Pink God Descends! (2)
Warm sunlight bathes the meadow as the sound of crashing waves echoes across it. Vibrant yellow hydrangeas bloom along the cliff's edge. A few seagulls soar against the sky, bluer than the sea below.
"Ugh!"
A human hand grips the cliff top. It's the Swain party, climbing with their bodies soaked to the bone.
"Phew. Made it up at last."
Swain reaches the top first, an old one-eyed white-haired man slung over one shoulder and a blonde elf over the other. Both hang limp like ragdolls.
"Ugh!"
Swain tosses them onto the hydrangea bed and turns back to haul the rope. Soon, Roin and Cliche lead the rest of the group over the edge. Miraculously, not a single casualty.
"Hoo..."
Confirming everyone's safe, Swain lets out a sigh of relief. He turns a grim gaze toward the two sprawled in the flowers.
Dexter Crowman. Midland's killer demon, nightmare of the central front, the 10,000 beheader. The old devil with a string of gruesome nicknames lies fainted, looking like a drowned rat. Swain learns today that even a Sword Master can pass out.
Beside him slumps the boomer elf who'd relentlessly hounded that terrifying Crowman. She's naked, but after witnessing her savage ferocity and power moments ago, fear is the only emotion stirring—no arousal or anything else.
And here's the kicker. Both are vicious-tempered Sword Masters.
Common trait two: matching fist-sized lumps bulge on their foreheads.
The culprit behind this spectacle stands there now...
"Did I do good?"
Cliche gazes up at the adults with the innocent smile of a child begging for praise. Well, he is a child, after all. His pure expression leaves everyone awkwardly speechless.
"Y-You... how... did you... do that?"
Swain finally musters the courage to ask. Roin wears a similar baffled look.
Come to think of it, things had always felt off. The ferocious bear-man staying still at their first meeting. Shattering the unbreakable ice with one punch. Pulling Roin from the blue hole that even sucked in a Sword Master.
'Why didn't I see it sooner?'
Swain smacks his own forehead. A boy wandering naked in the monster-infested Southern Mountains? No way he's ordinary. And that face—stunningly beautiful, beyond gender, a shock to these mountain villagers who'd never seen its like.
Swain reaches a conclusion in his heart.
'He's a god. The Pink God...'!
His worldview, narrow from village isolation, doesn't blind him to this absolute power. He drops flat before Cliche.
"Pink God! Please save our village!"
"Hm?"
Cliche tilts his head, flustered by Swain's sudden shift.
"Our village—no, the entire Northern Mountains face annihilation! Even now, the Demon King's unquenchable flames..."
Swain pleads desperately. But Cliche just stares blankly. Roin frowns at him.
"Silly Swain, Cliche's already our friend. He's not some god."
She jabs at the prostrated Swain. He panics inwardly but hides it. Unexpectedly, Cliche nods without denial.
The men's faces light up. Roin grabs Cliche's hand.
"Cliche, thanks for saving me back in the cave."
Cliche nods solemnly. Roin speaks gravely.
"Cliche, our village is in real danger. We couldn't get the unbreakable ice in the end. And we don't have the power to beat the Demon King."
Technically, Cliche smashed it all, but still. Aware of that, Cliche nods apologetically.
"Got it. I'll take a look."
He'd planned to follow Roin's hometown scent anyway—no loss for him.
Everyone's faces brighten at his words. Somehow, they sense Cliche might extinguish the wildfire. No evidence, just a hunch.
Roin hugs him tight.
"You're hugging not just out of thanks, huh?"
Swain teases slyly. Roin flushes and leaps back. Everyone but Cliche and Roin bursts into laughter.
That's when...
"...Kuh!"
A groan rises from the grass.
"Gah!?"
Swain's crew recoils in shock. Dexter Crowman stirs, slowly rising.
"...What? What happened?"
He squints down at his body. Throb! His head pounds like it's splitting.
"This?"
Crowman touches the lump. Even if it's a bump, it burns—clearly a burn. A burn on a Sword Master's body? First in decades.
"What the hell happened?"
Growling, he dredges up memories. Right, mid-clash with that elf...
"...!"
He glances at Hotse, sprawled nearby, and chuckles dryly.
"Kukukuku. I see. A draw, then?"
He's badly mistaken.
"I owe you lot."
Crowman dusts his clothes and eyes Swain's party. But Swain didn't fish him out from concern—the 70 billion gold bounty on his neck made it worthwhile. Should've tied him up quick.
"..."
Everyone eyes Crowman and Cliche, half-terrified, half-hopeful. If needed, Cliche would handle it again.
But...
"Consider surviving after learning my identity your lifetime's luck."
Crowman shows no killing intent. He turns silently. Oddly, no strike at the fainted Hotse either.
"Our duel waits for next time."
He smirks at her and bolts like an arrow from a bow.
"W-We gotta catch him quick...! That bounty's over 70 billion gold...!"
Swain yells, but Cliche shakes his head sternly.
"I'm slow at running."
"...?"
Swain's speechless. Slow? What can you do?
In two blinks, Crowman vanishes from sight. Considering the vast plain ahead, his speed is monstrous.
Then, the elf beside stirs. Snort— a massive bubble from her nose. Scratch— she claws her exposed belly. Snort— thunderous snoring.
Swain and Roin grimace.
"Not fainted asleep—sleeping fainted."
"The type that snores loud in saunas. Avoid sleep salons with folks like her."
Anyway, can't leave Hotse. Swain prods her with a thick stick.
"Teacher, can't sleep here."
"Mmm, five more years..."
"Units too big! Boomer, wake up."
More prods yield no response. Splash! Roin douses her with fresh spring water.
"Ah,,,cold,,,what,,,the hell!"
Hotse bolts up. Trapped in ice for a claimed billion years, she's hypersensitive to chill.
"What,,,here? You brats,,,woke me up rough?"
She scowls at Swain's party. They hide behind Cliche. But surprisingly, Hotse doesn't rampage. She dusts her waist and stands.
She seems to think she's just freed from the unbreakable ice. No memory of the deathmatch.
"Huh,,,but,,,you brats look,,,kinda familiar?"
She squints, then spots Cliche and startles.
"Eh!?"
Now she's fully awake.
"So,,,yer headin' north?"
This self-proclaimed ancient boomer elf downs the scant booze from Swain's packs the moment she wakes. She's a monster drinker. She guzzles liters of rum—disinfectant-grade—solo. The men, watching her chug 80-proof liquor like water sans snacks, shake their heads and bail.
"Why north?"
Cliche frowns at Hotse's question.
"I'm a dragon. Goin' home."
"...?"
Hotse tilts her head.
"These days kids are somethin' else. Guess I'm way outta touch after a billion years?"
Leading the march, Swain thinks it's not fashion—nor a billion years.
Gulping booze, Hotse turns to Cliche.
"Me too,,,tribe's all gone anyway,,,nothin' to do,,,so I'll tag along. Dragon world, eh? Sounds fun~~"
She's hooked on the kid who one-punched her.
Cliche nods indifferently.
"..."
Hotse—self-proclaimed freshly thawed after a billion ice-bound years—turns to the cliff edge. Her prison cave lies below.
"...Bye."
She murmurs to the shattering white waves. Then, clasping her first comrade Cliche's hand, she shakes vigorously.
"Nice to meetcha. Name's Kubelin Hotse~~, billion years old."