having played along with Encrid’s opening move, Ragna took stock of the situation and concluded that he had achieved his goal to some extent.
If I draw their focus here, no one will spare a glance for Anne.
That was one of the reasons he had targeted the Medusa. With a massive monster collapsing amidst a fierce, slicing sword dance, would they really divert their forces just to kill a girl crushing herbs in the back?
He would make sure they didn't even have the breathing room to consider it. That was his intent.
In the end, this, too, was a way of protecting Anne. It was certainly a plan only a madman would devise, but it worked. Right now, they couldn't spare a single thought for some girl.
At the phrase "merely two swordsmen"—a line poetic enough to be immortalized in song—the enemies' expressions darkened. Granted, their skin was naturally dark, making it difficult for human eyes to register the shift in their complexion.
If I believe it, then it's true.
Ragna easily brushed the thought aside. All that was left now was to survive and finish the fight.
"Can you fight?" Ragna whispered.
Encrid clenched and unclenched his fist before replying.
"About as well as a gentle Rem."
It wasn't code, but it might as well have been. Naturally, Ragna understood instantly. There was no such thing as a gentle Rem. Therefore, Encrid was in no condition to fight properly. He wouldn't be able to muster even a fraction of his usual strength.
It made sense, considering how he had severed the Medusa’s head earlier. He had seemed to lose consciousness for a brief moment during the feat.
"That was a reckless tactic."
"It was your mother's."
"I meant she was... courageous to the point of being spirited."
No matter how much of an adoptive mother she was, Ragna wasn't about to commit the filial impiety of insulting her. Quickly correcting himself, Ragna shrugged and stepped in front of Encrid.
"When we get back to the unit, I'll have to tell everyone how I shielded our burdened captain."
"While leaving out the part where I slew the Medusa?"
"Isn't it the storyteller's prerogative to decide where the story begins?"
Demuil watched the two bickering before him with mild amusement. Were they fearless? Or had they simply accepted their deaths? If it was the latter, he had a few words for them.
"Even if you wish for death, you will not be allowed to die."
His tone was calm, but coming from a rotting half-corpse, it should have sounded eerie and chilling. Of course, that only mattered if the listeners actually found him intimidating.
"Ah, I agree. I have no intention of dying either," Encrid replied without missing a beat.
"That is not what I meant..."
"We didn't gather here to share tea, so why all the chatter? Tsk."
He had cut Demuil off mid-sentence. With that kind of skill, he could easily be dubbed the Knight of the Tongue. Tone, content, attitude—the trifecta was perfect. Ragna felt a fresh wave of admiration. Anyone who understood language would have their blood boiling at this point.
And indeed, it did.
"Kill them."
Demuil spat, his anger flaring. His rotting, decayed eyelids twitched. Above his eye socket, where his eyebrow should have been, a prominent, blackened lump of mangled flesh protruded like a cyst, trembling violently.
At his command, the chief disciple raised his right hand. Judging by his movements, he was likely the one who had summoned the black mass earlier. He was the fellow with an extra eyeball embedded in his forehead.
Ragna knew how to deal with mages. He had only picked it up over Encrid’s shoulder, but that was more than enough for him.
Cut down a mage before they can cast. It was a simple premise. All he had to do was execute it.
Planting his feet firmly, he raised his greatsword and brought it down. The swing itself wasn't exceptionally fast by a knight's standards, but to the three-eyed old man, it would be blindingly quick. Furthermore, Ragna integrated his footwork into the simple downward slash.
It was a strike delivered mid-stride. Ragna knew his weapon's reach perfectly, without needing to calculate. The tip of his greatsword would split the old man's skull vertically, spilling whatever hideous thoughts lay inside.
But just as his foot touched the ground and his sword reached the midpoint of its arc, a heavy pressure slammed into his chest.
Thud!
Ragna was thrown back, his body lifted a foot off the ground. He didn't fly far, though. Having sensed the pressure against his chest, he twisted his torso midair to disperse the impact, landing without taking any serious damage.
"My eyes see even the laws that govern the natural world. Did you truly believe a mere swordsman could escape my gaze?" the three-eyed old man boasted proudly.
Encrid chuckled inwardly. He really loves that "mere swordsman" line.
You'd think he'd learn to be more cautious after getting mocked so much. Still, the three-eyed old man's casting speed was remarkably fast. Without any incantations, it was impossible to predict when his spells would trigger.
"There is so much you fools do not know. I suppose your ignorance of the stages of magic is why you blindly rush in and swing your swords."
Unable to resist an opportunity to boast, Demuil stepped forward. At least, that was how it looked to Encrid. He could easily imagine how insufferable the man must have been back when he taught alchemy.
While Demuil was talking, Ragna thrust his greatsword forward. His opponent wasn't a knight. A simple thrust should have run him through, but things didn't go as planned.
Whoosh!
A thick cloud of black smoke erupted in front of Ragna. The smoke coalesced into dozens of hands, feet, swords, spears, and hammers, blocking his path.
Ragna aborted the thrust, sweeping his greatsword in every direction. His blade moved with such blinding speed that the falling raindrops seemed to bend to its trajectory. He conjured a miniature tempest of steel. The smoky limbs and weapons, behaving as though they possessed physical mass, were swept into the gale and shattered against his blade.
Bang! Crash! Crack!
Amidst the din, Ragna caught a heavy blow aimed at his knee with his greatsword.
Screeech!
The falling rain outlined the faint contour of an otherwise invisible object—a blade of compressed air. A long scratch marred the surface of Ragna's greatsword, and the armor protecting his knee tore open. Had he not been wearing his steel greaves, he would have suffered a deep wound. Yet, Ragna simply pulled back his greatsword with an unbothered expression and leveled it at his foe once more.
"Impudent fool!"
The three-eyed old man roared in anger and thrust his hand forward. This time, lightning crackled. Light coalesced in his palm before branching out like jagged, glowing roots, surging toward Ragna.
Ragna tossed his greatsword slightly above eye level and leaped backward.
Boom!
The lightning struck the greatsword, sending it spinning into the distance. Watching this, Demuil spoke again.
"One who first enters the spell world is called 'The Glimpser.' They are at a level where they barely understand what a spell is. The next stage is 'The Speaker.' This refers to those who borrow spells from otherworldly entities and chant them."
No matter what you do, it is futile. Was that the message he wanted to convey?
Demuil waved a rotting hand, his tone completely detached from the battle raging beside him. It wasn't a gesture born of any grand intent, merely a casual flourish to accompany his words. Yet, as his hand moved, a foul stench wafted through the air. Encrid reflexively raised a hand to cover his nose.
Now that he thought about it, the cloying, sweet scent didn't belong to Demuil, but to the old man who had embedded an eyeball in his forehead for some bizarre aesthetic.
Demuil was lecturing the two idiots standing before him. While Encrid couldn't read his mind, the man's gestures and tone made his intentions obvious. Was it this insufferable personality that had driven him to teach alchemy across the continent? Not out of goodwill, but simply to show off?
It was half guesswork, but Encrid had grasped the essence of Demuil's character. Demuil continued, his tone remaining thoroughly academic.
"After glimpsing and speaking, what do you think comes next?"
Meanwhile, Ragna had rushed forward bare-handed, only to leap backward to avoid a golem made of black stone. Naturally, the old man had summoned it.
Ragna didn't even pretend to listen to Demuil's lecture. Encrid, however, looked at Demuil and played along.
"Unlike that delinquent over there, I am an exemplary student. Please, do go on, legendary Alchemist Demuil."
He even used polite honorifics. Luagarne-style tactical swordplay was proving its worth. When one's body was in no condition to fight, buying time by lowering the enemy's guard was an excellent tactic.
With the Medusa dealt with, Encrid raised his head and feigned rapt attention. Though Demuil found the behavior of the man who had just been mocking him detestable, he couldn't resist the pleasure of hearing himself speak.
"Next is 'The Owner.' It refers to a mage who possesses their own world."
Thud!
A loud crash erupted right beside them. It was the sound of Ragna clashing with the golem. While Rem was superior in terms of raw physical control, no one in the Mad Independent Platoon could match Ragna when it came to martial arts.
Granted, Encrid was confident he could overpower Ragna in a bare-handed brawl. But that didn't mean Ragna was helpless without a weapon. After taking a few hits, Ragna found an opening and shattered the golem's head. He blocked its left and right fists in turn, leaped into the air, and drove his knee straight into its jaw. Fortunately, the golem's core was located in its head, and the construct ground to a halt.
The moment his feet touched the ground after destroying the golem's head, Ragna rolled backward.
Boom!
An explosion erupted where he had stood a split second before. Flames flared up, only to be instantly snuffed out by the pouring rain.
"Huff... huff..."
Ragna panted heavily, looking thoroughly exhausted to any onlooker.
"Like a bug. A mere insect," the three-eyed old man sneered, repeatedly using his favorite word. Satisfied by this display, Demuil's voice grew noticeably gentler.
"An Owner often becomes self-indulgent, intoxicated by the thrill of casting spells. Thus, that stage is called Immoderantia. Beyond that lies Villis, the Manifester—the level where one manifests their own world. And do you know what lies beyond even that?"
Given his dramatic pauses, he seemed to possess the theatrical flair of a bard. Though, of course, few would have the stomach to sit huddled before a rotting corpse to listen to a story.
"Tacitus, the Silent. It is a state of being that transcends the laws of the world. Thus, one is no longer bound by incantations."
Encrid realized that while Demuil might have been a terrible person, he was an excellent teacher. He might have been petty, but he certainly knew how to instruct. Even now, he was systematically building up from basic concepts, explaining each term with care.
How kind of him. Certain knights from a certain city's order could stand to learn a thing or two from him.
"Just do it like this. Now, you try."
That was the extent of the "explanation" those knights usually gave after a single demonstration.
"My disciple has reached the stage of Tacitus," Demuil added. Tacitus was the level at which one could cast spells without any incantations.
Retreating, Ragna called out to Encrid.
"Are you still feeling 'gentle'?"
Intangible shockwaves blasted the ground where he had just stood, gouging deep craters into the earth.
"I'm starting to get a bit annoyed, but it's still not enough."
Encrid knew he only had a few swings left in him at best. He had to make them count. Would it be enough to slay that monster? There was only one way to find out.
"Finish them."
At Demuil's command, the three-eyed old man raised his hand. Instantly, a horn erupted from the head of the woman standing beside him. Scales crackled and spread across her arms, and her jaw elongated into a snout.
"Behold! Once I ascend to godhood, this shall be the new race that rules this land."
She now looked like a grotesque hybrid of a human and a Scaler.
Screeech!
Letting out a bizarre shriek, she bowed her head and let her arms dangle limply.
Huff, huff, huff.
The beast regulated its breathing. With every rise and fall of its chest, a suffocating pressure radiated from the creature—a grotesque entity that was part monster, part chimera. The creature twitched, rolling its eyes upward as it slowly lifted its head.
It glared at them from beneath its brow. The moment its gaze locked onto them, an invisible weight pressed down on them. It was telekinetic force.
"It will feel as though a hundred grown men are pinning you down," the three-eyed old man sneered.
If merely looking at them exerted this much force, its full power would be devastating. Ragna reached out to the side.
"At this rate, we might both end up dead."
"Then who's going to tell the story of how you shielded me?"
"You'll have to do it, Captain."
Encrid handed Penna back to him.
"If I'm the only one who makes it back, Anne will poison me."
"...Well, that can't be helped."
They joked and bought time, but the danger was very real. Was it fine to die just because the day would loop? No. Encrid refused to think that way. If he had wanted an easy, complacent life, he wouldn't have struggled this hard in the first place.
The words the Ferryman had spoken when he lost consciousness echoed in his mind.
You've been lucky enough to make it this far without anyone dying. Do you really think that luck will last forever?
If at first I don't succeed, I'll just keep trying until I do.
Steeling his resolve, Encrid channeled the Will surging from his battered body. If all else failed, he would have to perform one final sword dance.
Ragna gripped Penna and took a few deep breaths. How many times in his life had he fought with someone standing behind him? Right now, the people he absolutely had to protect were at his back.
Gripping Penna, Ragna stared at the motionless monster and the old man standing behind it.
"No one standing behind me is going to die."
He was learning how to fight to protect someone all over again. He took what he had learned from Encrid and made it his own. Ragna was a genius. He had witnessed Encrid's techniques and understood the gist of his mother's style. He had only seen them once, but he had already proven he could replicate them—albeit crudely—when he shattered the golem's head.
Now, Ragna infused those techniques with his own style. If he failed, he would die. But did death matter? No. Achieving his goal was far more important. Right now, Ragna's sole desire was to protect the people behind him.
Was it an impossible dream given the circumstances? If so, he might as well enjoy it.
"This is fun."
Ragna stole Encrid's line.
"Hey, that's my line," Encrid grumbled.