Chapter 42
Chapter 42
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 42
Chapter Title: 14. A Song Dedicated to the Large and Beautiful Green Mass (4)
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The 1st Prince leaped down with spirited momentum, rolling across the ground as he slashed with his sword. Blood gushed violently from the orc warrior's waist. The enraged orc warrior thrust out his arm. But the prince was already gone from that spot, sprinting far ahead.
It was a fine strike, and fine judgment.
Had he forced the blade in deeper, he would've ended up caught in the orc warrior's brutish grip and turned into mincemeat.
Vincent spotted the prince exchanging blows with another orc.
"Hah."
This time, even Vincent was taken aback.
With otherworldly swordplay that seemed to dance like flames, the orc's forearm turned bright red, and soon it clutched at its throat, gurgling.
A sight achieved through pure swordsmanship without a drop of mana—it was worthy of applause.
Deflecting the incoming axe of another orc warrior using the first orc's body as a shield was brilliant too.
At that moment, the royal soldiers loosed arrows in unison. Then, gripping swords and shields, they charged down the slope like tumbling boulders.
A few orcs stepped forward, blocking the path between the prince and the infantry.
"Good instincts, but no real battle experience—that's the one flaw."
Taking down one orc with such flair was impressive, but it was a mistake. It was like sticking his head right into the orc's maw just to claim one kill.
Vincent clicked his tongue and signaled to Filson beside him.
Whistle.
As Filson whistled sharply, rangers and knights appeared atop the opposite slope and the flanks. They were the 3rd Legion troops shadowing them in secret for just such an emergency.
"When the signal drops, pin the orcs with crossbows and secure the prince."
He had no intention of intervening just yet.
The royal infantry were holding up better than expected, and the probationary knight was surprisingly skilled. He'd thought she was just ornamental, but she clearly knew her sword.
As he nodded unconsciously, watching the prince's group fight valiantly, the prince suddenly went berserk.
"Tch."
Vincent scowled. Rookies getting swept up in battle frenzy was common, and most died lost in that madness.
Swish.
Vincent raised his arm. The waiting rangers lifted their crossbows. Knights drew swords, tensing to leap into the fray at any moment.
Just drop his hand.
Then this messy fight would end in an instant.
But Vincent couldn't lower his hand.
"How the hell is he fighting that well?"
The 1st Prince was performing astonishingly.
An orc warrior's forearm flew into the sky. Late-arriving orcs tried to intervene, but they were all bisected.
In mere moments, four orcs had been cleaved in half.
"Captain."
As he watched in repeated admiration, Filson tapped his shoulder and pointed to the northern foothills.
"Son of a bitch."
Vincent ground his teeth and shot to his feet.
A group of orcs was approaching from the base of the hills. A proper orc combat unit, complete with banners.
Slash, slash-slash.
Vincent's hands flashed rapid signals in the air. The rangers twisted their crossbow bolts and unleashed a volley.
"Squad 1, stay and monitor—if they need help, jump in immediately. Everyone else, follow me and block that orc unit!"
At Vincent's command, knights and rangers charged down the slope in unison.
"Damn it. Why is a combat unit here..."
Scouts and combat units moving together did happen occasionally. Orcs merging forces to hunt bigger game wasn't unheard of, though rare.
But this wasn't one of those cases.
No orc combat unit of at least a hundred strong would merge with scouts just to hunt thirty-odd humans.
But what could he do? The orc combat unit was already here, and he had to stop them.
Fifty rangers in five squads, seven knights.
It was a tight force against a hundred orcs.
"Hup!"
From the start, he spun three rings, drawing out his full power. Opposite him, ten massive orc warriors charged forth.
"Knights on the orc warriors! Rangers, keep the rest pinned!"
At his order, the rangers descending the slope swiftly reloaded and peppered the orcs.
Fifty crossbow bolts rained down on the orcs.
Just before colliding with the orc warriors, Vincent scanned for the 1st Prince.
The prince's fight was nearing its end. A few orcs remained, but they wouldn't last long.
"Kraaaah!"
The ear-shattering orc roars pulled Vincent's gaze forward from his prince-search.
Now wasn't the time to worry about the 1st Prince.
Facing the thundering orc warriors, Vincent infused mana into his blade.
* *
The infantry, Hansdeck included, were in chaos.
No sooner had the prince gone wild, slicing orcs in half, than rangers came charging down the slope past them.
"Loose!"
The rangers paused to fire crossbows, then resumed their charge. Beyond them loomed a loathsome army of murky green.
Easily over a hundred orcs, a monstrous horde raising banners and blowing horns as they charged.
"Hold formation and standby!"
Arwen bellowed.
"Our duty is protecting His Highness! Leave the orcs to the 3rd Legion!"
Her sharp voice left the infantry dumbfounded.
She knew exactly why they wore those expressions.
She glanced at the prince, sword gripped tight, eyes gleaming blue. Orc corpses littered around him. Only a limbless orc warrior and a few cowed regulars remained.
The prince rampaged wildly in their midst, and he hardly seemed in need of aid.
Even those were soon decapitated and bisected into corpses.
"Hah, hah."
The prince panted heavily.
The relentless blue glow faded.
For the first time since the fight began, his bare face was revealed.
"Y-Your Highness?"
The prince's face was vacant, as if his soul had fled.
Startled, Arwen rushed to him. But she halted before reaching him.
She saw his eyes.
Empty pupils, swirling with grief beyond them.
Facing that profound emotion, Arwen's mind reeled.
An unimaginable, unwanted horror of loss gleamed in the prince's eyes.
"Ah..."
The prince spoke. His cracked, sunken voice echoed in Arwen's head.
Toot~
Then came the orcs' horns.
The prince creakily turned. His empty eyes refilled with blue glow.
Bam!
Gripping his sword, the prince kicked off the ground.
"Your Highness!"
She grabbed desperately, but he was already charging ahead.
"Maintain formation and advance at double time!"
Shouting that, she handed command to Hansdeck and pursued the prince.
* *
He walked the plains, endlessly.
He stopped only to confront those cursed greenskins.
No matter their numbers. If he saw them, he killed them. If he heard them, he hunted them down and killed.
He tore their murky green bodies to shreds and drank their blood. Gnawed their flesh to sate his hunger. When full, he pressed on.
It wasn't enough. No matter how many he killed, it wasn't enough.
Even in the heart of orc-dominated barren lands, his yearning went unsated.
Chewing flesh and gulping blood left him perpetually starved. Victory after victory brought no fulfillment.
Hunger and loss were like a holed jar.
He knew it wouldn't fill, yet poured blood into it. The holed jar emptied swiftly.
He wandered the barren lands anew, seeking blood.
Over time, wounds accumulated on his body.
Skin tore, bones cracked. Even walking grew arduous.
Yet he didn't stop.
The rite for his wife and daughter, slain without a scrap of flesh left—it had only just begun.
He fought and fought.
His heart's mana had long depleted. Yet his sword still shimmered with light.
Power traded for life force sustained him.
With each fight, he aged. Jet-black hair turned white. Taut, bloodied skin wrinkled like an old man's.
Gaunt arms, wretched frame.
Still, he creaked forward.
Then he met another greenskin band.
"Ahh..."
For the first time since entering the wastes, his mouth opened.
Not speech, but a groan—like a sob more than words.
The banner's emblem was his long-sought enemy's.
Like a wounded beast, a raging predator, he howled.
He looked at his arm. The bony limb was shriveled and wrinkled like a centenarian's. With it, he gripped his sword. And charged.
He beheaded the first charging greenskin. Sliced the throat of the next. Raised his sword again.
A monstrously huge greenskin swung a rusted axe. He met it head-on instead of dodging—as always, aiming to cleave axe and all.
But his sword had lost its glow long ago; he was merely a centenarian now.
And no elder could parry such savage force.
His arm snapped, sword flew. The massive battle axe cleaved toward his chest.
Split skin, parched dry—no blood flowed.
He rose again.
Riven chest, dangling arm—pain was absent. When his wife died, his soul had died too. What pain from a broken arm or chest when life was already lost?
"Krr."
The greenskin extended fingers, shoving his chest.
Thud.
He toppled ignobly backward.
"Ughhh..."
He writhed, straining to rise. The watching greenskin stomped his chest like crushing an insect.
Crack.
Sternum shattered, chest caved.
He reached out. Feebly groped the greenskin's foot.
In that instant, his fingertips vanished like erased ink. Skin scattered like dust, bones flew. Disintegration spread from fingers to whole body.
His lips moved.
But before the parched mouth could utter a word, annihilation consumed him.
Thus, the man who burned his very life for vengeance faded unknown on nameless plains.
A tale unpassed, unknown to all.
I alone would remember it all.
Ah...
Something squelched underfoot. Lifting my creaking head, I saw an orc's blood-soaked corpse crushed beneath me.
The orc, face twisted demon-like, gaped its mouth. Jaw clattered as blood bubbled.
The orc's hand seized my ankle.
"......!"
Baring jagged fangs, it snarled.
Squelch.
In that instant, a flying sword severed the orc's neck.
Roll.
The head tumbled. Blood sprayed. Hot liquid splashed up, drenching me head to toe in crimson.
Sizzle.
The scalding sensation jolted me alert.
"Die!"
"Kraaaagh!"
Suddenly, the silent world erupted in clamor.
Feet pounding, metal clashing, dying screams.
My hazy mind snapped awake.
Only then did I realize I was in the heart of battle.
The moment I grasped that, I viewed with startling objectivity the tragic man's emotions that had gripped my consciousness moments before.
"Ah..."
And I knew instinctively what I must do now.
A fitting foe lay before me: the elite greenskin combat unit the man so desperately sought to annihilate. Though eras and banner emblems differed, it mattered not.
I readjusted my grip on the sword.
And sang the poem anew.
In that instant, the poem's karma synchronized with my soul once more.
Blood sprayed, flesh flew.
I swept madly through all directions.
"Your Highness! Your Highness!"
A clear, high voice—neither heavy nor sharp like the others—pierced my ears.
Arwen.
At her call, I looked around.
All orcs lay dead. Only one orc warrior remained, pinned under my foot.
"Kraaaagh!"
The orc warrior thrashed, trying to rise. But I was faster.
Stab.
Dusk pierced its heart. The writhing body went limp.
The final orc perished by my hand.
As if awaiting the moment, a message arrived. Then faint song lyrics echoed.
"Piling green corpses into mountains, a red pond forms beneath." "And I, before it, honor your soul."
⟨ [Poem of Vengeance] → [Soul-Recording Requiem] ⟩
The eerie lyrics softened to quiet whispers.
"Ah..."
In that moment, a forgotten name resurfaced from memory's depths.
I turned. A blood-soaked man erected the snapped and torn orc banners.
"We've won!"
The Ballerhard family's eldest son—a man sharing the tragic avenger's name—roared the victory cry.
What coincidence.
I mouthed softly.
The man's unfinished final words.
Amid cheering humans, I repeated them endlessly.
"Even in the next life... definitely again."