He Is My God
Aria collapsed. She had thrown herself in front of Azazel. A wave of futility washed over her. After throwing a tantrum about tagging along, the only thing she could manage was to act as a human shield. She was nothing but useless dead weight.
If she thought about it coldly, it wouldn’t have mattered if Azazel had been the one struck. Aria possessed the means to heal her. A simple Heal from a safe distance would have sufficed. The choice to take the sword blow in her place had not been rooted in reason. Her body had moved before her mind could catch up—an impulsive act born from the simple wish that Azazel not get hurt. A trivial, clumsy attempt at self-satisfaction.
She mocked herself. Look at me, worrying about someone else when I can’t even handle my own problems.
It hurt. The wound burned and stung as if she had slathered her skin with pain-relief patches until it blistered. Pain had never become familiar to her. Having lived in the modern world, she remained fragile. Honestly, even now it was almost unbearable.
Thump. Thump. Her heart hammered wildly. She felt no real sense of crisis. She had survived having her throat run through, after all. A wound like this should be fine. But if the black knight landed a follow-up strike, there would be no path to survival. She would die for certain.
Was she afraid of death? Of course she was. But what she truly feared was never being able to see him again.
Aria gazed up at the night sky. Thick clouds blanketed everything, and snow drifted down. She furrowed her brow. It was dark—so unbearably dark. Not a single speck of light could be seen.
Goddess.
I know Ain has not died. I believe it with all my heart. No one follows him more fervently or passionately than I do. But if he has truly died… I will stop believing in you. It was a manufactured faith from the beginning. A coerced faith. A false faith.
The one who gave me real faith was Ain. The one who gave me hope was Ain. He is not all-knowing or all-powerful, but… Ain is my god.
A morning without him. A landscape without him. A world without him. A life without him—I cannot even imagine it anymore.
If you truly exist in this world, please bring Ain back to me. Then I will believe in you with all my heart. Fill this gaping void inside me. Save me as I fall apart.
Perhaps her desperate prayer had reached someone. In that instant, Aria felt it—something on the other side. It was a resonance. A vibration that echoed like a heartbeat.
With every ounce of strength she could muster, Aria forced her stiff neck to turn. There he was. Ain had come. Just the sight of him sent an electric jolt through her mind. Her chest swelled until it hurt. I worried for nothing. You’re perfectly fine. How cruel, to burn her heart black like that and then show up looking untouched.
“Huk…”
Suddenly Aria’s body ignited like a living flame. The scorching heat was overwhelming. It felt as though her blood vessels, her organs, her entire being were melting away. Through the agony, a voice reached her.
“This is the first time I have spoken in this manner, is it not?”
The voice was refreshingly crisp, like the bite of carbonation.
“……Who… are you?”
“For Ashtain to stand against that man, your power is required, Aria. Yet for the girl to wield your strength, permission is needed. That is why I have spoken at such length…”
“Take it. Right now.”
If she could be of help—if she could lend him strength—that was all she had ever wanted.
“How refreshing. I like it.”
The holy power within her body was violently sucked away. It felt as if every last drop was being drained. Dizziness overwhelmed Aria, and her consciousness snapped off.
When she regained awareness, the black knight was mocking Ashtain. She had no idea what the current situation was, but a blazing inferno of fury roared inside Aria’s chest. No one was allowed to insult him. No one.
“Th-thank goodness. You’re awake?”
Azazel asked with visible relief. Aria had woken far too clearly for mere relief to suffice.
“Azazel, could you help me up?”
“…All right.”
Though she shot Aria a puzzled glance, Azazel complied. Aria’s body was still in terrible shape, but these words had to be spoken.
She drew in a deep breath, causing her already ample chest to swell further. Then she shouted.
It was a tremendous voice. Azazel’s eyes flew wide. She had only ever seen Aria as frail and gentle; she had never imagined the saintess could roar like that. Even Ashtain and the black knight froze mid-motion, staring at her.
“Don’t you dare judge him as you please.”
He was magnificent. The most wonderful person in the world.
“Pathetic? Not in the slightest.”
He had stepped forward from a painful past and kept walking with his head held high. To call the path he had carved pathetic?
“Ain is more splendid than any hero who has ever lived.”
She clenched her fist. No matter what anyone else said, he was her one and only hero. Therefore he would not lose. He would win. Against any opponent.
“What an embarrassing grand speech. I heard it well. The girl seems to share the same opinion.”
Clank.
With Aria’s words as the trigger, the Holy Sword transformed.
He had waited an endlessly long time. For someone possessing true qualification to arrive. It had been a period of bitter endurance.
He was a replica created by the previous hero, existing solely to test the next generation’s hero. He was the whetstone meant to sharpen them to a lethal edge.
Looks like defeating the Demon King this generation is hopeless as well.
When he had first seen this era’s hero, he had thought the boy hardly seemed useful. Still, even without hope, the test had to be given. That was the sole purpose of his existence.
The hero had been pathetic, just as expected. Was it because he had nothing to protect? A reasonable conclusion. A true hero only grew stronger when there was something precious to safeguard.
He had decided to instill a sense of urgency in the boy. Conveniently, individuals presumed to be the hero’s companions had entered Mount Ascendio. The man had acted at once. The goal was to threaten them while simultaneously gauging the level of the hero’s gathered allies.
The mage was competent. The saintess was worthless. Utterly unimpressive. Compared to those of the past, they were laughably weak. Would it be postponed to the next generation again?
Having finished his assessment, he waited for the right moment—for the fainted hero to return to this place.
He’s here.
At the perfect instant, he had slashed the mage. The saintess had always possessed exceptional healing ability; he had been certain she could recover from such a wound. Yet it was the saintess herself who had taken the blow. He had never considered she might choose to shield another.
Is she a fool?
It was not a matter of great importance. He had successfully drawn out the hero’s rage. Their role was over. All that remained was to evaluate the hero.
Or so it should have been.
The saintess’s will and the hero’s will had resonated, tearing away the shell of the Holy Sword. An unforeseen development.
The man recognized that form. Though he was a replica, he carried the previous hero’s memories.
The Sword of Condemnation.
Even the original self had been forced to sacrifice countless comrades to draw out the Holy Sword’s true essence. He had endured endless suffering. Yet these two had manifested its original power already? Without any sacrifice?
I never imagined the day would come when I would retract my opinion.
He acknowledged it. That the pair were capable. That though they were weak, they carried infinite potential within them.
The man smiled.
“Give it everything you have. I shall do the same.”
Behind his back, a row of faded iron swords appeared. Dozens. Hundreds. Every blade was rusted, poorly maintained. Yet the oppressive aura they radiated was overwhelming.
As a hero chosen by the Holy Sword, he possessed an alias: the Steel Hero. He had wielded countless blades. That was why they called him so.
“Let us begin.”
Creeeeak. Targets designated. Bang!
A rusted iron sword tore through the air. Yet Ashtain did not move an inch from where he stood. There was no need.
BOOM! The blade never reached him. Azazel, gripping her staff, had intercepted it mid-flight.
“You intend to interfere, little lady?”
“That’s right, tin can.”
“Very well. Your will remains unbroken. Commendable.”
Dozens of iron swords shifted targets to Azazel and launched.
“Not a chance.”
The attack meant for Azazel was blocked by Ashtain. Clang! Clang! Clang! Sparks flew. The number of swords scattered across the ground steadily grew. He could not deflect them all. No matter how exceptional the Sword of Condemnation, the hero’s own skill was still lacking. The wounds that had only just been healed began opening once more.
“Heal.”
A graceful voice rang out. Pure white light enveloped Ashtain’s body. The injuries closed in an instant. The dozens of iron swords had been rendered meaningless.
“How troublesome.”
Hero. Mage. Saintess. Individually, none posed a serious threat. Yet the seamless coordination between vanguard and rear support created a natural harmony. Attack the hero and the mage’s assistance would prevent a decisive blow. Target the mage and the hero would block. Drag the fight into a war of attrition until they tired? The saintess would restore their stamina and mend their wounds. Aim for the saintess and both hero and mage would stand in the way.
They complemented one another like perfectly interlocking gears.
He retreated several steps and observed. With a moment of breathing room, the saintess spoke.
“Among the books I’ve read, there is a saying that three can stand against one.”
Three against one. The Steel Hero regarded the saintess, finding the phrase rather refined.
“What are you trying to say?”
“It means there is no business in a dogpile.”
The man found himself genuinely amused. Of course he knew. Overwhelming the few with the many—that had always been the hero party’s signature tactic.
“An excellent saying.”
By test standards, the moment the hero had drawn the Sword of Condemnation, he had already passed. Everything that followed was optional—like an after-party no one was required to attend.
Yet the man found himself looking forward to it. To what they would show him. To how far they could go.
The battle took on an entirely different tone. The Sword of Condemnation in Ashtain’s grip surpassed the replicated Holy Sword wielded by the Steel Hero, narrowing the gap between them.
Crack. After only a few exchanges, fractures began to spiderweb across the Holy Sword. The black knight attempted to block the Sword of Condemnation using the rusted iron blades floating at his back. They all shattered and broke.
That was not the end. The ground beneath his feet suddenly surged upward—the mage’s interference. If he tried to dodge, the Sword of Condemnation came flying. If he barely deflected it, a gale slammed into him from the side. His mind reeled.
“This is enjoyable.”
It was a nostalgic feeling of crisis. He shoved Ashtain, who held the Sword of Condemnation, backward. The moment he retreated, a massive fireball came hurtling toward him as if it had been waiting. The man instinctively realized this was no ordinary flame spell. It was a miniature sun. There was no time to evade; he could only block it head-on.
BOOOOOOM!
The direct hit sent him skidding backward. Cracks formed across part of the armor crafted from black dragon scales. The fracture had been born from the clash between the extreme low temperature of the ice-flame core and the intense heat of the fireball.
He tried to regain his stance.
“Huh?”
Ashtain emerged through the thick black smoke. Unlike himself, the boy possessed no special defensive equipment. The explosion moments ago had carried heat no ordinary human could endure. Yet he had charged straight through it?
His flesh and skin should have been melting. But the skin the black knight had expected to see melted was healing at an astonishing rate. It was closer to super-regeneration than simple recovery.
What technique had he used? The answer came quickly. Above Ashtain’s head, white holy power in the shape of a cross sparkled. The saintess. She had bestowed high-speed healing upon him—single-target, hero-exclusive high-speed healing. Its performance far exceeded ordinary high-speed recovery. Considering the caster was the saintess herself, the current Ashtain could probably regrow a severed arm in moments.
He closed in. The black knight tried to move but was a step too slow. Few iron swords remained behind him, and most were already half-destroyed or chipped.
The blades wrapped around his front like wings. Yet they were nowhere near enough to stop the Sword of Condemnation. It was meaningless. Even the swords were sliced apart. A clean, vertical downward slash.
“I have lost.”
The hero of this generation was different. It was a fact he had no choice but to admit.