Chapter 4
Chapter 4
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Hunting Festival in the Blizzard (2)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The cold of the Northern Snowy Mountains was merciless.
In the blizzard dropping to minus 40 degrees, the world was blanketed entirely in white by the heavy snow.
Crunch— crunch— crunch— crunch—
Federback pushed forward through the biting wind.
"......"
By channeling mana into his eyes and focusing, the landscape ahead sharpened clearly amid the floating snow particles.
...Hoo!
It was a scant amount of mana, barely a handful, but spinning it at a mad speed formed a high-velocity mana wheel.
The mana wheel coursed through Federback's body, heating his blood.
From his furnace-like heart, iron blood surged through every vessel, warming his body and incinerating all waste.
Despite the cold slicing into his flesh like a blade, hot sweat poured from him beneath his white fur garment.
'To sever the necks of those orcs on the mountaintop, I need to hurry.'
Soon, Federback reached the vicinity of the first peak's summit.
There, orcs that had arrived before him gathered.
They appeared to be a scouting party descending from the opposite ridge.
They were heading toward a shabby wooden structure that looked like a makeshift outpost.
'Thirteen of them.'
Federback crawled low through the snow, advancing excruciatingly slowly.
These orcs differed slightly from those he had seen before his regression.
Their builds resembled humans but were far larger.
Snubbed noses and snouts, fangs jutting from thick lips.
Small, murky eyes gleamed with murderous intent, and crude fur hides barely concealed their bulging, uneven muscles.
Seeing them, Federback thought:
'......What scrawny weaklings.'
The orcs he had encountered before regressing were incomparably larger, stronger, and more grotesque than these lanky fools.
Empowered by the Demon King's strength and twisted into greater savagery, they had served as the vanguard and scouts of the Demon King's army.
But now, untouched by the Demon King's power, their limbs seemed so thin and shallow compared to his memories—like mere twigs.
'At that level, I could take down not thirteen, but a hundred thirty.'
He sensed the night's harvest would be bountiful.
As the distance closed, Federback flattened himself completely, inching forward without a trace.
...Hoo!
He scooped a bit of snow and held it in his mouth.
This was to mask the white plume of his hot breath from the orcs' eyes.
He had already cleared ice from his sheath so the blade would draw smoothly.
Snow and icicles on his shield were scraped off to reduce weight.
The orc pack was now right before Federback's nose.
Crunch— crunch— crunch— crunch—
Ankles of the orcs passed before the prone Federback.
'......Not yet.'
Federback buried himself deeper in the snow and waited.
One hand gripped the white sword, the other the white shield.
The pristine blade and shield blended seamlessly with the snow.
'......Deeper.'
The gap between Federback and the orcs shrank to just one or two steps.
Even their exhaled breath was now vividly clear.
Yet Federback remained utterly still until that moment.
Like a landmine buried, emotionless, awaiting its foes.
'......Just a bit more.'
Federback tensed his grip on sword and shield.
The orcs still hadn't noticed him.
His hair was snow-white, he wore white furs, and his sword and shield were forged of white steel.
'......Almost.'
A blade's extension away—the orcs' ankles passed by.
Federback lay immersed in the frigid snow, waiting for the perfect timing.
He suppressed his pounding heart, trapped his hot breath in his lungs.
Tension taut as a tripwire.
A single snapped nerve would launch him in explosive fury.
Yet still, Federback waited.
Waited and waited.
Crunch—
The first orc's ankle passed before his eyes.
Crunch— crunch—
The second orc's ankle passed before his eyes.
Crunch— crunch— crunch—
The third orc's ankle passed before his eye...
'......Now!'
That instant, Federback sprang into action.
Crack—
Shattering the snow piled atop him, he thrust out his arm.
Coiled muscles unleashed, propelling the loaded blade forward.
...Slice!
The honed edge sheared through tough sinew.
Like a seasoned angler sensing his catch, a skilled swordsman feels exactly how deep his blade bites.
'Good feedback. It hit true.'
Federback's judgment was spot on.
[Kraaaagh!?]
The third orc clutched its ankle and thrashed on the ground.
Confusion rippled through the line ahead and behind.
[Gruk? Grrruk?]
[Krrk— krrrrk?]
[Chiiik! Chiiiiik?]
The others seemed not to grasp what had happened.
Of course, Federback didn't wait for them to catch on.
Flash!
His sword spat blade-light in rapid succession.
The surrounding powdery snow turned red all at once.
Splat— thwack!
The second and fourth orcs, closest, collapsed with ankles half-severed.
The first and fifth, rushing in, clutched blood-soaked groins, foaming at the mouth as they tumbled.
The fat snowflakes brushing past the bloody dance stained crimson.
[Chiiik! Chiiiik!]
[Gyaak! Gyaaaaak!]
[Kr—woooooorgh!]
The rear orcs didn't even know where the attack came from.
After all, Federback still crawled low through the snow, slicing only their lower bodies.
...Slash! ...Slash! ...Slash! ...Slash!
Wounds from a Meursault blade did not clot easily.
Blinding blizzard, white sky and earth, and Federback's perfect camouflage.
He wielded his sword more deftly than his own fingers.
...Chop! ...Chop! ...Chop! ...Chop!
Orcs' ankles and groins severed like rotten logs.
Some orcs swung blindly at the ground with clubs, but...
Clang—!
Federback blocked with the shield strapped firmly to his left forearm.
...Thrust!
Rising, he impaled an orc's throat ahead.
No matter how massive or muscled, a pierced windpipe saps all strength.
Federback seized the orc's nape with his off-hand and yanked inward hard.
Rrrrip!
The blade tore deeper through tough muscle.
The thrashing orc went limp, dead instantly.
'Brings back old memories. Those were the days.'
Federback moved with the wild abandon of his pre-regression self.
Mana was low, but his smaller, more flexible, lighter body compensated.
For ambushes, this form felt even superior.
What to call it? A body optimized for swift, silent kills.
'......Youth is truly a fearsome thing.'
Federback dispatched the orcs one by one.
Every strike true, one-hit kills, each swing claiming a life.
Blind attacks deflected by shield, repaid with sharp thrusts.
[......]
[...... ......]
[...... ...... ......]
The orcs fell silent.
Their ragged breaths now carried not rage, but something else.
Terror.
Terror of an unseen foe.
Splat— splat— splat— chop!
Beyond the blood-mixed blizzard, a white ghost danced.
Touch its dance, and you'd lose chunks of vital flesh; get drawn in, and you'd be shredded.
The orcs' crude weapons were useless.
In this all-white world, the ghost's white sword and shield seemed illusory.
Assailed unseen in the blizzard and gale, dying coldly—this experience reduced valiant orc warriors to terrified children.
...Flash!
Federback's sword flashed once more.
[Chiiik!?]
A scream, and an orc head sailed into the air.
Blood from the neck stump froze into jagged ruby crystals.
'Cold enough to freeze blood solid.'
Sensing the clotting, Federback adjusted tactics.
Slash—
No need to target vitals precisely now.
Deep gashes to thighs or lower abdomen sufficed.
Hot blood drained body heat in gouts, freezing into spikes that necrotized skin and crippled movement.
Orcs clutched spilling entrails in bewilderment.
The freezing guts inflicted agony beyond words.
No need for follow-up swings on those.
The orcs died slowly of hypothermia in the blizzard.
Falling snow turned red, the ground a crimson, jagged icefield.
Minutes later, only Federback stood alive on the vast snowfield.
'......I'm used to surviving alone.'
He left the battle traces as-is.
Bodies and bloodstains soon vanished under fresh snow.
The metallic blood scent whipped away by the wind.
The Snowy Mountains feigned ignorance of the slaughter.
"This sector's clear."
Federback wiped blood from his blade with snow and pressed on.
Gone was the feeble young master who couldn't swat a bug just yesterday.
Who would believe this was Meursault House's outcast?