The Spear of Extinction Descends

Was it really over?

If anything, the situation was only careening further toward its climax—because Allen's form had begun to change yet again.

Crack-crack, squelch-squelch. Sounds that made the skin crawl just to hear them: flesh twisting against flesh, bone grinding against bone and shattering. Those horrifying noises began to rise from Allen's body, and Jenison—without moving from where he stood—hurled the dagger gripped in his hand.

Whether that was a judgment of reason or an act of pure instinct, he could not have said. Only a single thought remained in his mind: he had to kill him, here and now, whatever it took. A vague dread that if he did not, the one to die would be him was pounding against the alarm bells of his survival instinct—and so, without a moment's hesitation, he let fly the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only weapon he had left. His mana refused to obey him; he could create no more. That dagger was all he had.

And with a desperation to match, he wished, and wished again. Please—let that dagger sever the lifeline of the brother who has abandoned his humanity. Clutching a hope thin as a thread, he wished, and wished again.

Shunk— The deepening violet skin was pierced clean through, by a single dagger honed to a frigid edge. The blade drove deep into his chest. In an ordinary man, it likely would have snagged on the ribs and failed to sink in—but Allen's body was in the midst of being entirely rebuilt. Far from catching, the steel glided in all the more smoothly, and before anyone knew it, the dagger had buried itself inside him until only the hilt remained.

"Now!!"

At that very moment, Jenison's signal rang out, and as though chasing close on its heels, golden flames roared to life behind him.

A single spear blazing gold, as though it held the entirety of the Saintess's holy power. Engraved upon its shaft was one character, and one only.

Extinction.

A single character that laid bare the will to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠annihilate every wicked thing in this world. A sacred relic granted to the Church, and a high-tier artifact besides—the Holy Spear of Extinction, Gungnir. And at this very moment, it was aimed at one lone Majin.

"Hahh... hoo..."

"Saintess, it looks like it's taking quite a toll on you..."

It was the truth. No matter how far beyond the norm her holy power ran, Gungnir was, first and last, a relic that channeled a god's strength directly. For a girl whose body remained that of a frail human, there was no wielding this spear without a price—a penalty that ranged from unconsciousness at the lightest to death at the very worst. Usable only once. Requiring no small amount of preparation. Perfectly capable of killing its wielder under the wrong conditions. That was what she held in her hands right now.

"Nngh... hah..."

"...Saintess?"

"D-don't worry about me... just keep watch..!"

And yet the reason she carried this spear for her protection was, in the end, brutally simple: if she could shoulder every one of those penalties, it delivered force greater than any spell or attack in existence. Pour in every last drop of the holy power remaining in her body, and it could unleash a strike rivaling at least 9th-circle magic. The power of 9th-circle magic—wielded, it was said, by only a vanishingly small handful of all humanity—she was attempting to reproduce here and now.

"Grrk... GURAAAK!!"

"Here it comes..!"

But of course, no enemy existed who would stand quietly by and politely wait for that—and the same held true for Allen, no, for the Majin, who was already fully occupied wrestling for dominion over his own flesh.

"KURAAAK!!"

The Majin's skin, deepened past violet into a bruised blue-purple, heaved and roiled, as though some small alien organism were trying to force its way out.

Fwududud— Heave. Heave. The endlessly writhing violet skin stilled its trembling for the briefest of moments, and—

"KESHAAK!!"

"...What the hell is that?!"

—the instant it did, holes punched themselves across his skin, and something began firing out of them. Loathsome creatures with long, cylindrical bodies: no eyes, no nose, no mouth, no legs—nothing but rows of tiny, spike-like teeth studding the very tip of their torsos. Yes, if you strained for a comparison, you might call them caterpillars—

"KEYARAAK!!"

—but nothing about their savagery resembled one. This much was certain: a single bite from those fangs, green venom dripping in fat drops, would inflict a wound far from trivial.

But she had not the slightest intention of being bested by things like these. And so the girl called out now—to beings that did not exist in this world, and never should have.

"Krrrrk...?"

"KERAAK...!"

Wrathful Ghosts—the lingering souls of those who had died unjust, screaming deaths without even leaving descendants behind, their resentment curdled into vengeful spirits. If the Hungry Ghosts she had summoned a moment ago held the power to devour all things, these leaned instead toward bestowing. Not that what they bestowed was normal by any measure.

"Krr...? KERAAK!!"

"Kara... KYAAA...!"

Thud— With the dull thump of something dropping onto the dirt, one of the worms that had been hurtling toward the girl only moments before plummeted to the ground, dead—covered from head to tail in angry red blotches, no less.

"Grrk...?!"

"GRYAAAAK!!"

Thud. Thud. The caterpillars that had been frolicking through the air as if it were their own backyard began dropping one after another. One fell with its dusky body gone utterly rigid; another died literally foaming at the mouth; and across one still flying far in the distance, pale spots were already blooming.

"..."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

The power of the Wrathful Ghosts was, quite literally, to spread—every pestilence that existed in this world. Diseases that killed humans without a sound upon the barest infection. Before such plagues, mere caterpillars like these had no hope of survival.

"KErrk... KESHAAK!!"

"Ha, how long is this going to...!"

Even so, no respite was granted her. The number of Wrathful Ghosts she could summon was exactly one. The worms, meanwhile, were still bursting from the Majin's body—their numbers, their sheer volume, as if he housed a breeding farm within his flesh, with no end to them in sight. Little by little, she began to be driven back.

"Ugh... seriously... so annoying..!"

Fwoooosh—KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-KWAAM—

Even so, the battle remained dead even. Black motes of light scattered lingering afterglows in their wake, and chain explosions began erupting at random, as though a fuse had been lit somewhere.

"I hate bugs!!"

"I can... do this too..!"

Every time the hands and fingers of the two black-haired girls moved, dark radiance and flame surged. A sinister black flash that melted everything it touched swept through the swarm of worms in a single pass, and a beautiful dance of crimson fire followed close behind it.

KABABABOOM—KWAAAAAAM—

Magic skill that had no business belonging to anyone their age. Even with the Mana Restraint robbing her of her full strength, she was giving it everything she had.

'Because this time... I will definitely... be of help..!!'

Cold sweat trickled down her; her whole body had begun to ache with a deep, mournful soreness—but she did not stop casting. Her fingers flicked and flew, carved and traced through the empty air, and in answer, spells of every description burst open one after another.

There was no grand reason behind it. She simply did not want to stop—not this, not now. That was all. She refused to carry the scars of a single moment's hesitation for the rest of her life. And so she resolved to hesitate no longer—even if she had to carve herself down to the bone to see it through.

"KYARAAK!!"

"...Krrk!"

As if her feelings had somehow reached them, the worms' movements froze—for no more than the blink of an eye. A warning, desperate and absolute: come no closer. One wrong step, and it would be a dog's death. However grotesque these creatures were, they were, at bottom, still living things, and their survival instincts were screaming at them, frantic, as if to say: do not approach.

"...Huh? Those things just stopped."

"Hahh... hahh... Is it... over?"

Just as everyone took a brief moment to catch their breath, watching the worms keel over one by one beneath the barrage, one man did not.

"I'll be borrowing this."

"Huh? My dagger..?!"

Far from holding back, he was the first to advance. Always be thinking of what comes next. It was one of the sayings hammered into his head—words he had heard until they wore grooves into him, and words that had saved him more times than he could count. For a man who had spent his existence endlessly thinking of "next," only a single thought surfaced now: the moment the enemy falters, kill without hesitation.

"KRYAAK...?!"

"KYAAK!!"

Shk-shk, shk-shk— The worms began to come apart in pieces—by the hand of a single man who had hurled himself into their midst without a flicker of hesitation. Slicing, cutting, hewing, crushing; severing, tearing out, smashing, stomping, skewering, twisting, rending apart. Not the swordsmanship steeped in grace and nobility that other aristocrats were wont to learn, but movement closer to the desperate thrashing of a man clawing to survive. Only then did the tide truly level out.

"Hnnngh... kgh..."

"Grrrrrrr..."

Now, the outcome hinged on a single question: who would be faster. Would the Saintess's holy spear be loosed at the Majin first—or would the Majin's transformation reach completion first? No one could rashly predict how this fight would end. All they could do was wait, quietly—if not for their own sakes, then for hers, still dripping cold sweat even now.

"U-um... how long... do we ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have to hold out?"

"Hoo... it all rests on the Saintess now..."

"Nnnngh..!!"

"...Huh?"

That was when it happened. A halo of light began to shine behind the Saintess's back, and above her head, a single spear—turned blinding white—hung floating in the air.

With those words, the spear shot skyward—at a speed the eye could not follow.

"W-wait, where is it going?"

"...Don't tell me it failed—"

"...Ooh, a shooting star!!"

"Ah... I don't think that's it."

And then the spear came plunging straight back down, tracing a trajectory of beautiful light, its blade laden with sacred flame—

and it began its descent.

"...I almost feel a little sorry for him, maybe?"

"I... really don't.."

The Majin, his transformation at long last complete, slowly lifted his head—but it was already far too late. The spear that had hung in the empty air mere moments before had, without his noticing, come to hover directly above his skull.

BWOOOOOM—SHAAAA—

"GYAAAAK..!!"

"KSHARAAAA..!!"

"Ugh... that's disgusting!!"

With a cataclysmic roar, holy power erupted, unleashed at last. Its sheer volume was overwhelming—more than enough to purify every worm in the vicinity and still have plenty to spare. It would be no exaggeration to call it the proclamation of a sanctuary. It was also one of the few mercies that came with Gungnir's activation.

"...Did we get him?"

"..."

As the dust settled, an enormous crater yawned open in the ground, and at its very center, a single spear shaft stood tall—driven clean through the head of Allen, who was a Majin no longer.

"Haahh... it's... over."

"S-Saintess? She's fainted..!"

"Ha... haha. We somehow made it out alive..."

"...It was certainly an exhilarating experience."

"Thrills are supposed to come in moderation!!"

The relief of survival—the sense that it was finally, finally over—wrapped itself around them. But it lasted only a moment, for directly above Gungnir, still planted upright in the earth, space itself began to warp.

"...Hey. What the hell is that now?"

"D-don't tell me he's still alive..!"

"Ah, thank goodness...—huh?!"

The battle, it seemed, was not yet over.