The World (1)
Pandemonium clicked his spidery, stick-thin fingers together as he watched the signal flare climb into the sky.
He was restless. He had no idea when Wrath might wake.
Damn that Wrath…
Not that he was weak as he stood now. Every demon grew stronger by offering up precious things as sacrifice—that much was true of them all—but the efficiency of his own method put the rest to shame. And he had poured a fortune of countless millions into it. At present he could bring forth several times his usual power.
And that was not all. The King’s Seal he had used had not only turned this entire region into Maryeok; it had opened a gate linking the place to their homeland. That meant the avatar’s influence was cut off, and he could wield his true body’s strength without restraint. Under ordinary circumstances, he had nothing to fear. Under ordinary circumstances.
Even after pouring out a fortune of millions, the only ones I still fear are you and the King.
Even with perfect condition and power amplified on top of it—even with every advantage in hand—Wrath alone still frightened him. Wrath’s vessel had been impressive enough, but the Wrath that would emerge once that vessel was gone was the truly terrifying one.
Hell.
He flicked his fingers a few more times, gauging the Wrath that would wake at any moment and the force it would unleash. The fact that the creature, who should have risen already, still had not so much as twitched only made him more uneasy.
By now Wrath should have reclaimed control… Had it still not?
What a foul temper!
A true master at burning a man’s gut with worry! He clenched his fist—yet he had no intention of drawing any closer. If Wrath woke while he was approaching to check, the result would be catastrophic, and he had no desire for that particular gamble.
After all, even Satan kept his distance from Wrath. Who was he to close that gap? He knew how many demons had had their heads taken off in a single stroke for the crime of approaching without understanding—and he knew exactly what had gotten Gluttony killed. He was not about to offer up that distance.
“Lord of the Myriad Demons Hall, what do we do about that? Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
So he abandoned any thought of approaching entirely. After several minutes of silence, the steward of the Myriad Demons Hall started fretting in a fluster. The way the creature panicked over a single signal flare was almost impressively stupid. As if the humans could accomplish anything simply by seeing it.
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ah… come to think of it, the steward had always been this kind of creature. The clever ones coveted the Myriad Demons Hall the moment his back was turned, which had been a nuisance. So before coming here he had deliberately sought out a gullible fool to serve as steward… and looking at it now, that might have been the right choice after all.
“And…”
Well… for having opened the Myriad Demons Hall after centuries and still obeyed without betrayal, the steward was satisfactory enough. Pandemonium rated that alone highly and considered his next order.
“You there. Pick that up.”
“Understood.”
This time the order went to one of the lesser demons waiting on standby.
“You could just make him do it…”
“I told you to shut up.”
“Mph.”
A demon that listened well and was also stupid was a rare treasure. Pandemonium smashed a lash of lava across the steward, who had no grasp of his greater purpose and kept muttering. The rest of the lava remained arrayed around them, ready to respond the instant Wrath woke.
“Where should I move it?”
In the meantime the lesser demon promptly seized Wrath’s vessel and stood. The body, not yet dead, flopped limply in its grip. No resistance at all—it really had been knocked out cold.
“Wait.”
What was truly astonishing, however, was that Wrath, still inside, showed no sign of stirring even with the vessel unconscious. Losing consciousness was akin to losing control. No matter how thoroughly Wrath had been suppressed, once the suppressor was gone, it should have woken by now…
Does a vessel fit to hold Wrath need a soul of this caliber as well?
Nothing short of spending every last scrap of strength to the very end on holding down the demon within could have produced this situation. For the first time, he felt genuine admiration for a human soul. Enough that he suddenly found himself missing that soul-preserving gem he had once mentioned only as a joke.
What to do with this…
At the same time, a new problem presented itself. Until now, his plan had been simple: the moment it looked as if Wrath would seize control, he would simply kill the vessel.
Leaving something behind to get stabbed in the back later has never been my style.
But if Wrath could not muster even a scrap of power while the vessel was unconscious, the calculus changed. Killing it would be a waste.
“Is something the matter…?”
“Do you only shut up when I cut out your tongue?”
“…”
After all—if the vessel died, what became of what was held inside? It spilled. Vanished. Flew free. All the more so if it had been suppressed by that vessel. The soul of Wrath within would escape the moment the host died—and as always it would slip smoothly from his grasp to wander the world, searching this time for a new vessel that could truly contain it.
If, on the other hand, he ate the vessel alive without killing it, he could claim Wrath’s soul and all the power it held. He could steal the creature’s strength whole.
The problem is I have no guarantee it won’t wake…
The problem was time. He intended to put off the absorption at least until he had dealt with the Hero—consuming another’s power for free was never easy, even when the forces were not opposites, and doing it now would leave him hard-pressed against the Hero—and the odds that Wrath would stay asleep until then were, frankly…
No. It might already be awake.
Pandemonium recalled Wrath’s other epithet. The name it had once been called: Deceit and Trickery. A title of praise for the time when a being of the food chain’s lowest rung—something less than a goblin—had killed Lust by pure fraud alone. That incident had also been the starting point of “Wrath.” Anyone who failed to stay wary even after Hell’s most famous affair was simply a fool.
And Pandemonium had no intention of becoming one.
With a gesture he dismissed the lesser demon, then poured lava over Wrath’s vessel. The magma that ran down melted cloth and skin, then hardened into thorns that punched through muscle and bone. Had Wrath been awake and watching for an opening, it would never have tolerated this. He had not merely pierced the limbs; he had driven the lava through in the form of a sealing formula—the same form the King had used when sealing Wrath’s flesh.
Really not awake, then?
If it could not endure this, it was not “Wrath.” He thought of the demon that had, as it gained power, drawn closer to the essence of Wrath than to Deceit and Trickery, and lightly brushed the edge of his own garment.
…Well. Fine.
And he reached his conclusion. Whether this was truly a situation wrought by the vessel’s soul, or Wrath’s deceit—so long as he could answer either, leaving it alive was acceptable.
A gamble like this—as a merchant, how could I resist?
Every force he had prepared to kill Wrath shifted form. The goal was one: a seal. A seal to cage this thing until the moment came, after the Hero was dead, to absorb Wrath.
Let’s see who wins!
“Go. A turtle is at least slow. That Great Demon over there is fast. That side is more urgent.”
“…!”
Just as the Inquisitor began to sink under the miserable weight of being unable to go help the Demon Knight, Berserk spoke. It was a way to ease the Inquisitor’s guilt—and, on the assumption it was possible, the best solution available.
“Will you be able to manage alone?”
“I don’t know.”
Yes—under the assumption that it was possible, that was the answer. But could Berserk truly hold that thing alone? How was she, without the vast magic the Demon Knight possessed, supposed to face that colossal beast…
“Save your strength.”
“…!”
The Inquisitor instinctively moved to block an incoming attack—and found herself set down outside the walls by Berserk’s hands. Meister was caught under the other arm.
“…!”
This was not the Inquisitor’s first time. She accepted Berserk’s kindness without difficulty. With a heavy thud of impact, they landed on the ground some distance from the wall.
“What in the—!”
But someone experiencing it for the first time reacted differently. The sensitive Grandmaster Craftsman went rigid at the sudden contact, making his displeasure plain.
Then a section of the wall shattered, and he had no choice but to loosen his body. Had Berserk not seized them and leapt down, the turtle’s attack would have done them serious harm. They might have been crushed between the turtle’s neck and the wall, left as nothing but blood and shredded flesh.
“But I will hunt it.”
“…Possibility sure does sound cool.”
So Meister delivered his own brand of gratitude in a tone that sounded like a sneer. The delivery was what it was, but the praise was sincere, and for that at least it was thanks. A man who looked kindly even on other people’s reckless challenges for the sake of his own research sprinted ahead.
“Enough. Go. I’ll handle this.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You’ll be the one who has it hardest.”
Meanwhile the Inquisitor, after wrestling with herself, made her decision. Whether Berserk could handle that thing was the only question—the other side still had to be faced, so there was no real choice. Someone had to go and buy time.
…Even if she still could not tell whether this was right.
“Over here!”
The mage and knight who had fled ahead stood nearby and called out to them. Five horses waited at their side. A Seiren that had flown that far took a spear-thrust from the knight and crashed to the ground with a shriek.
“May the blessing of the divine go with you.”
“Go.”
With a means of departure secured, worry could turn entirely toward Berserk, who would remain. The Inquisitor ran after Meister and glanced back. Berserk, having set them down, had already turned toward the wall again.
The giant turtle kept grinding its body against the wall, as if trying to break through.
“D-don’t push yourself too hard…! If it looks dangerous, you must fall back!”
“…”
Was this right? Watching the wall crack further with every impact, and Berserk’s silent back as she raised her spear, the Inquisitor hesitated in her steps. It felt much like the moment she had sent the Demon Knight off alone.
“You have to promise me!”
“Go.”
Or perhaps worse. Even the Demon Knight she had trusted had, in the end, fired a rescue flare. There was no law that said Berserk would not come to the same end.
“Berserk!”
By then she was questioning the conclusion she had already reached. If it came to that—if it was going to come to that—then rather than splitting their forces like this, shouldn’t they help Berserk and finish that monster completely?
No—they had to save the Demon Knight, so more than that monster… more than that monster…
“Promise me…!”
Suddenly the Inquisitor arrived at a more fundamental doubt: whether she could even face a demon the Demon Knight himself had failed to handle. Could she truly overcome that overwhelming demon energy? Perhaps it was the most important question of all. If she fell as well, this place—this city—would have no hope left.
“…Promise.”
Because the one who would dispose of the enemy so long as she held out was not here. There would be no next time. For the first time since this journey began, the Inquisitor’s body locked in place.
“What are you doing!”
In that instant, the Grandmaster Craftsman she had thought even more irritating than Slicker seized her. Thin as befit the Slend race, yet packed with a craftsman’s muscle, his arm was remarkably strong. Her foot slipped a little. He was stronger than she had expected.
“I get that you’re worried, but give it a rest already?! Stop dawdling and getting on my nerves!”
And the voice scolding her was sharp and low.
“You’re not the only one who’s worried about someone! We hold back because we know that if we hesitate, more people die! Is this your first battlefield?! Get a grip!”
He was right. Yes—this was a battlefield. A place where people died no matter what you chose; the only difference was whether fewer died or more.
“If you really want to save people, think about finishing this fast!”
At last the Inquisitor’s mouth closed. Mage or not, his skill at cutting straight to the facts was no small thing. Her legs, half-dragged along, found their strength again and moved forward.
“Go on ahead!”
“…I’m sorry!”
Before long they had nearly reached the knights. The knights and mages who had already mounted three of the horses set out first. Deathbringer was already astride the leaner of the two remaining mounts.
“You—get on! Bookworm’s with me!”
Deathbringer, already mounted, held a hand out toward Meister. Meister glanced at the remaining horse—clearly a fine animal at a look—then took Deathbringer’s hand.
“You sure about this?”
“You riding alone weighs about the same as the two of us together, you know?”
Was it really all right for two grown men to ride one horse side by side? As the Inquisitor wondered, Slicker shot the remark out. He was right. The combined weight of those two was about the same as the Inquisitor in full armor and shield.
The horse snorted.
“…And you?”
Naturally the Inquisitor took the remaining mount. Looking closer, it resembled the horse the Demon Knight had ridden. No—it was the same horse. It voiced a little discontent at being mounted by someone other than its master, then offered its back with the air of letting it pass just this once. A horse a full size larger than ordinary firmly bore her weight.
“Let’s go!”
The talk had run long, but in less than ten seconds they were mounted and gave the horses’ flanks a light kick.
A vast crash of collapse rolled over them. From the accelerating horses their heads flicked back.
The second wall crumbling into ruin filled their eyes—the product of the giant turtle’s repeated headlong rams.
“The wall…”
And pouring through the breach came a flood of saltwater and the corpses of mermen that had not yet washed out to sea. The knights groaned at the fall of Bemyurhen’s proud wall.
“Berserk!”
The Inquisitor and Deathbringer, by contrast, feared for Berserk’s safety. “Are you insane—watch the front!” Deathbringer could only worry, cut short by Meister’s shout. Only the Inquisitor turned her head to glimpse Berserk’s situation.
As if life itself no longer mattered, Berserk’s body charged the monster across the collapsing wall’s debris. Her platinum hair caught the light of the lamps that had not yet shattered, and for a moment it looked as if the sun itself were rising.