Chapter 170
Chapter 170
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Translator: crow
Chapter Title: No Big Deal
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Splash.
Splash splash.
The woman's arms, sprawled on the ground, moved frantically in place of her legs, which had lost all strength.
The spot had been firmly packed dry earth when she and her group first arrived.
But now, it was a mire of blood and sand.
Thud.
Something snagged on the woman's frantically moving arm.
"Ahh..."
It was the head of the infamous mercenary captain.
Precisely, his head.
The woman remembered the expression and voice that face had worn before the subjugation force set out.
Unlike now, severed and preserved in agony, the mercenary had been brimming with confidence back then.
The words from his mouth had been much the same.
-That wastrel young master must have quite the spending habits.
-Splurging like this right after dying—must be nice to have financial leeway.
-Gathering all these people just to catch one nameless criminal?
-And paying all that money?
-What banquet? This is the banquet. I'll burst from this mission.
The entire subjugation force had burst into laughter at his words back then.
The atmosphere left them no choice.
For all its name, this "subjugation" was merely a spectacle to restore the honor of a high noble's slain son and family.
Like an excessively lavish banquet hall, it was an over-the-top force meant to flaunt the family's prestige.
Mercenary bands that could be thrown into war without issue.
Elite forces from the currently popular adventurer guild.
And a woman, master of the Yellow Tower, supporting them.
An undeniably excessive force.
Moreover, the high noble hadn't seemed saddened by his wastrel son's death—relieved, even.
If someone asked if it was a funeral, he'd have answered, "No, a festival."
And so.
They had approached the subjugation with light hearts.
Yet.
How had it come to this?
"D-don't come...!!!"
A scream echoed from somewhere.
The woman recognized the voice.
The adventurer guild master.
A man of such caliber that he eyed the 6th circle upper ranks, commanding not only his adventurers but even rough mercenaries with his gravitas.
The way he'd silence an overstepping mercenary captain with a single glance.
"D-damn it! Stay back!!!"
Now.
That same man was pathetically rolling on the ground.
Reduced to a helpless prey, toyed with by the hunter, with no other recourse.
"..."
The criminal—the murderer—gazed down at the adventurer with cold indifference.
She had seemed intoxicated by blood and violence at first, but now appeared bored.
"P-please...!"
Growing tired of the pleas, the murderer flicked her sword dismissively.
Another head rolled across the ground.
Thus, the subjugation force was left with its final survivor.
The woman.
Kelloi, master of the Yellow Tower, stared at the murderer.
"..."
The murderer's aloof gaze swept over Kelloi.
Her heightened senses picked out the loudest noise in the area.
Thump!
Thump!
Thump!
It was the pounding of Kelloi's heart.
"..."
The murderer listened to that heartbeat for a while.
Then, she shook her head in disbelief.
She had vaguely realized.
That this heartbeat was utterly unlike those of other prey.
That the emotion this mage before her felt was the complete opposite of fear.
Kelloi, master of the Yellow Tower.
She was utterly captivated by the murderer before her.
By the power that had thoroughly crushed her world.
Had the murderer offered her sword, she would have gladly bared her neck.
With an ecstatic expression, no less.
"You're a mad bitch."
Leaving those words, the murderer turned to leave the scene.
"W-wait...!"
Kelloi called out to her.
"I-I want to know your name!!!"
The murderer, naturally, ignored the deranged plea.
"Ah..."
Kelloi gazed longingly at the murderer's receding back, letting out a wistful sigh.
Then.
Her eyes turned to one spot.
The slaughter site.
A deep blue flower blooming nearby in the brush.
Even splattered with blood, it retained its vivid indigo hue.
"Ah..."
In that flower, Kelloi glimpsed the murderer's aloof demeanor.
She approached, plucked it, and tucked it preciously into her bosom.
From then on.
Rumors spread of the "Blue Lotus" murderer.
Wasteland.
A place fit for burying those whose names must not be remembered, only to be forgotten.
Kelloi stood before a pit in such a wasteland.
"Finally..."
Gazing into the pit, she let out a sigh of rapture.
She reached in, pulling out its contents.
It was a corpse, not yet fully decayed.
Kelloi embraced it, rubbing it against her body.
As if to merge with it.
"What do you mean by that?"
The grotesque skeleton had regained flesh, reborn as a woman's form.
A woman with dark indigo short hair, exuding an aloof aura.
Blue Lotus Klana.
Kelloi, the mage who had taken her body, replayed Rishir's recent words.
"While they bought time, you learned how to counter me? From the source herself?"
She had deciphered ancient tomes, acquired the magic within, and claimed the swordsman she admired.
As such, Kelloi was inherently gifted in comprehending and embracing mysteries and knowledge as a mage.
Yet.
This Rishir's words made no sense at all.
"The source" referred to herself—Klana.
"When did I ever teach you?"
"Rishir!"
That was when Great Mage Palrag exclaimed in delight.
Even amid exhaustion and disadvantage, a strange hope flickered in his eyes; now, his face lit with joy, as if the moment had finally arrived.
"As expected of you! In that short time, you cracked her swordsmanship!"
"..."
At Palrag's words, Kelloi finally grasped Rishir's meaning—and scowled in humiliation.
"Learned from the source herself..."
Did that mean her swordsmanship was so simple and obvious it served as instruction in itself?
A truly original and pathetic insult.
Kelloi knew the might of Klana Style.
She prided herself on understanding its greatness more than anyone.
"No swordsman could utter such drivel about my sword."
No swordsman!
Kelloi added sternly, swinging her sword grandly.
Following the flashy display heavy on bravado came a declaration.
"No one can counter my sword. I am Blue Lotus Klana, the blind swordsman history itself feared to remember, the continent's greatest—and last—swordsman. Retract that statement. Or I'll grant you the most agonizing death."
The murderer unleashed her full power without restraint.
A tremendous aura took form, rising like heat haze around her body.
The air grew heavy.
A dignified presence and tone befitting that power.
The very epitome of a strong one's majesty.
The great mage and swordmaster priest alike quailed under it.
"..."
Kelloi inwardly smiled in satisfaction at their reactions.
Yes.
This was the fitting response to facing herself—the supreme swordsman Klana.
"Pfft...!"
"...?"
Then, a sudden snicker.
Kelloi slowly turned to its source.
Rishir.
He was clamping his mouth shut with his fist for dear life.
That snicker was the most restrained version of his effort.
Kelloi was too flabbergasted for anger.
She had displayed power befitting the supreme swordsman, and the "majesty" to match.
Yet.
How could anyone laugh at such a strong one's majesty?
How could he wear such blatant mockery?
"The blind swordsman history feared to remember, the continent's greatest—and last—swordsman... Really? Is that how you normally refer to yourself, Klana?"
The tone felt oddly directed elsewhere, but surely imagination.
"What kind of lunatic..."
"Oh."
Rishir let out an admiring sigh at the murderer's indignant fury.
Her face flushing with emotion—a rare sight indeed.
"Don't look? Come on, how are we supposed to fight then?"
He spouted nonsense.
"I can no longer overlook your sloppiness."
Kelloi summoned her utmost fury and momentum.
Despite exhaustion from battling three powerhouses, her aura was ferocious.
"Ugh...!"
"To still have this much power left...!"
Palrag and Torben shuddered at the pressure on their skin.
The self-proclaimed supreme swordsman spoke aloofly.
"Come. Arrogant fool. I'll show you what a true sword is—what a true sword is."
Palrag and Torben were too crushed to even retort.
And—
"Pfft...! Ah, Klana, sorry—sorry! No, but! How can you not laugh at that... Kh!"
Rishir.
At this point, Kelloi could only shake her head in exasperation.
"Incorrigible bastard."
If words failed, the sword would teach.
That had always been the "Blue Lotus" way.
"Rishir—"
Torben's urgent cry.
Faster still, Kelloi's sword surged at Rishir.
A forward thrust embodying Klana Style's signature speed and feints without restraint.
"...!"
At the strike's end, the murderer concealed her surprise behind an aloof facade.
Rishir had parried it again.
And his sword once more traced an uncanny line, seizing control.
The murderer's sword entangled futilely, losing dominance.
Clang!
The same as the first exchange.
Again, she allowed a shallow cut, panicked, and leaped back greatly.
"..."
This time, her shoulder.
The murderer touched the wound, muttering.
"Not luck, then."
Kelloi's ritual sustaining the murderer's life.
Within this barrier, it functioned perfectly.
At this moment.
Kelloi perfectly replicated Blue Lotus's power and technique.
To hold her own against such perfection.
'My sword is being pushed? No. Impossible. Even the prime blade couldn't face her alone... She is the Blue Lotus... She is...'
"I am the Blue Lotus..."
With that self-suggestive mutter, Kelloi shook off the gnawing doubt.
"You."
She gazed at Rishir aloofly.
"Rejoice. I—the Blue Lotus—acknowledge you. As a sword worthy of my full power to break."
"...Pfft!"
"...Damn it all. Why the hell are you laughing?!"
Facing a worthy foe as the supreme swordsman. Overwhelming them.
The dream of the high mage who idolized the supreme swordsman.
Yet the opponent's constant disruptions finally snapped Kelloi's reason.
That instant.
The wonder of the murderer's mana shone.
Resonating with turbulent emotions, amplifying synergistically.
"Yes!!! Laugh all you want!!!"
Kelloi reveled in the omnipotence and charged Rishir.
The already swift murderer's movements accelerated further.
A speed with incomparable explosive power.
However.
In escaping her trajectory, the exquisite feints diluted.
"Palrag! Gorein!"
Torben's shout.
They were already moving.
Her feints had kept them barely trailing before; now, they matched her for the first time.
The priest's strikes from both flanks.
And frost clamping space itself from all sides.
It braked the murderer's explosion.
"Ugh!"
"Krrk!"
The priests, drained from repeated clashes, flew back from recoil—but
Their duty was done.
The momentum-lost murderer.
Now Rishir lunged.
The murderer's body, absolute in prowess.
Even after shaking three assailants, she effortlessly read and parried Rishir's attack.
With power and leisure to spare.
'This time for sure...!'
Kelloi focused amid heightened emotion.
This time, she'd overwhelm with Klana Style.
Brutishly invading, slyly entangling.
Like a wolf craving blood.
No form or discipline.
Only instinct and sense.
Thus, impossible to read—
Or counter.
Yes.
It should have been.
"Why!!!!!!"
The supreme-swordsman-obsessed mage screamed in frustration.
She retreated, clutching her left arm.
Her left hand wouldn't grip properly.
Her greatest wound yet.
The result of her utmost concentration poured into the blade.
Now—
The murderer realized the frustration's source.
She eyed the opponent's sword.
As if crafted solely to counter Klana Style, it perfectly opposed it.
Like an antidote to an incurable poison.
"Impossible!!!"
On the verge, the murderer nearly raved.
Her gaping mouth trailed saliva like threads.
"In that short time, reading my sword!!! Adapting a counter-style!!! Unthinkable!!!"
Like a beast thrashing before the end.
Palrag, Torben, and Gorein unwittingly stepped back under the pressure.
Step.
But Rishir advanced without hesitation.
For the greatest murderer who taught him swordsmanship knew:
No prey thrashes with full power more manageably—or enjoyably—than one on the brink.
"...!"
The bloodshot murderer's eyes flashed wide.
Rishir.
His defensive swordplay shifted.
"That's...!"
The murderer recognized it instantly.
Her own sword—
Klana Style.
Having closed distance, Rishir lowered his stance into drawing position.
Klana Style. Footwork stance prep.
"Now you're mimicking my sword...!!!"
The murderer lost reason and charged Rishir.
Her momentum.
A true monster forged of violence and power.
"..."
Rishir's gaze on the monster was endlessly serene.
Aloof.
Step.
His forward foot slid.
His afterimage stretched.
Another clash.
This time, no clanging sparks—blood sprayed.
"...Cough!"
The murderer clutched her throat and mouth, vomiting blood as she stared at Rishir.
Rishir met her gaze with his signature nonchalance, muttering.
"That's not how you do it."
Thud.
The murderer collapsed.
The sword aura at her blade's tip pitifully dispersed.
"Rishir...!"
Palrag cried out.
By then, Torben was already rushing to Rishir.
"H-how did you...!"
Torben grabbed Rishir's arm, demanding.
His face held pure awe as a swordsman.
"No way—in that short time, you read her swordsmanship?! A bladework with no form or style, and made it your own—"
The old knight nearly hyperventilating in excitement.
Rishir smiled wryly, cutting him off.
"No way. As if any swordsman could. Right?"
"Ah..."
Torben inwardly sighed in relief at Rishir's words.
Perhaps realms beyond his ken existed.
The horrific possibility he'd briefly entertained was denied by Rishir himself.
"I just consulted the body's original owner in my inner world."
"I see! Your inner world has—..."
Wait.
Torben blinked.
Then.
Their cavern.
A crack formed in the barrier's power.
Leaking energy coalesced into an old man's form.
Another material the mage used to recreate the murderer's body—and another sacrifice bound to the ritual—now freed.
Deep wrinkles.
Not faded age, but profound wisdom.
"Ah, aah...!"
Torben recognized the face instantly.
A face—and name—history remembered.
Most swordsmanship of his era and modern times stemmed from that swordsman.
This was that swordsman's will.
Why Torben had wanted to open the chest.
The old knight knelt reverently like a squire, paying homage to the great swordsman.
Gorein and Palrag followed, sensing the will's immense dignity, kneeling as well.
But the great swordsman's gaze wasn't on them.
-It's you. Who freed me from this cursed binding.
He looked down at Rishir.
-Child. I owe you greatly. What do you desire of me personally?
Torben urgently signaled Rishir.
Guidance!
Ask for guidance!!!
"...Ah!"
Rishir, grasping the situation.
As he belatedly bowed to the great swordsman's will—
"...Huh?"
He responded to a voice from within.
"No need to bow?"
"?"
"The prime blade?"
Prime Blade.
Teacher to all swordmasters of his era.
And the hero who felled the history-forgotten murderer.
...With his disciple's aid.
"He's beneath you?"
"Oh, really?"
Palrag, kneeling and eyeing Rishir, abruptly stood.
-...
"..."
"..."