Chapter 61
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 60
Chapter Title: Real and Fake (2)
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The flames I ignited rose even more fiercely, using Shakar's flames as kindling.
In reality, it was simply a matter of putting a little more power into swelling my aura while disrupting Shakar's in contrast... but at any rate, that's how it looked.
A perfect superior-inferior relationship.
The vassals surrounding us—of course—and even Shakar himself were stunned by the spectacle.
I had anticipated it, but the even better reaction made me smirk, curling up the corner of my mouth.
The model was Shakar himself, who until moments ago had believed without a shred of doubt that he would win.
Was the delinquent act I poured so much effort into—to the point of forming a new habit—effective? My reflection in the spears and swords of the distant lined-up knights looked quite convincing.
The mouth lifted crookedly to one side seemed like a smile yet also bared teeth.
The patterns spreading across my entire body, with flames burning atop them, evoked the image of a sun aflame from within.
I still didn't quite grasp what it meant to be truly Zahav-like... but at least, I was certainly more Zahav-like than Shakar.
Was I the only one who thought so? Shakar's face plainly showed that he had been utterly overwhelmed by me, and he began charging forward with a howl.
As if trying to console himself.
"What is this... No, it can't be!"
"Denying reality. How classic."
Shakar swung his fist, igniting an aura a touch fiercer than before—but still falling short of mine.
Until now, I had met him head-on equally and given it right back... but any show loses its punch if you repeat the same thing too many times.
So this time, instead of clashing honestly with raw physique, I decided to fight my way. With a bit of finesse added.
I watched the punch coming straight at me in a line, then slipped my arm into its trajectory a half-beat late.
From below to above. Inside to outside. My knife-hand arced in a semicircle and smacked Shakar's fist aside.
The instant that force—enough to shatter castle walls—lost its direction, I snapped my wrist, seized his forearm, and yanked.
A sleight of hand crafted to securely grab those annoyingly nimble assassins.
Shakar was strong and quick, but inferior to me. So it should be no different from handling assassins.
No—lacking even their technique, he should be far easier.
A crushing grip on his arm bone as if to pulverize it. A pull harnessing the full momentum of his punching power. And right now, his aura scattering feebly.
All the pieces fell into place, and Shakar's body pitched forward all too limply.
I drove my knee up toward his face, drawing ever closer to the ground.
Kwachik!
"Kuhk!"
Something snapped with a brittle crack, and his body arched backward. But I didn't release the arm I had gripped.
I yanked the arm of the toppling man once more, then swung my fist this time.
Peok!
My fist burrowed deep into his side. At its tip lingered the sensation of something shattering and crumbling. And then...
"Kuhp!"
Shakar spewed blood and reflexively curled into himself. A foolish mistake.
"You... you've never properly made use of your regenerative ability, have you?"
In any normal case, it would already be fatal. But with his naturally robust body and troll-like regeneration, things were different.
It hurt, but it wouldn't kill him. So rather than writhing in agony and curling up on instinct, he should have pressed forward more boldly.
Otherwise, he'd just keep taking hits.
Peok! Peok! Peok!
In an instant, Shakar—unable to mount any real defense—took a pummeling atop his huddled form.
Only then did he realize his blunder. Even as he ate blows, he swung a fist in retaliation, but...
Kwaduk!
"Kraaaak!"
My low kick snapped his leg, and he crumpled. It regenerated swiftly, of course... but losing his balance and collapsing was the issue.
Left dangling defenselessly from the arm I held, he absorbed the onslaught with his body.
Peok! Kwachik. Pang!
Bones fractured, blood erupted from rent flesh. Groans mingled with screams, and impacts loud enough to drown out even his forehead.
Now little more than a blood-soaked sandbag. Yet his body somehow retained its shape, regenerating rapidly even at this moment.
One-sidedly battered from start to finish, yet his bloodline proved undeniable.
Shakar's eyes flashed. He wrenched his own body, dislocating and snapping the joint of his captured arm.
Ttuduk.
Joint popped free, bone cracked—the arm now far more pliable.
Using that, he barely slipped my restraint. Panting raggedly, he glared daggers at me.
His body was recovering swiftly, but the composure and confidence he'd shown at first had vanished entirely.
All that remained was the desperate venom unique to a wounded beast.
I shrugged at Shakar, who glared silently.
"As expected, you're definitely the fake. The real eldest brother wouldn't even bother with trash like me."
"...Monster bastard."
"The monster's you, fake. A monster wearing human skin, aping a person. I'll burn every last bit of that deceit."
I said it loud enough for the surroundings to hear, in an exaggerated tone... but Shakar, as if he no longer cared for such things, simply assumed his stance.
"I must become the Patriarch."
"House Zahav has no place for fakes."
"...You'll regret this."
Shakar muttered in a low voice. At the same time, the venom in his eyes began to fade.
His spirit—which had never once buckled, not even amid the frenzy of being grabbed and beaten—had finally broken.
But apparently, not because of me.
"You don't know. What's at the dungeon's bottom."
"What else? Monsters, and shards of some god's lower half."
"No. It's not that. Whatever hides there isn't some fairy-tale nonsense."
Shakar's shoulders trembled faintly. His sharp golden eyes clouded over as a milky haze settled across his pupils.
The moment our gazes locked straight on. I knew what to call it.
"Original Sin."
Fear.
"Our house's original sin lies bound at the dungeon's deepest depths."
Shakar was plainly gripped by terror. An emotion he hadn't betrayed even while truly battered on the brink of death—now directed at someone not even present.
"Not much time remains. Soon, the ancient bonds will shatter. House Zahav... the South... will face the original sin they've turned away from."
Long tongue. So what are you getting at?
"...I struck a deal. He lent me the power to survive the dungeon and claim the Patriarch's seat. In exchange, once outside, I aid his plans with the house's strength. For that, he'll spare House Zahav."
"In other words, become the lackey of some unknown bastard, and at least keep your neck."
No wonder. A declining bloodline, yet strangely potent... so that's what happened in the dungeon.
Not a true monster, but colluding with one wouldn't be an overstatement.
...Judging by spilling this now, it felt like stalling for recovery time.
Even at full strength, I was confident I could drop him again, so I shrugged.
"Then what's this original sin thing anyway."
"I can't say. That's part of the contract too."
"What the hell, this prick?"
That eerily familiar tone made my hackles rise for a moment.
Ah, don't know? Now's not the time. But someday, if you return to our embrace... No, too risky. Does that mean... it has to end that way? So it did...
It resembled far too closely the drivel black magicians spouted right before dying.
The kind that sounded profound but refused to spill, brimming only with the intent to rile me up.
"Some associate of the black magicians, then."
"? No."
A reaction of utter incomprehension as to why I'd conclude that.
Even if Shakar lied through his teeth, it'd show. So this truly had nothing to do with black magicians.
At least, as far as he believed.
...A horrifying prospect.
Another black magician-like bastard in this world. One that needed killing on sight.
But given his demeanor, torturing Shakar wouldn't yield intel. The contract wasn't mere words—likely bound by magic.
Still, I now knew something lurked at the dungeon's depths. And its release was drawing near.
The recent instability in the dungeon's reflux—the very thing the black magicians had been probing—was probably that entity Shakar encountered.
"Simple enough. Beat you to death first. Then kill whatever's down there. Done."
"...Hah. Foolish drivel. Enoch. I'll grant you're stronger than me now. Perhaps even the hope of House Zahav, with most heirs dead."
Shakar barked a bitter laugh, staring at me. His golden eyes still hazy. Gazing my way, yet fearing something beyond me.
"But! You could never stand against Him! If you truly cherish House Zahav, install me as Patriarch and cooperate with Him!"
I stared silently at the earnestly babbling Shakar, then spat.
"Retard."
"...What?"
"Boils down to: too scared to win, so you'll grovel. Can't fathom why you're still standing tall before me."
"......"
His face twisted in shame and humiliation. Shakar ground his teeth, clenching a now-healed fist.
"...If you can't trust that, no choice but to show the power He granted me."
"Then why hold it back till now?"
"Remember this. What you see from here is but a fraction of His power."
With that, Shakar abruptly raked claws across his chest.
The instant a drop of blood trickled from the torn flesh to the ground...
Haruruk!
The flames blanketing his body began to change.
The vibrant mix of yellow and red—gaudy yet mundane—unified into a single hue.
Black.
Starting from his chest, the black stain spread, swiftly dyeing his entire aura pitch.
As if affected, his lustrous pure-gold hair dulled to a sickly sheen.
A ghostly pallor overlaid his bronze skin.
The moment the black flames enveloped the transformed Shakar...
Hwaaaaaa!
Shakar's aura erupted explosively, engulfing the surroundings.