Chapter 19
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 19
Chapter Title: Hidden Sword Hunt (4)
You let go of the sword that's lodged in your opponent.
There's no time to pull it out. So you seize the blade from the enemy as they collapse, drained of strength. And in that instant...
Puuk!
A sword pierced through his back.
They'd been aiming for his rear all along, finally skewering both the corpse and him together in one body.
But in doing so, they too had lost their sword. If it had merely pierced his back, he could have yanked it out with force. Unfortunately, it had gone clean through his comrade's torso as well.
A corpse knows no pain.
Whiiik!
He took half a step forward, drew the sword from his back, then shoved the corpse strapped to it away with all his might.
The enemy's sword clattered to the ground along with the corpse. It was over!
Shiiik! Puk!
His sword thrust into the foe. It plunged unerringly into the man's heart.
His strikes were killing blows among killing blows. The moment the blade touched flesh, death came crashing down. From his very first kill, he'd only unleashed fatal techniques. They brought the swiftest end.
Out of fear they'd counterattack? No. For those doomed to die anyway, he simply wanted them gone quickest.
Those he killed met their end without realizing they'd been slain—without grasping that they themselves were dying.
They felt only a fleeting heat.
People say getting struck by a sword brings excruciating agony. Of course it does. A glancing blow amplifies the pain even more. Sometimes it's so bad you leap in shock.
But the sword that calls forth death brings no such pain.
The victim senses they've been "hit!" but dies before they can comprehend why.
Is there an easier death than this?
For those he had to kill anyway, he preferred sending them off painlessly whenever possible. Enemy or not, foe or friend—it made no difference.
After that first kill, deploying only fatal strikes had become habit.
One Hand, One Death.
"Now for Four Against One? Not bad."
He gripped the sword firmly with both hands and raised it high.
In truth, it wasn't "not bad" at all. His body was a total wreck. He couldn't even tell how many times he'd been cut or where.
A dizzying vertigo rang in his ears.
Proof he was losing so much blood he could barely hold himself up.
The sword in his hand felt unbearably heavy. That's why he'd unconsciously gripped it two-handed.
His body was hurtling toward ruin.
"Come on."
He gritted his teeth and spat the words.
One of them spoke up.
"You... you're really from the Nineteen Hells, aren't you?"
"Tell me, and I'll spare you?"
"In your dreams."
"Then no need to ask. Stop wasting time and come at me."
"Time? We've got plenty. Your body's so wrecked, time alone will finish you off without us lifting a finger. You know that better than anyone."
"That's exactly why. Come quick before my body gives out completely."
"Not happening."
Four remained. They chuckled slyly.
"Heh heh heh!"
He laughed as he took a step.
Each step felt like traversing a thousand miles. Never had his feet weighed so much.
"Fighting this long against them? That's a win. Even if I die now, I've kept my promise."
He had no regrets.
Death itself didn't scare him. Killing others bothered him far more than dying. But he'd read the letter. He couldn't die even if he wanted to.
Yet humans aren't immortals... There come times when death is inevitable.
The letter had granted a small concession on that point.
- If it's a situation anyone would acknowledge as your utmost effort, then dying is permitted.
This was that moment.
Fighting this far with his meridians sealed? Anyone would agree he'd given his all.
It was enough. More than enough. He could die now.
From the moment Vanguard handed him that letter, he'd believed his sole task henceforth was finding the right place to die. Securing a fitting death had become his top priority. A long life held no meaning. Living on meant remaining a puppet.
So dying now was fine.
He turned toward the house where he was certain a sword lay hidden, ignoring the four assassins completely. Whether they attacked or not, he simply walked.
"He really sniffed out the sword, huh."
"He even knows the Twelve Stems Formation."
"Weird guy. Knows assassination arts but doesn't fight like one. His style's so unique."
"Heh heh!"
Four Thousand Four chuckled softly. He pointed at the fallen assassins and said,
"Just admit you're scared. Too terrified to charge in. Afraid you'll die."
"You're right. You're no weakling, that's for sure. Like you said, we're too scared of dying to rush you. So forgive us for dragging this out."
The four assassins sheathed their swords almost in unison.
They didn't retreat, though. In place of swords, they drew other weapons.
Nine Section Whips!
Iron chains linking nine steel rods.
"Trouble."
Four Thousand Four frowned.
Drawing nine section whips meant avoiding close combat, striking from afar. Hit and run, hit and run... Seize openings to attack, block if none appeared.
If all four swung their whips to seal his path, he couldn't reach the house with the sword.
He'd have no choice but to fight them.
"Heh."
He scoffed.
They were mistaken about one thing. He hadn't begged his way out of the Nineteen Hells. He no longer clung to life.
He lowered his sword.
Come on! Kill me if you can! I don't want to live longer anyway!
Shyrik! Chyarak! Chyararak!
The whips began to whirl.
Even with him dangling his sword defenselessly, they didn't attack rashly.
They circled, probing. Whirling whips overhead, waiting for an opening. A single strike to end it would be ideal, but they had no intention of risking that.
Cuk!
Four Thousand Four stabbed his lowered sword into the ground. He leaned his full weight on it. His upper body hunched, head bowed.
His body was a mangled ruin.
Blood poured from countless wounds, staining him crimson head to toe.
The gash on his back had split flesh wide, exposing bone—or what should have been white, now red from blood. Red bone gleamed.
It was a miracle he lived. A wonder he stood at all.
In that moment, a single thought consumed him. One thought, one thought...
- The most terrifying sword is the one that doesn't exist. The sword you yourself have forgotten. Forget the enemy, forget yourself, even forget you're alive... [excerpt]... When only fathomless darkness remains, a sword suddenly thrusts forth. What sword it is, you cannot know. For it emerges from a place where consciousness itself has fled... [continued excerpt]...
No more improvisation would work. The sword he needed now was one bursting from fathomless dark. Nothing else remained in his arsenal.
Normally... one facing an enemy can't let go of awareness. Can't plunge into that abyss. Nine times out of ten, they'd die helplessly.
Only those who could embrace death peacefully, he thought, could achieve it.
He felt no regrets if he died now.
Because he'd fought his utmost, and anyone would see it that way...
Soon, even that thought faded. He tumbled into fathomless dark.
The assassins whirling their whips noticed his state instantly.
"He's lost consciousness!"
"Passed out!"
No reason to hesitate now.
Thud thud thud thud thud!
Four whips lashed out near-simultaneously. The weighted heads shot toward Four Thousand Four like arrows.
He didn't twitch.
It was only a matter of time before the four whips impaled him. One aimed for his head, one his heart, one his spine, the last his dantian.
In that instant, Four Thousand Four moved.
Like hoisting a heavy load, he laboriously raised his left hand. He traced a slow circle, spinning once.
His motion looked sluggish. But it wasn't. Incredibly fast. In the blink of an eye, he'd completed the circle. The four weighted heads were sucked into his left palm.
Four Thousand Four spun once more.
The whips coiled around him like a tether. No—the assassins gripping the whips were yanked forward by the wrapping chains.
Papapapapap!
Four Thousand Four had raised his right hand.
When had he spun those circles? Two full rotations. When had he lifted his right hand? Pulled the sword from the earth? Gripped it? Slashed?
No one could even gasp in shock. It all exploded in an instant.
Thud thud!
The four collapsed limply.
They'd met the same end. Their chests sliced horizontally. Hearts to lungs severed clean; lungs ruined, they died without a single scream.
Thump!
Four Thousand Four dropped to his knees.
The destructive force of those four flung whips could shatter boulders.
He'd taken it all with his left arm. And absorbed their collective power into a single rotational force.
His body felt torn asunder.
"Keurk! Keuk!"
Blood surged in his mouth, fishy and vile, making him retch.
"Did I... do it..."
He sprawled on the ground, staring blankly at the sky.
"Man, why'd the fire start anyway?"
"Looked like someone set it on purpose, didn't it?"
"Saw some stranger skulking around yesterday. Kept eyeing the village. Bet it was him."
"That was yesterday, though?"
"Exactly. No strangers today, right?"
"Nope. Whoever it was, if we catch 'em, we'll snap their limbs like twigs, that's for sure."
Voices of villagers who'd extinguished the fire beyond the wall drifted over.
They knew nothing of the slaughter inside. No clue multiple men lay dead. Their battle had been silent, swift. Blood sprayed in a flash, then stilled.
He let their indignant voices wash over him.
No other thoughts came. Only that he'd succeeded. At what, he didn't know.
They called it the Supreme Sword.
Unable to name it properly, someone had dubbed it that. Word passed mouth to mouth, eventually reaching him.
Why are they dead?
He didn't know how the last four had died. Didn't realize he'd unleashed the Eight Directions Storm—a technique even third-rate fighters knew.
They hadn't died to Eight Directions Storm. They'd fallen to the Absolute Sword.
The cuts on their chests were flawlessly smooth—impossible without an absolute blade.
The masterpiece of a man whose arts were sealed away.
When he'd first heard of the Supreme Sword, he'd only laughed...
After staring blankly at the sky for a long while, his fingers twitched.
Suddenly, he realized he was still alive.
They were dead, and he lived. Which meant... he had to get the sword. He'd come for a sword, hadn't he?
Getting up was agony.
Truth be told, even crawling felt impossible. No thought of treating his wounds. He just wanted to sleep, thoughtless and deep.
Still, he forced himself upright.
"Gotta get that sword."