The Annoying Undead
Not long ago I'd still been calling those prairie village bumpkins "bumpkins." I couldn't even claim it was some distant past, either. Back then, even Ashtar would have been nothing more than a bumpkin galloping around on horseback.
One thing I could say with certainty: the man in front of me truly belonged to that era. He knew about the Ban race, so there was no room for doubt.
Maybe I ought to look into it once I got back.
"The Ban race originally had black hair and small, slit eyes. Just how many generations of mixed blood would it take to produce looks like yours?"
Could I hit him for that? I seriously wanted to deck the bastard.
This old fossil of a geezer was picking a fight with me, so one solid punch seemed fair.
"Well. Women usually dislike hearing such things. I'll apologize for that."
"You've got some sense, at least."
Sense alone never got anyone far.
"However, the fact that I awoke in this place is largely your doing. Had I remained quietly buried here, I would have faded away on my own soon enough. You lot appeared and stirred the stable demonic energy, so you will have to put me down yourselves."
Yeah. Yeah. That was how it had to go. No other choice.
"Then how about you take one hit right now."
"Even so, since I have woken, I find myself wanting to test the humans of the distant future."
No—this fucking bastard?
In short, he wanted one good fight before going back to sleep. If it came to that, could that half-baked party even handle him?
"Uh... what do we do? That guy looks insanely strong."
"He's not even a person. He's undead. And yes, he's strong."
"At this point we have to do something as well, Master!"
Why the hell were these lunatics chaining themselves to me? Just fight freely or run the hell away on your own. Do whatever.
Maybe it was already a little late for that.
Veratel drew his sword. Dust and grit spilled from the ancient scabbard, but he paid it no mind as the blade cleared the sheath.
"Shall I step in?"
"Celia. You?"
Having Celia handle it would certainly be convenient. But if it came to that, I might as well do it myself. There was no real need for her to take the stage.
They'd called him the Divine Sword, hadn't they? Right. This body had once been something of a sword saint in its own right.
Backing down here would bruise my pride. Besides, the guy seemed far more interested in me than in that useless party.
"Fine. I'll take him."
I hated taking the bait, but what choice was there? Putting this thing back to sleep came first.
I drew the Mana Sword. I needed to put him down with the blade that carried even Pector's authority.
As fast as possible. That way nothing unnecessary about me would leak out through this half-assed party.
Finish it quick and I could write him off as "he was a weakling from the start."
"Ohh! Mana Sword!"
"Hooo. A Mana Sword. It has been a long time since I last laid eyes on one."
Celia and the master of the house reacted at the same time.
Celia I could understand, but for the house's owner to light up like that...
Asking more questions felt like a chore, yet he might know something about the people of the Ruined Land.
Clang!
The black particles of the Mana Sword and the undead's blade met with a ringing impact that tore the air.
Heavy. Really heavy.
People used to claim the warriors of the past were stronger, and maybe it was true. The crushing weight behind his downward strikes was outrageous.
Heavier than the hero's holy sword, even.
That guy had always been weak himself, of course.
While trading blows with the house's owner I casually asked, "Do you know about the people who live in the Ruined Land?"
"Even after the years have flowed past like water, you still call it by that name?"
So the name had stuck from those days all the way until now.
"This technique was passed down from the people of that land."
Kiiiiing!
I knocked his sword aside once and stepped back.
He definitely had some real power behind him.
"Kikikik. And you must carry that blood as well. The people of that land possessed vessels for mana of extraordinary hardness, and their mana was refined to the point of precision—thus they forged things such as the Mana Sword. Among the forces outside the Small Kingdom Alliance, they were the most fearsome of all."
"What happened to them?"
"Blood never stopped flowing. I never imagined that bloodline would still endure, yet the thought of it decorating my final moments is not unpleasant. My blood is boiling."
A woman who inherited the blood of the Ruined Land folk who created the Mana Sword. No wonder his blood was boiling even harder.
Hearing a dried-out corpse claim his blood was boiling was almost funny, but still.
Moments like this weren't so bad every once in a while. A blade grew dull if you never swung it.
Clang! Kaang!
Several more exchanges flew past.
He attacked with fluid speed, alternating high and low cuts, and I met every one of them.
Without body enhancement this body would have shattered long ago. Veratel's strikes were genuinely monstrous.
Should I push the enhancement further?
Even if I did, I wasn't sure I could overwhelm him now.
One thing was certain: right now he was my equal or better. If a dead body could fight like this, how strong had he been while alive?
In the end he would collapse on his own before long.
Kiiiiing!
Even while fighting I kept pouring Pector's authority into the surroundings.
I absorbed the dense demonic energy saturating the air and crushed it to nothing.
This power of Pector's answered my will without resistance.
Kagaaaaang!
That heavy single blow was still terrifying.
"Are you aiming for something? The power in your blade has grown disordered."
"Well, fighting a hero of the past is a bit much for me, so I'm improvising."
Just a little longer and I could grind every scrap of demonic energy in the house to dust. Once that happened, the very force keeping this undead on his feet would vanish.
"Truly a fox-like wench."
"I prefer being called a mage over a fox."
"So you were a mage. Had you walked the path of the sword, you would have ruled the world long ago."
Not even funny. The sword was just a hobby.
"Sorry, but the sword is a hobby."
Kiririring—kaaak!
I ground the undead's greatsword aside again. Each time, his blade flowed like water and slipped straight back toward my ribs.
Heavy. Way too heavy.
"Kukukuk. Had a woman like you existed in the days when I still drew breath, I might well have married you to my son."
Marriage? Not a chance in hell.
"Hah. I'd rather die first."
"I know not how he fares now, but my son Pector was a lad whose face at least was worth looking at."
"Pector?"
I froze for a heartbeat.
Celia's face hardened as well; she must have felt the same jolt.
Of course. Pector, he said. Pector. Fifteen hundred years had passed, so a shared name was possible, but even Berna—who'd piled on more years than anyone had a right to—still kept a youthful face thanks to the privileges of the Four Heavenly Kings.
What if Pector had been around for fifteen hundred years or more?
"Huh."
The thought alone felt grotesque.
If it were true, I was now fighting the father after already crossing blades with the son. I wanted to believe it wasn't so, yet their swordsmanship was far too similar.
Just a little test, then.
I flicked the blade up and down and cut upward.
"Why do you do that?"
"No reason. Just... a bit."
Pakiiiiing!
Exactly as expected. He answered it the same way.
He brushed the strike aside far too easily.
Whether raising the sword, suddenly whipping it sideways in a surprise cut, or dancing the greatsword itself as if it were flowing water—every motion mirrored that bastard's style.
"You have been disordered for some time. Why do you stall?"
"I'm not stalling for anything."
There was no longer any doubt. This man was Pector's father.
I just knew. Techniques like these did not simply reappear after fifteen centuries.
It wasn't that the style was uniquely rare. People called me a sword saint, but that was mostly inflated rumor, and I myself had never truly mastered that particular school.
Yet of all coincidences—the famous Four Heavenly King named Pector, this undead claiming a son of the same name, and both of them sharing the exact same swordsmanship?
There was no such thing as that kind of luck.
To be brutally honest, all I ever did was mix teleportation into dynamic sword swings.
I had simply bolted a cheat onto my technique.
Nothing especially praiseworthy about it.
I changed tactics. I layered teleportation and pressed Veratel hard.
Body enhancement kept me standing, but pure swordsmanship belonged entirely to him.
"Hoo. Your method of attack has grown peculiar."
"Surprised?"
He didn't look it, but I asked anyway.
If he would just get flustered, I would take the free gift.
"This manner of assault is unique. I have never once experienced its like. Magic, I presume. You blend sword and sorcery together?"
Sharp eyes for an ancient corpse.
"So how about it, Mr. Veratel?"
"Not disappointment, yet a touch of regret. On my final road I would have preferred to clash steel against steel. Magic, of all things."
"I told you from the start I'm a mage."
I was the one left in a foul mood.
Pector, at least, had measured me purely by combat. This one was a textbook old fossil who could think of nothing but the sword.
Ridiculous. I almost wished Pector were standing here instead.
"I don't know if he's your son, but I've crossed blades with Pector. He used the same cunning swordsmanship as you."
Father and son both specialized in floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee.
In that case there was only one thing left for me to do: cuss him out. Nothing more, nothing less.
I wasn't quite far enough gone to start cursing a walking corpse, though.
A little grumbling was fair game.
"Hooora."
"But that Pector never once called my swordsmanship lacking. He never expressed regret, either."
Thinking about it, the guy had been pretty decent in his own way.
He had fought proper fights. Had I grown this warlike without noticing? Even clashing with this undead wasn't entirely unpleasant.
Yeah. This was that.
The countless possible futures that had once been shown to me.
One of those possibilities was the person I was right now.
The me who, tired of a tedious and empty life, had decided to try something. The infinite branches that had stretched outward from that single choice.
One of those branches was the me who was enjoying this battle.
Pakiiiing!
So I was enjoying it.
I caught the savage upward cut from below, then the descending slash from above.
"Then?"
"He enjoyed the fight itself. Unlike you, he was a man with a big vessel."
I tossed out a light provocation.