Chapter 766: Singing on a Small, Narrow Stage
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 766: Singing on a Small, Narrow Stage
"The one who shall end all things is coming!
The knight who will stain war and life with the colors of twilight!
We shall call him the Knight of the End!
The one who will finally bring all things to a close! The hero who will end the war!"
Zoraslav listened to the song, an oral tradition passed down through the village for generations. Outside the window, a group of children sang the lyrics as if reciting holy scripture.
Across the continent, the melody had spread under various titles—the "Knight of the End of War" or simply the "Knight of the End"—all sharing similar lyrics and haunting tunes. Some called him the Knight of the End of War, while others preferred the Knight of the End. In certain regions, he was even whispered of as the Knight of Twilight.
The original lyrics had been lost to time. Consequently, in some provinces, people sang of the "End of War," the "End," and "Twilight" interchangeably.
To them, it was far more than a simple folk song.
The Knight of the End.
Or the one called the Knight of the End of War.
It was a core tenet of their legends—the belief that such a being would one day appear to protect them.
"Do you truly believe he is that Knight of the End?"
The "end" mentioned in the lyrics referred to the end of this world. And in this context, "this world" was none other than the Demon Realm. In other words, the song spoke of a knight who would bring about the downfall of the Demon Realm itself.
Of course, this was merely one interpretation; it wasn't necessarily the absolute truth.
Zoraslav looked at the people gathered around the long table. This was the meeting room of the village hall. More than ten people—over twenty eyes in total—were fixed intently on him.
Zoraslav was a realist. That was why, until now, his thoughts on the matter had been cynical.
It is merely a song born of desperate hope.
From a realistic perspective, the song existed because it had to. What is the most essential thing for a human to survive? Food, clothing, shelter? Even if one of those is missing, a person can find a way to endure.
But once the mind collapses, it is over.
What is the point of living like this? To someone plagued by such thoughts, even the finest food and shelter are meaningless.
Does life need a reason? Must one continue to live even at the risk of becoming one of the Eroded? Do we really have to struggle in a place like this?
If someone were to ask, there was only one answer: they wanted to live.
There were days when Zoraslav watched a child take a sip of bland broth made from shriveled, dry turnips and smile, pretending it was a feast. He remembered the day that child was born as if it were yesterday.
Even if their lives were neither abundant, peaceful, nor comfortable, they found the beauty of existence within this hellscape. They could stroll while watching the shifting seasons, talk with those beside them, and love one another.
To enjoy these simple things, they craved life and fought to survive, however miserably. And the fuel for that survival was hope. Hope was the most essential nutrient for the human soul.
Therefore, as far as Zoraslav was concerned, that ancient song was merely a tool used to instill hope into their community. A hero who would one day destroy the source of their suffering and bring them a better life? The Knight of the End?
The lyrics promised it, but he had never believed them. At least, not until now.
To survive by relying on the Demon God for the rest of their lives—that was their grim reality. Zoraslav had accepted that truth, choosing facts over oral legends.
"I have a feeling. He is truly the one."
His friend, a man who used to speak of reality with even more harshness and cynicism than Zoraslav, spoke with eyes that sparkled with conviction.
The eyes of those whom the world had ignored and abandoned were now alight with hope.
The song passed down by word of mouth; the man who had sliced down the symbol of the Demon God without a moment's hesitation; the warrior who had only turned his back after slaughtering every monster and demonic beast in sight.
The man who had entered the Demon Realm without asking for anything in return.
To Zoraslav, he truly did look like the Knight of the End.
A hand extended in goodwill had reached out to those who had never known even a crumb of hope. Could they possibly push it away?
They could not. For they, too, yearned for a better life.
Every soul in the village prayed for the one who had stepped inside.
*
Teresa stood upon the small, narrow stage she had fashioned. She did not draw her sword; it wasn't needed yet.
"I took in a wench who knows nothing but how to fight, and you don't even know how to be grateful."
Why did that memory surface now?
It was from a time when she had mortgaged her entire existence to the bishop of the cult. It was a period when her world was painted in shades of black and gray.
Then she had met Encrid. For the first time, she found joy in the sword swings she had previously brandished without purpose.
"I will fight and fight again to prove myself."
That had been her answer when Encrid asked how she would want to live if she were reborn. Everything from that moment remained vivid in her mind—the air, the temperature, the very scent of the room.
She remembered her own ragged, heated breath and her past self, drowning in regret.
And so, Teresa of the cult died, and she was reborn as Teresa the wanderer. She had tried to hide behind a small mask, but she soon realized it was a futile gesture.
I will fight to the end.
Those words weren't for the giant blood flowing through her veins. They were for her past self and her future self. After all, a "fight" didn't always involve clashing fists and shedding blood.
Teresa had fought her past, accepted a new god, and studied the holy scriptures.
Standing on the small stage made of shields, she glanced back. The hero who had saved her was watching her intently. Meeting his gaze, she opened her mouth.
"Ah—"
A rich, resonant sound vibrated from her throat. She looked forward again, watching the monsters approaching with dripping pus and the fortress walls shrieking in the distance.
Her voice began to rise and fall, connecting and severing notes with such precision that even her breathing became part of the melody.
She began to sing.
Soon, a song praising God soared into the sky and shook the very earth.
*
Awakening divinity was a power granted to only a few. The talent to touch a person's heartstrings with a song was also a rare gift. To possess both—to awaken divinity and master the art of the chant—required two entirely separate talents.
If a person born with both through a stroke of cosmic luck applied themselves with tireless effort, they could learn to wield divinity through song. In the Paladin Order, such individuals were called Holy Lancers or, more respectfully, Holy Cantors.
Audin had glimpsed a fragment of this talent in Teresa and guided her toward its awakening. It was the same reason Luagarne had stayed behind to help when Encrid left for Zaun previously. She knew how to sing a unique battle song called the Frog's Cry, a cry that influenced everyone within earshot. In a way, it operated on a principle similar to a holy chant.
The half-giant drove her shield into the ground to create her stage, climbed atop it, and sang. Her voice, riding the melody, was beautiful and refreshing. When she reached the high notes, she belted them out with a clarity that felt liberating.
Ah—ah!
Just listening to it made one feel invigorated.
"This is..." Encrid muttered.
As Teresa sang, a physical shape began to manifest before her. Encrid’s mouth hung open in awe.
Ah, ah—ah.
Even without words, Teresa’s skill in weaving her breath into the song sent shivers down his spine. They say a skilled bard knows how to play an instrument, but a truly great bard makes an instrument of their own voice.
The tone was deep, the resonance vast. It was grand, warm, and peaceful. An atmosphere so mild it felt impossible in the heart of the Demon Realm enveloped Encrid and his party.
"May the Lord protect us," Audin murmured in prayer.
The peace wasn't just a feeling. Though her voice wasn't exceptionally loud, her melody harmonized with her divinity to take physical form, blocking the advance of the ghouls. It was a wall of radiating white light. It wasn't as high as Teresa on her shield, but it easily stood taller than a grown man.
The wall of white light stretched to the left and right, pushing back the encroaching darkness of the Demon Realm. It was a magnificent sight.
"She said she was inspired by what you did, Brother Commander," Audin said.
"Ah." Encrid let out a short breath of admiration.
It meant the "iron wall" he had displayed while blocking the forces of Azpen had been her inspiration. He also realized that his act of imbuing his voice with Will at that time had influenced her.
Audin had told him not to worry about Teresa, but Encrid hadn't expected her to reveal something of this magnitude.
"It's not perfect. They're slipping through the gaps," Luagarne noted, her large eyes scanning the perimeter.
She was right. A ghoul was attempting to squeeze its body through a gap in the divine wall. Even as its flesh sizzled and smoked against the white light, the creature managed to force its way through.
It dropped to one knee with a heavy thud, its clawed fingers digging into the earth as it tried to crawl forward.
Directly in its path, it met a man casually swinging a shortsword.
Slash.
Monsters, too, were made of bone, flesh, and muscle. To Sachsen—who knew exactly where to stab and slash to kill with maximum efficiency—cutting them down was effortless. He knew the perfect angles for a blade to penetrate.
However, the reaction of the severed creature was abnormal.
Squelch.
Yellow pus swelled from the wound.
Pop!
The pus burst. Normally, it would have exploded and scattered plague spores everywhere, but Teresa’s divinity pressed down on the spores, annihilating them instantly. As the pitch of her song rose, a mass of white light crushed the remains of the ghoul.
Audin moved as well. There were multiple gaps to cover. As his feet lightly kicked off the ground, he seemed to exist in three places at once—an afterimage created by sheer speed, an agility that defied his massive frame.
Moving with fluid grace, he shattered the heads of the ghouls with his fists. At each impact, pus swelled like an inflated pig's bladder before bursting. Audin didn't even need Teresa’s direct help. While he couldn't sing hymns, his skill in manipulating divinity was twice as potent as hers.
He reached his hand over the head of a fallen ghoul. White light spread from his palm, descending like the hem of a holy cloak. The explosion of pus couldn't pierce that light.
Thud—
It resulted in nothing more than a dull sound.
"You have quite the skill," Luagarne remarked, pulling out her whip. Her weapon offered much more range than a sword, designed for mid-to-long-distance combat. It was also an artifact that naturally ignited with flames.
A plague ghoul struggling to break through had its head shattered by the flaming whip. The weight at the end of the whip was forged from Ink Gold. In the hands of a master, a whip allowed for high-speed strikes that far exceeded the physical strength of an ordinary adult.
But the one wielding it was a trained Frok. The leather of the whip was braided from the hide of a demonic beast. Since speed is proportional to power, its lethality was terrifying.
Crack! Crack!
The whip tore through the air, incinerating the ghouls' heads. To even track the movement of that whip, one needed the dynamic visual acuity of a knight. Pus burst from the struck ghouls, but the spray was instantly consumed by the embers.
Ragna joined the fray as well. With a languid stride and steps that seemed aimless, he moved toward the plague ghouls. The greatsword he had drawn emitted a faint red glow. Even as the sun began to set, there was no shortage of light here.
Ragna swung his greatsword like a farmer harvesting barley with a scythe. Keeping the trajectory short, he moved his feet in sync with strokes that utilized only the snap of his wrists. It was a succession of simple, repetitive movements.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
With those simple motions, the heads of the plague ghouls flew into the air like harvested grain. The creatures Ragna cut down also formed membranes of pus, but they were miniscule.
Pffft.
They didn't even burst properly.
Sunrise excludes all things wicked. It was named Sunrise because it was a sword imbued with the essence of the sun—an heirloom of the Zaun family. It was only natural for it to perform at this level.
Because the number of attackers was so vast, several managed to cross the threshold. In fact, it seemed Teresa was intentionally leaving gaps to manage the flow. Gathering her remaining divinity, she scorched the majority of the ghouls with divine power. The ghouls, their mouths sewn shut, could not even scream as they burned.
Watching the ghouls get swept away, Rem spoke with a grin.
"Hey, you two had better keep pace with me."
He was speaking to Ropode and Pel.
Teresa’s hymn created a wall of divinity, but that wall couldn't block what was coming from above.
Cawww!
Giant birds began to dive from the darkening sky.
But would that be a problem?
Hardly.