Severing the Traitor's Arms

Even when entering the knight hall, ignorant of everything, he hadn't been too worried. From Zenovia's status window, most of her stats hovered between low and mid-range, with no traits or even skills—she was barely scraping by as a knight. He'd been certain of victory.

"Why the hell is that over there…."

Even when Zenovia appeared wielding a massive greatsword, he thought it was fine. But the moment he saw the emblem embedded in the blade, he couldn't help frowning.

A gleaming, roaring lion emblem on the hilt of the black greatsword. How could he forget it? It wasn't a sword but a bow, yet it was the same mark on a weapon he'd once used effectively.

"Heracles' Greatsword…."

Among the ancient heroes, he was the one said to have nearly ascended to godhood instead of being deified after death. As the son of 'Zeus,' his feats from when he lived were legendary, even by ancient standards. The most famous included slaying the Nemean Lion barehanded, killing the Hydra, capturing Cerberus alive—but his weapons and power were even more renowned.

And while his raw strength was beyond replication, his artifacts endured. His club, bow with Hydra-poisoned arrows, sword—any armament bearing his symbol had become historical relics, exhibiting magic-tool-like abilities.

Nothing he could do about it. Heracles' sword wasn't well-known anyway. The bow and club were top-tier compared to others, but anything else with his symbol was just a slightly better artifact. If she'd brought the club, maybe—but a sword? No way he'd lose.

"I can't use it."

If you're bringing something, at least bring a proper one. The moment he saw the sword's peculiarities, he knew it was for short bursts—practically one-use trash. Even if it perfectly copied Heracles' techniques, permanently devouring Talent was garbage. And the Strength boost? Temporary, of course.

"Heracles must be rolling in his grave."

He drew the scythe slung on his back, quietly calling her name.

"Nero."

Nero responded in her usual laid-back tone to his call, appearing in her small form—but no need this time.

"Let's clear that away."

Nero's eyes shot toward Zenovia. Zenovia sneered at Nero's appearance, hoisting the massive greatsword into a knight order sword stance.

"Yeah, don't kill her… right, slicing off an arm or so sounds good."

Perfect timing—he'd brought the scythe anyway. Time to test a skill.

At his words, Nero spewed curses, emerging from his shadow in her massive true form—screams erupted around them. The barrier prevented curses from leaking out, but… Nero's appearance was terrifying.

"Ah… ugh…."

"She's the exception."

Zenovia, who moments ago had exuded confident fighting spirit, now trembled like a leaf, barely gripping her greatsword—a pitiful sight.

He slowly swung the scythe, steadying his breath.

"Huuu…."

Synchronizing his breath with Nero's, aligning the curse waves too. No need to instruct her—Nero's casual output matched his full power in speed and force, so she just needed to gauge him. But only he needed full power.

Ding.

"I refuse."

What the hell is this? This insane system window.

He hated Zenovia enough to kill her. No doubt.

"Death only brings rest."

People truly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fear death because of the process leading to it. Eternal farewell from loved ones, regrets over untaken actions, the bitter void of never feeling past joys again, terror of an unknown afterlife. That's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the scary part… death itself brings little pain.

'Ah, I'm dying.' No deeper sentiment. All focus converges on recalling memories rather than perceiving death—no room for regret.

"If mere death satisfies you, think again."

"Well, can't take her head, but lopping off arms or legs? Sure."

"Begin!!"

At Skaya's command, he charged right toward Zenovia without hesitation, Nero left—both sharpening their weapons viciously. Purple curses gathered on her massive claws, blue on his scythe, emanating sword-aura-like menace.

"Huh?"

Zenovia panicked, unsure where to swing.

Slash!!

Crunch!!

Both arms torn off.

"….KyaAAAAAHHH!!!!!"

Too late to realize—Zenovia's arms rolled across the floor in crimson sprays.

Zenovia's arms were gone, but right and left differed vastly. His cut was clean—Harvest skill effect, plus the borrowed scythe performed well.

But….

"That's serious."

Nero's claw-ripped arm was unrecognizable as an arm—more mangled meat. Her armor shredded like paper on contact; curse-infused, skin charred black, exposing red muscle and yellow fat. Bones peeked through in spots… brutally torn.

"Nero."

"You did great."

Perfect. He'd definitely master curse-gathering on claws someday. And… test on Prin next. Saintess candidate—she could heal limbs, right?

"Medical team!! Hurry and reattach this!!!"

"!! Yes, sir!!!"

Realizing the match's end, the medical team scrambled to gather Zenovia's scattered arms and traces for recovery, but….

"Huh??"

"W-Why won't it attach?!?!"

Mana-less curse strikes blocked recovery? Unexpected, but no worry. This academy had a saintess (candidate)—what was there to fear?

"Saintess!!"

"I'll handle the healing!! Others, staunch bleeding and reduce curse volume on her arms as much as possible!!"

"Y-Yes!!!"

Prin arrived fashionably late like the protagonist; medics moved efficiently, stripping curses from Zenovia's arms. His blue curses lifted quickly, but Nero's purple—slow going.

"Hm… Nero's side? Probably impossible."

Curse aside, condition too dire. Peak Prin could, but her current holy power—better than past self here, but not peak. Eighty percent chance of failure.

"Won't let her die."

He slipped out of the hall; the system calmly announced quest failure and penalty.

"Do whatever."

"Aah… AAAH… AAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!!!!!"

Inside the hall, one female knight's scream echoed for a very long time.