Beyond the Original, Part 2
My throat was scratchy, likely from swallowing too much dust. Even after flipping open my visor to spit, the gritty sensation remained lodged deep inside. It was the side effect of going around demolishing buildings. I had been roaming through alleys thick with narcotic smoke, and now all that dust was swirling around me. Had I known it would be this bad, I would have asked Sirien to prepare some water for me before we parted. Though right now, our dear Saintess was probably busy cleaning up the ruins I had left behind.
I should also ask her about the red script on this armor. I had been quite startled when the armor suddenly flared with a crimson light. I had even hastily channeled my divine power, fearing it was an attack I hadn't anticipated. Fortunately, the glowing red letters were actually protecting my body. Sirien must have prepared it. I recalled how she had flinched when our paths briefly crossed earlier; she probably hadn't expected it to glow like this either. Though it made me look a bit like a villain to onlookers, what did it matter? As long as armor was sturdy and allowed for easy movement, that was all that mattered.
"R-run! Run away!"
"Eek! Hyaaaack!"
As time passed, the number of people fleeing at the mere sight of me multiplied. Since Sirien and I weren't here for mindless slaughter, I didn't pursue them relentlessly. However, I showed no mercy to those who reeked of the sewers from deep addiction, or those foolish enough to lunge at me.
The Mullet Flower was originally a poisonous plant. A toxin that caused mild delirium and hallucinations upon ingestion. The refined version of that poison was the drug distributed by the Sewer Rats, and its addictiveness was on par with modern narcotics. An inescapable swamp. The addicts here were fools sinking into that mire with no intention of ever climbing out. This made them easy to tell apart. No matter how brave a warrior was, they would back away from a fight with an overwhelming tactical disadvantage. But those crazed by the drug charged forward blindly, heedless of the consequences.
My greatsword sliced through the swamp. Corpses bloomed in abundance across the squalid ground.
How many have I killed? A significant amount of time had passed. I had long since demolished all the strongholds Sirien had located. I had even hunted down a few extra spots by tailing the survivors, but now there was nothing left. Consequently, I was running out of places to go. It was strange that Millen had yet to show himself despite the absolute chaos I had unleashed. Was he planning to just stay in hiding and lay low?
Just as impatience began to creep in, I felt a faint trace of my divine power in the distance. The sword I had given to Isha had been drawn. The source of the energy was neither too far nor too close.
"Found you."
They called themselves the Sewer Rats, and they certainly lived up to the name. The place where my divine power flared was near the cesspool where all of Requitas's sewage gathered. As I drew closer to the drains, actual combatants began to appear—men who knew how to handle a blade, and the beastman mercenaries Millen had hired. Among them were those who recognized me, like the bear beastman Bester. However, this next one seemed to harbor a deep, personal grudge.
A blind spot. A wolf beastman lurking around the street corner lunged, claws bared.
"We finally meet, you wretched human!"
"Have we met? You look like a stranger to me."
"The Aktania Gate! Are you going to pretend you don't remember my brother?"
"Sorry. I genuinely have no idea."
It wasn't as if I could count the number of beastmen who had died by my hand. Still, I decided to respect his right to vengeance. At the very least, I would humor him with a fight. Besides, if I just ignored him, he would probably dog my steps to the end.
I blocked the incoming claws with the flat of my blade. The situation didn't allow me to cleave him apart right away. Surprisingly, a greatsword is a rather useless weapon in extreme close quarters. Every movement is large, leaving plenty of openings. Using the blade as a shield, I shoved him back to secure some distance. Could I rely on my armor to withstand a beastman's claws? I weighed the odds, but the outlook wasn't particularly optimistic. Those claws were far too sharp to test on a whim.
A well-honed battle aura surged toward me once more. This beastman seemed more skilled than the brother he claimed had died. No matter how much I racked my brain, though, no wolf beastman came to mind.
"Graaaah! I am of the Forest Claw Tri—"
"I don't care enough to listen to your introduction, though."
The only time the situation had been unfavorable was during his initial ambush. Now that I knew his position, reestablished my distance, and corrected my stance, there was no reason to hold back. A massive, sweeping strike of my greatsword bisected the wolf beastman. Despite its various drawbacks, there was a reason people wielded heavy weapons—against my greatsword, defense was practically impossible.
Stepping over the wolf's corpse, I continued forward.
I had swept through the enemies as I advanced, but it seemed I was still a bit too late. The moment I spotted Millen, I thrust my greatsword forward, but his reflexes were sharp. A heavy impact rattled against the flat of my blade as if he were trying to swat it away. I pulled back my weapon and retreated a step. Millen glared at me with cold, venomous eyes.
"Ha. So you finally dragged yourself all the way here."
"That hurts my feelings. I've been planning to take your head from the very beginning."
"Fine. Give it your best shot. I suppose this works out better for me anyway. If I kill you all here, I won't have to worry about any future headaches."
"You talk big for a coward who was hiding in fear."
First, I scanned the surroundings. Isha lay unconscious on the ground, and a man with ash-gray hair stood protectively in front of her. That had to be Russell. Having the exact same hair color as Isha made him easy to identify. However, Russell was in terrible shape. He was forcing himself to stand when he should have been incapacitated long ago. Not only was he drenched in blood, but one of his arms was bent at a grotesque angle, on the verge of being torn off. Even if things went well today, that arm looked beyond saving. His internal injuries seemed severe as well; his ragged breathing was laced with agony. Blood dripped from his chin, suggesting he had coughed up blood multiple times already. Russell parted his lips to say something to me, but no sound came out.
I stepped between Millen and Russell.
"Take your daughter and go back the way I came. If you run into a silver-haired woman, ask her politely for help. Once she sees Isha, she will assist you."
I didn't look back. I could faintly sense Russell picking up Isha, but that was all. Millen was not an opponent I could face with divided attention.
"Aren't you going to ask if I'll let them escape?"
"I'll just kill you first, then go after them."
Millen's weapons of choice were knuckles. The blood-stained metal gleamed on his tightly clenched fists. The raw power generated from his robust physique was formidable; the impact that had deflected my greatsword earlier was no joke. Since he didn't use a bulky weapon, his transitions between offense and defense were incredibly fluid, and his movements were swifter than his build suggested. His special ability didn't seem to be anything flashy like fire or ice. If it were, I would have seen traces of it on Russell's wounds. There was no reason for him to hold back until now.
Yet, something was off. As we exchanged a few blows, a strange sense of dissonance washed over me.
Is he a beat faster?
It was entirely possible for him to react to my attacks. Humans naturally showed tells before they moved, and I was no exception to that rule—especially with a weapon like a greatsword, which left little room for subtle feints. The problem was that he didn't seem to be reacting to me. It felt as though he already knew what I was going to do. It was as if he were looking at an answer sheet, executing a pre-planned counter rather than a spontaneous reaction. Because my intentions were laid bare, I kept losing the initiative. Was I losing the psychological war? No, it wasn't that.
Millen wound up to throw a punch at me, only to suddenly step back. If he had followed through, I could have grabbed his arm. Even though I hadn't made a move yet, he had read my trap. Consequently, I was left a step behind in recovering my greatsword. I had to lower my left arm slightly to block Millen's incoming fist. A numbing shock vibrated through me. Still, was my defense not bad? Millen had overextended. No matter how well one read an opponent's moves, it was useless if they couldn't physically evade. At this rate, I could cleave him in two with my greatsword.
The moment my blade lunged toward Millen, a powerful force struck the sword, even though it hadn't touched anything. With its trajectory warped, the blade missed its mark. This left my defense wide open. To make matters worse, another impact rattled my left arm, and in the blink of an eye, Millen's fist was right in front of my face.
"Ugh!"
A clean hit. His fist slammed directly into my solar plexus. The shockwave rattled through my armor, delivering a devastating blow. No wonder Russell's body had been completely broken. I tasted a hint of copper in my mouth; my insides had taken some damage.
"I don't understand you. Did you really think you could run amok in Requitas and get away with it? Do you think I embarked on an enterprise of this scale without any backing?"
"And do you think I came to this stinking city just to murder a few people for fun? You're hilarious, you bastard."
Millen seemed to believe he had secured his victory. I suppose his tongue was growing loose now that he thought he was winning. And that was after landing a single successful blow. He didn't even realize he had just played his final card. That last attack had revealed exactly what his special ability was. I wouldn't fall for the same trick twice. A war of words deserved a war of words. As a descendant of a nation defined by historical, petty scholarly debates, I refused to lose a verbal spat. I leveled my greatsword at Millen once more and shouted:
"This is a request from Baron Isquente, the Commander of the Northern Front's Third Division. He told me to clean up the trash that keeps peddling drugs behind our lines."