Chapter 87
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: Four Will Die
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The barrier was lifted. A massive wall, spanning tens of kilometers in radius—a colossal trap that had ensnared all four Overlords—vanished as if it had never existed.
“Ha! A grand success!”
Maltiel quickly scanned his surroundings, instantly assessed the situation, and broke into a smile. Mikael, who had created the explosion, also wore a satisfied expression, his life-or-death gamble having paid off.
Without hesitation, the two Overlords spread their wings wide and began to flee from Vellaland.
Mikael, the one who caused the explosion, was grazed by the spears and swords of soldiers who rushed in late to protect Bel, but he sustained no serious injuries.
Maltiel, too, paid no mind to the magic and arrows flying to intercept him.
“...Damn it.”
The young man could only watch with a hollow expression as the two Overlords made their escape, cursing under his breath.
In the end, two Overlords escaped from Vellaland.
Mikael to the west, Maltiel to the east.
“Bel...?”
As the two Overlords fled the scene, the Saintess's despair-filled voice quieted the battlefield.
The mage named Bel Artois had lost an arm and a leg, shed liters of blood, and his entire body was covered in severe burns.
“...Ah, they got away.”
Bel leaned against Grisha and gave a hollow laugh.
Pain emanated from somewhere in his body, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from.
Something was terribly wrong with his body, but he had no capacity to figure out what. Was it from hastily dispelling the spatial magic? It felt as if a part of his brain had been severely damaged.
“Hey, Bel.”
His limbs were in tatters.
His brain belatedly registered the pain.
Breath… he needed to breathe, but his lungs would only exhale, refusing to draw air in.
His consciousness faded in and out.
One moment, he felt an intense light enveloping his whole body; the next, a pitch-black darkness consuming him.
Bel Artois had collapsed, maimed and alone, on the very boundary between life and death.
“...Why? Why did you do it?”
Saintess Grisha asked, cradling Bel Artois's mangled body in her arms. Her voice trembled, and the corners of her eyes were red.
“What?”
Bel Artois answered with his eyes closed. He couldn't keep them open as the alternating light and darkness tormented his vision.
“Why did you shield me?”
Grisha asked, clutching tightly to Bel Artois's melted clothes.
“...Huh? Ah.”
The moment the explosion erupted from Mikael's finger, Bel Artois's brain had been commandeering every available nerve to hastily dispel the spatial barrier covering Vellaland. In that instant, Bel lacked even the consciousness to command his body to duck or take cover from the blast.
“I don't know, either.”
And yet, the moment the explosion occurred, Bel's body had moved.
Bel shielding Grisha from the blast was not a conscious act. It would be more accurate to say his body had moved on its own.
“...Well, I figured if you survived, you'd find a way to save me.”
So Bel gave the first plausible answer that came to mind.
In truth, there was no reason.
His body had just moved on its own... but if he said that, he felt Grisha would keep pressing him.
He was too tired, too sleepy. He didn't want to argue with anyone. He wanted to make a quick excuse and finally rest.
“You should think about my position, too!”
Grisha cried out, her voice breaking.
Hearing her despair-soaked voice, the soldiers didn't know what to do, unable to even approach her.
The pillar of the battlefield, who performed miracles with a benevolent smile in any situation, and the sword of the battlefield, who gave commands with cool-headedness under any circumstance, had both crumbled in an instant.
“...Position? Ah, position. Right. There's a position.”
On the threshold of life and death, Bel heard Grisha's voice and began muttering to himself like a man who'd lost his mind.
Grisha hastily dropped the defensive barrier surrounding her and began to offer a prayer of healing.
It was the most desperate prayer she had offered in her entire life.
A green light began to gently embrace Bel's scorched, crimson skin. The burning sensation faded, replaced by a warm, comforting feeling that enveloped his whole body. The pain gradually subsided, and his mind, a wreck from dispelling the spatial magic, began to recover.
“...Grisha.”
“Shut up.”
Grisha had no intention of letting Bel rest.
“Right. I haven't earned the right to rest yet.”
Bel watched Grisha desperately praying to save him and mumbled to himself.
“When the Sword Saint finishes Raguel and returns, tell him to track them by scent. The wind has picked up, so the scent will fade quickly. He needs to move fast.”
Bel Artois shook off the helplessness and exhaustion enveloping his body and opened his mouth.
“Form a strike team. Excluding Bin, gather at least twenty squad-leader level men. With the Overlords dying off, we don't need that many skilled soldiers left on this battlefield.”
His war wasn't over yet.
“...That's enough. Just focus on surviving.”
Having finished one prayer, Grisha spoke in a choked voice before starting the next.
“Mikael is strong against mages, so send the Sword Saint after him. The strike team will track Maltiel. Tell them their role is to avoid combat as much as possible and buy time until the Sword Saint arrives.”
No matter what she said, Bel seemed to have no intention of shutting up.
Finally, the tears came. Grisha found the sight of Bel rambling on, with no thought for his own condition, so pitiful that she couldn't speak anymore.
She could only offer a prayer for this poor soul.
“...I can't rest, Grisha. I made a promise to my men. That no matter what, I'd deliver them victory. This kind of half-assed, incomplete result... the men who died won't be satisfied.”
A powerful rage and immense guilt were etched in Bel's visible eyes.
At this rate, Bel wouldn't be able to close his eyes even in his grave.
Even in death, he would become a vengeful spirit, chasing the shadows of Maltiel and Mikael, cursing those two monsters for eternity, and Bel would gladly accept that fate.
“...”
Astella's guidance, peace in the afterlife...
Bel Artois had no need for such things.
All he needed was proof that this war was worth sending so many of his subordinates to their deaths.
“Make sure to include a mage in the strike team. And tell them to periodically fire a loud, conspicuous spell high into the sky. Avoid engagement if possible, but if Maltiel attacks first...”
Bel continued to rattle off detailed operational procedures, tracking methods, and rules of engagement to Grisha as she chanted her prayers.
“Huu, in that case...”
Then, finally, his tongue began to freeze.
A chill seeped into his chest, stabbing at his heart, and the pain that had consumed his body began to fade.
“...”
Bel sensed that his next words could be the last of his life.
At that realization, the countless scenarios and strategies filling his mind vanished completely.
In his now-blank mind, only a single phrase remained.
“Thank you, Grisha.”
***
Two Overlords had appeared directly in the rearmost part of the allied formation.
Thanks to the feint operation devised by the two resourceful Overlords, Bel and Grisha were left exposed to a surprise attack, and as a result, Bel Artois was gravely injured.
Along with that, the surrounding barrier was dispelled, and Maltiel and Mikael fled the battlefield.
The Sword Saint was aware of all this, but he did not go to support the rear. His blade only extended toward the Raguel before him.
“They're getting away! Hey, Maltiel and Mikael are escaping, you bastard!”
Raguel shrieked at the top of his lungs while fleeing from the tip of the Sword Saint's blade.
“Aren't you worried about your comrades?! And are you just going to let those two escape?! You should be going to handle the situation...”
*Swish!*
The head of Raguel, who had been flying through the sky at hundreds of kilometers per hour while chattering endlessly, was cleanly sliced off. The severed head instantly rotted, turned to dust, and vanished, and a new one sprouted from his torso.
“You crazy bastard, what did I ever do to you to make you so obsessed with me!”
The Sword Saint was someone who clearly distinguished between what he could and could not do.
The situation on the battlefield had certainly changed. The Overlords, who had been rats in a trap, had dealt a heavy blow and were now fleeing for their lives.
The plan Bel had designed through sleepless nights on the blood-soaked battlefield had collapsed, and one of the continent's few 9th-circle mages had been critically injured.
Nevertheless, the Sword Saint steadily carried out his duty in this chaotic battle.
“At this rate, you'll lose both Overlords! Instead of chasing me, isn't it obviously more beneficial to go after those two right now?! It's not too late, you could kill them both! Killing two is much more profitable than killing one...!”
*Shhhk—*
The Sword Saint plunged his blade into the left side of the chest of the frantically flapping Raguel. The blade tore through skin and muscle as smoothly as cutting tofu.
As Raguel twisted his body away, the Sword Saint twisted the blade and pulled it out. The speed at which he twisted and pulled was so fast that it created a small vortex around the blade.
Raguel's bones and flesh were pulverized by the small vortex created by the Sword Saint's thin blade, leaving a large hole in the left side of his chest. Inside the hole the Sword Saint had made, a jet-black, walnut-sized sphere was revealed.
“Wai—! You bastard. The situation has changed...”
*Slice!*
The tip of the Sword Saint's blade once again pierced Raguel's chest as he tried to hastily cover his weak point with flesh and bone.
This time, along with the sound of tearing flesh and bone, came the sound of a glass marble shattering into pieces.
“Do not worry.”
There was not a shred of hesitation in the Sword Saint's actions.
With its core destroyed, Raguel's body began to rot and decay instantly. Toxic blood evaporated, and the foul flesh shriveled up like dried squid.
“The man named Bel Artois is not the type to make empty promises, even on his deathbed.”
The Sword Saint pulled his sword from Raguel's crumbling body.
The sunlight reflected brightly off the silver blade. Despite having ground through tons of rotten flesh and bone, not a speck of filth stained his blade, and its edge was as frighteningly sharp as if it had just left the forge.
“And he said that four Overlords would die today.”
Three minutes and ten seconds after the Sword Saint's arrival in Vellaland.
“Four Overlords will die today. That is already decided.”
The second Overlord lost its life.