Chapter 772: Mixing the Things of Elves and Humans
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 772: Mixing the Things of Elves and Humans
At her scream, the two witches thrust their hands forward. With a single gesture, a pitch-black barrier manifested around them, but Sachsen did not falter.
In truth, it was more accurate to say he had already drawn the perfect weapon to dismantle such a defense.
The moment the black shroud appeared, Sachsen’s left hand swept across his chest in a fluid motion, and a short dagger materialized in his grip.
'Let everything flow as naturally as water.'
It was the core philosophy of the Sword of Chance.
Above all, this was a situation he had long anticipated. Insight born of grueling experience allowed him to foresee these exact moments. A witch of this caliber would never simply stand there and take a blade without a fight.
Gripping the dagger in a reverse hold, he squeezed tightly, pressing his thumb firmly against the pommel—a grip optimized for a lethal downward thrust.
Sachsen was a specialist. To be precise, he was the premier expert in handling artifacts and spell objects within the Order of Madness.
The dagger currently in his hand was a masterpiece specifically designed to tear through magical barriers. It was a replica of the legendary artifact known as the Spell Breaker. The blade itself had been forged by a master dwarf artisan, while the intricate enchantments engraved upon it were the handiwork of Esther.
The hilt was contoured perfectly to the shape of Sachsen's hand—a thoughtful detail from the dwarf. Forged from a base of Valerian steel mixed with Noir wrought iron, it was incredibly sturdy and razor-sharp, but its true value lay in its singular, destructive purpose.
His thoughts were a flash; his movements, a blur.
Before he even locked eyes with the red-eyed witch, Sachsen thrust the reverse-gripped dagger into the barrier with an indifferent gaze.
Thud!
As the blade pierced the shroud, a dull sound echoed. A shockwave rippled across the pitch-black barrier, repelling him with the force of a charging bear beastman. It was a psychokinetic ward designed to automatically fling attackers away.
Though he could have resisted with sheer physical strength, Sachsen chose to yield to the force. He allowed himself to be pushed back, simultaneously lowering his center of gravity and slipping into the shadows cast by the sparks of Encrid’s severed firebolt.
Only then did the red-eyed witch notice his presence. She lowered her head, glaring at him with eyes full of venomous pride.
How dare a mere human...?
Her gaze burned with that silent arrogance.
At that moment, a sharp crackle rang out. Cracks began to spiderweb across the blade of the dagger still embedded in her barrier.
What is—?
The witch didn't even have time to finish the thought.
Bang!
The instant she realized the blade was fracturing, it detonated. It had been a single-use tool from the very beginning.
For a weapon to shatter and explode from that level of impact, it had to be inherently unstable, but Esther had stabilized the volatile mana just enough to ensure it only triggered under specific conditions.
The dagger required two things to detonate: it had to be swung with significant force, and it had to come into contact with a high concentration of mana.
Both conditions had just been met.
Although precious metals like truesilver were too rare to be used for a disposable tool, the results were more than satisfactory.
As the dagger exploded, the barrier shattered. There was no sound of a spell dissipating; the black shroud simply splintered like a window hit by a sledgehammer, dissolving into the darkness.
Shrapnel from the destroyed dagger pelted the witch's body as the defense vanished, but the shards were useless. Her skin, transformed to resemble hardened gemstones, possessed more than enough durability to deflect mere scrap metal.
However...
Skrrrch!
...it could not withstand the assassin's stiletto that had already slipped close to her throat.
The owner of that blade was, of course, Sachsen. He had used the psychokinetic recoil to reposition, hiding in the shadows before lunging forward in a posture so low his chest nearly brushed the ground.
He had yielded to the shockwave, deflected the force, used the darkness as cover, and struck the moment the field shattered. It sounded simple in theory, but executing it required a level of precision few could dream of.
Not even three breaths had passed since Encrid had sliced the firebolt.
One of the two witches' heads now lolled at a precarious angle. Black blood oozed from her severed neck—not in the spray of a normal human, but as a thick, viscous fluid that clung to her skin like pine resin.
And unlike resin, it reeked of a foul, rotting stench.
"Release your power!" the Apostle shouted, seeing her throat slit.
With her neck half-severed, the red-eyed witch let out bizarre, guttural noises—grrr, gurgle, screeech! The black, frothy blood began to boil violently against her skin.
Sachsen had already seen her spill that black ichor before he even cut her. He had seen her retch earlier. He had attacked knowing full well she was no longer human.
As he slit her throat, he simultaneously drew three more daggers and drove them into her body: one in her abdomen, one in the back of her head, and another in her thigh.
The sequence was so fluid it looked as if he were supporting her or adjusting her clothes.
Sachsen danced. It was a lethal, anti-personnel technique he had never revealed, even during sparring.
He gripped and wrenched the daggers embedded in her abdomen and the back of her head.
Rrrrrip!
While he lacked the raw power of Audin or Encrid, Sachsen possessed physical strength far beyond any average man, bolstered by a Will-tempered physique.
The daggers carved black paths across the witch's body, resin oozing from the new gashes. He didn't pull the blades out; he dragged them three spans deep and left them there.
His usual style involved slicing and retrieving to strike again, but he adapted on the fly. He simply didn't have the luxury of time.
A clawed hand burst from the black, frothy blood—sprouting directly from her severed neck. It lunged for the back of Sachsen's head, its sharp talons capable of piercing solid iron plates.
The red-eyed witch was certain she could pierce an ingot of ink gold with that strike. Of course, that was only if she could actually hit him.
Sachsen let go of the daggers and evaded with astonishing grace, dodging by pure instinct at point-blank range. As the claws tore through empty air, Sachsen’s hand gripped the hilt of the dagger still embedded in her thigh.
He was already crouched low, almost embracing her leg.
This time, he used a hammer grip. Wrapping his fingers firmly around the hilt, Sachsen spun in a full circle around the witch. He moved like a squirrel fleeing a predator—a blur of motion that left a circular afterimage.
Squelch!
Since he had spun with the blade still buried in her flesh, her leg was sliced halfway through, spraying black ichor. He wrenched the dagger from the mangled thigh and drove it straight into her other leg.
As her wounds multiplied, hands, feet, and razor-sharp fangs began to sprout haphazardly from the witch's body. Any semblance of humanity was gone.
Sachsen did not stop.
His dance was a tempest of gripping, slicing, and stabbing. He hacked away at the mutating mass of black blood and gemstone skin. Before her transformation could even complete, her neck was severed, her legs were shredded, and half of her internal organs were spilled across the stone floor.
At the end of his dance, the red-eyed witch—now a carcass less than half its original weight—crawled along the floor with her sole remaining limb, a left hand with only two fingers intact.
"Sp... spare..."
It was impossible to tell what she was trying to say.
Thud.
Sachsen drew a forearm-length blade and drove it through the back of her head, pinning her to the floor like a makeshift tombstone.
Her mouth had torn open and reformed on her spine; Sachsen's blade pierced right through that new maw, exposing rows of overlapping teeth that proved she was a monster to the end.
One witch was dead.
"Aaaah!" the Apostle screamed. A massive figure clad in crystal armor began to stomp heavily toward them.
It was a Death Knight, an imitation warrior crafted from a modified corpse. To some, it would be a nightmare made flesh.
But its opponents were Ragna, Pel, Ropode, Audin, Teresa, and Luagarne.
"We just have to cut them all down, right?" Pel said, stepping forward with light, agile footwork. He raised his sword, his posture already set for a strike. He infused the blow with the Vortex, a technique he had practiced until it was as natural as breathing.
Utilizing its modified body, the crystal-armored knight exhibited martial prowess on par with a true knight. It blurred into a straight line, leaving afterimages as it lunged.
Pel timed the shift in speed perfectly. Just as the creature prepared to leap, he whipped his sword down, pulling it through the air with explosive velocity.
Crunch!
The most terrifying aspect of these crystal-armored monsters was their relentless nature; they never slowed, even as their bodies shattered.
As Pel’sIdol Slayer split the creature's head and lodged in its chest, the crystal sword in the monster's hand flew toward Pel’s neck. It was a terrifyingly fast counter-strike, launched even as the soul within the armor began to disperse.
Having poured all his strength into his own blow, Pel couldn't easily evade. He instinctively braced himself, preparing to take the hit where it would do the least damage.
It was a split-second calculation, but it proved unnecessary.
He wasn't fighting alone.
Clang!
Ropode thrust his sword forward, blocking the crystal blade. The dwarf had called this sword a masterpiece, and it lived up to the name. As the blades collided, the crystal sword ground to a halt against the flat of Ropode's steel.
Ropode felt a sharp tremor ring through his arms—the price of enduring such brute force. If he had deflected it carelessly, Pel would have been left with a horrific scar.
"You owe me one," Ropode grunted.
Pel pulled back and wrenched his sword free. The crystal armor, which had served as a temporary scabbard, collapsed into a heap of useless stones. Whatever evil spirit had inhabited it was gone.
Pel glanced at the debris. "I'll forget what you said earlier."
Ropode understood immediately. "By oath?"
"I swear it."
"Good. We're even."
Ropode had given Pel leverage by joking about his "demonic charm that could seduce witches," and Pel was offering a clean slate. If Pel had chosen to be relentless, Ropode would have heard about that joke for the rest of his life. It was a fair trade for a single sword stroke.
More crystal-armored knights emerged—over ten of them. In truth, they weren't true Death Knights, but modified corpses injected with alchemical potions and possessed by minor evil spirits.
The party didn't care about the semantics. They only knew the enemies were dangerous.
"That sword!" the Apostle of the Red Foot hissed.
He was reeling from shock after shock. Pel’s sword—the Idol Slayer—was a natural predator for evil spirits. It targeted the exact weakness of his crystal knights.
But the Apostle had a job to do. "All of you, get out there!"
At his command, a tidal wave of monsters surged from the shadows of Thorn Castle. Some were solitary horrors; others rushed forward in packs of dozens.
Luagarne brandished her Flame Whip and Loop Sword, one in each hand, lashing out with practiced cruelty.
The crystal knights were formidable, but these new creatures were purely bizarre. Even she had never seen a three-armed ogre or a troll with a horn growing from its navel. There was even a three-legged ghoul that hopped erratically, clutching one of its own severed legs like a club.
What on earth are these things? she wondered briefly.
But curiosity was a luxury. They were merely the Apostle’s private collection, and to the party, they were simply targets.
While Luagarne waded into the fray, Sinar stood before the Demonic Spirit, as if she had chosen her prey from the start.
The Demonic Spirit set aside her longbow and drew a sword. Shhhk, ting.
The blade announced itself by striking the metal band of its scabbard. It resembled a long needle, but the tip was curved—a shape designed specifically for tearing flesh.
"Have you come to become nourishment for the Demon Realm?" the Demonic Spirit sneered. "You unevolved, low-grade kin?"
The creature certainly knew how to provoke, but she had chosen the wrong target. Sinar was Encrid’s self-proclaimed fiancée and an elf who had spent far too much time around humans.
Sinar’s serene face didn't twitch. Her lips parted slowly.
"...Nourishment? Me?"
Even with the elven trait of honesty, she knew exactly how to twist the knife. Sinar shrugged—a gesture that looked strangely natural on her—and swept her hand out, palm up, as if inviting the spirit to look around.
Look at the state of your army.
It was obvious who was winning.
"Meee?" she repeated, dragging out the word with mock innocence. "Wouldn't you be the one becoming fertilizer instead? Actually, you're more likely to end up as monster dung than nourishment."
She paused, her eyes narrowing with a cold, human-like edge.
"You half-grown sprout of a bitch."
Sinar had learned to mix human curses with elven insults. Because it deviated so wildly from the expected grace of her kind, it was utterly devastating.
All expression vanished from the Demonic Spirit’s indigo face. She was absolutely livid.