Chapter 50
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 49
Chapter Title: Wild Hunt (3)
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A fist swings, and bones shatter. No blood splatters, but fragments of rusted, broken weapons dye the ground red in their place.
BOOM!
A thunderous roar that's hard to believe came from a human fist. The sheer force rivals a decent explosion spell, sending shockwaves radiating from the shield the skeleton had raised.
The tremor is felt first through their bodies. Then, dust billows with the wind.
"Tch!"
One of the mages watching it all hurriedly conjures wind to blow away the dust.
From the perspective of a mage whose role is to support Enoch by providing what he needs while observing his battle, obscured vision was dangerous.
As the dust thinned, what emerged was...
WHOOSH!
Blazing flames.
Not the bloated ghostfire typical of the undead. Red, scorching flames reminiscent of Ignatius's breath or the sun high in the sky.
Enoch, spewing fire over the geometric patterns etched across his body.
He had just smashed a massive pair of shields resembling city gates and hoisted up the head of a short, stout skeleton that looked dwarven. And then.
CRUNCH.
The skull crumbles as he clenches his fist hard.
In the dark night, it was all too vivid. The blue ghostfire crushed and scattered by Enoch's red flames.
-Waaaaah!
Cheers erupted from all over the Mage Tower. But they didn't last long.
They were thrilled at Enoch's unscathed state, but the battle was far from over.
A barrage of spells rained down on the heaving Enoch.
Magic to banish fatigue and boost vitality. Magic to heal minor wounds from the fight. Purification magic to ward off deathly energy. Magic to mitigate side effects from prolonged exposure to morale.
And more—enhancement spells directly buffing Enoch cycled in sequence.
His skin hardened like stone, wrapped in a transparent shield. His already sharp reflexes and dynamic vision sharpened another level. Purified mana, refined to not clash with his aura, filled his muscles and bones, making his flesh even sturdier.
Yet despite all that, Enoch's movements were unmistakably slower than at the start.
It was only natural. His battle had already raged for hours.
Yes, hours.
Not a single moment of rest, no food, no water—just mechanically swinging his fists and smashing foes head-on.
Pulverized bone dust gets swept back inside by the swirling morale, but shattered weapons don't.
Behind Enoch, weapons tossed aside haphazardly because they were in the way now littered the ground thickly.
Swords, bows, spears, axes, greatswords, shields, and more. The array behind his back evoked the tombstones of a graveyard.
He had long surpassed hundreds. Over a thousand broken weapons meant even more skeletons had crumbled under his hands.
One against a thousand, literally.
Even if he'd forced one-on-one situations, holding back an army alone...
Ten thousand foes unbroken was no exaggeration.
An endless duel, a solitary war. Astonishingly, Enoch Zahav held the momentum.
"Grand Duke... guardian of the Empire..."
Only then did the Mage Tower's mages realize why House Zahav was a grand ducal house.
What it meant for a human body, young as it was, to rival a dragon like Ignatius.
But separate from their admiration, it was fact that Enoch's movements had slowed from ceaseless combat, his body weary.
As if aware of this, the silver-haired girl in butler attire moved swiftly, supporting Enoch in ways different from the mages.
Spraying potions on small wounds, shifting obstructing tossed weapons to the rear, occasionally relaying Enoch's requests to other mages, and more.
While Enoch fought, Karen aided him without rest.
Thanks to her, he'd endured this long, but...
Even as they cheered and cast support spells, the cool-headed mages' minds harbored faint unease.
"...How long can this last?"
"No idea. But surely far longer than us."
The senior mages were all focused on subduing Mortheus. Defending the barrier with only mid- and low-tier mages was nearly impossible.
In that situation, Enoch single-handedly bearing the undead horde was miraculous, yet precarious.
But there was nothing the mages could do.
Save for conserving mana as much as possible and squeezing out every bit to aid Enoch.
As anxiety spread among mages whose mana dwindled and recovery means ran short...
Enoch silently prepared for the next fight.
As if that were his sole duty.
Another skeleton squeezes through the rift. Holding a single thin longsword, it elegantly extends its arm.
Its instantaneous acceleration so swift even Enoch can't fully react.
Enoch sustains multiple shallow cuts in an instant. Dragging this out might let another undead crawl from the rift.
With a resolved expression, Enoch spreads his arms wide, defenseless.
Puzzled yet unhesitating, the skeleton thrusts at his nape.
The moment the still-keen blade after ages touches his neck.
Beast-like golden eyes flash as Enoch twists his body.
The aimless sword embeds in his bronze shoulder instead of his neck—and even that halts against firm muscle.
Less stabbed by the blade, more catching it with his body.
A smirk close to a sneer curls Enoch's lips.
"Gotcha."
With those words, Enoch yanks the thin sword barehanded.
Snap.
His iron grip snaps the slender blade, and he headbutts the startled skeleton.
Enoch's grinning forehead shatters the ashen skull in one blow.
The collapsing remains sucked inward in an instant, clearing the battlefield. Beyond it, a new skeleton emerges.
...Without even giving Enoch time to pull the half-blade from his shoulder.
In truth, the weapons embedded in Enoch's flesh weren't just this one.
A dagger in his thigh, a broken shortspear in his forearm, a fletchless arrow in his side.
None in his back proved he'd never turned away once.
But human bodies aren't built to hold dangling weapons.
Fortunately, none were fatal. Blocked by mages' defensive spells and his steel-hard flesh.
And bleeding had stopped, thanks to his unique regeneration and healing magic.
Painful, but not hindering life or movement.
However, the problem was the wounds themselves.
Even as mages continuously purified and repelled it, deathly energy seeped through the gaps unavoidably.
The cold chill would steadily, surely weaken Zahav's flames.
Above all, the bigger issue was that Wild Hunt's skeletons weren't ordinary undead.
Though bereft of intellect, the martial prowess built into their flesh surpassed average knights.
Did the Mage Tower's mages never try crafting golems to replace elite soldiers? Newbies all attempt it. And they learn after being utterly crushed by skeletons far beyond expectations.
Melee-ignorant mages could see it: refined martial arts.
Revealing the strength of ancient warriors wielding them.
Unlike the systematic moves of skeletons that screamed expertise at a glance, Enoch showed none such.
Instinct, power, a touch of luck—entrusting his body to them, charging like a beast toward slim chances.
He'd held up so far, but Enoch would fall eventually.
This rational thinking fueled the mages' anxiety, but...
Amid the unease, a rising heat was undeniable.
A beast in human form. But that beast had already slaughtered countless ancient heroes—and would continue to.
An unfounded conviction, something reason-worshipping mages couldn't grasp.
But something everyone human possesses.
"Ah."
One mage's eyes widened in realization.
"Hope."
The night was dark, dawn still far off. Yet the ground blazed bright.
ROAR!
The heat Enoch Zahav ignited. Enraptured by that hope, mages squeezed dry their depleted mana.
The Mage Tower's night hadn't ended.
But the sun had already risen.
Not in the sky, but on the earth.
My clenched fist feels heavy.
Blood tastes in my throat as I exhale, my heart pounding so wildly it might burst.
Yet I must swing it at the foe before me.
"Aaaargh...!"
A roar near a scream accompanies the punch thrusting toward the dual-sword skeleton.
My exhausted body won't grant proper speed, but still faster than those bony husks.
I should've smashed its head without chance to react. ...I should have.
CLANG!
Oddly curved twin blades descend to sever my wrists from both sides.
Thanks to the mages' defensive magic and my hasty wrist twist batting the blades, just a slight sting.
But crucially, I couldn't end it in one blow.
Trusting the shield around me and tensed muscles, I step in close.
CRACK!
The twin sickles arc toward my shoulders unnoticed.
But as the slowed blade tips—post-shield shatter—graze skin, I twist sharply, disrupting the cut.
The blades that should've split muscle leave only red lines.
THUD!
My forcefully stomped foot pulverizes its. No room to maneuver feet in the tight space as I closed distance.
After knee-smashing the falling skeleton's head.
I braced for the next.
"...Huh?"
For some reason, only blue ghostfire ripples beyond the rift—no next skeleton emerges.
Pausing to catch breath in confusion, I look up.
And understand why no more cross the barrier's rift.
"Fuck."
A massive head requiring craned neck to behold. Elongated maw, crown-like horns sprouting from skull.
Where eyes should be, ghostfire larger than my torso flickers.
"Motheus."
Elder mages fulfilling their roles—its body bound airtight in burning chains.
No more hollow cries, no thrashing of its massive bulk.
...That was the bigger problem.
A gaze utterly alien to the living, yet unmistakably intellect dwelling within.
The Death Dragon I'd thought fully mad, the monster that could shatter the barrier blocking hordes with a gesture.
The Western Calamity stared down at me silently.
Too startled, a habit from recent thug-acting slipped out.
"What're you lookin' at? Eyes down, unless you wanna die."
-......?
The bony Mortheus blinked its ghostfire.