Chapter 306
Chapter 306
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 306
Chapter Title: The Way to Confront Death (5)
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◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Light bursts forth from the holy land.
A beam of light shoots into the sky.
That pillar of light is enormous enough to be seen from afar. Erhya guarding the jade throne of Baekya Castle, the warriors standing right beside her, Chloe positioned right before the cursed dragon... they all witnessed that light.
The brilliantly soaring radiance seizes every gaze.
But the two swordsmen closest to the holy land don't spare it a single glance. They stare only at the swords gripped in each other's hands.
Clang, kclang!
Swords clash against each other.
The two unbreakable blades tangle with deafening clamor. The relentless ring of steel on steel echoes through the air. Even the endlessly drifting snowflakes refuse to linger near the pair.
Death's Blade, Ganikalt.
The first hero and the first superhuman—he unleashes his utmost. For the first time in centuries, he honors the worthy rival standing before him.
The strongest hero, Kyle Toben.
Known as the symbol of victory, he swings his sword at the calamity that has forced him to his knees time and again. Trembling with fear, he refuses to look away from the death looming right before him. Just as his own master once did.
Technique crashes against technique.
In this moment—wielding his blade with everything he has for the first time in years—Kyle recalls something from ages past. When was it, exactly? The memory is blank for some reason, the details lost...
That was the reason Kyle came to admire the sword (?).
Whether it was a dream or a glimpse into another's memory through some arcane artifact, he couldn't say. All he remembers is that a lone swordsman stood there.
Flowing blood.
A missing left eye.
A severed arm.
Kyle saw the back of someone who could barely stand, let alone wield a sword. He saw the god (?) the swordsman faced.
"I am, ■■■■ ■ ■■■■." He raised his sword.
The tip of that blade aimed at the false god who had descended upon the world.
"Remember it—the one who will cut you bears the name of ■■." He swung.
With only the back in view, Kyle couldn't see the sword's trajectory. But he knew.
Slash.
That the blade's edge had reached the god.
That it had severed the unseverable.
Shhaaaaaaaaack!
With that single swing, the world cleaved apart. The landscape split diagonally, the god's flesh rent in two. The sky tore open, sweeping away the shadows that had shrouded the sun.
A strike worthy of the name miracle.
'Beautiful.'
That's what Kyle thought back then.
Even as the rest of the scene faded into oblivion... that one strike remained etched forever. It haunted Kyle's mind for years.
'I want to wield a sword like that...'
He admired it.
He yearned for that radiant blow.
He longed to swing like the swordsman in his memory. Yet the stronger he grew, the more he realized how distant that realm truly was.
He became the Hero.
He learned the sword from its superhuman master.
He earned the title of strongest hero.
Still, that pinnacle remained out of reach.
Now, even the memory itself began to slip away. He grew convinced he could never achieve such a swing. And yet, Kyle still yearned for that sword.
If only he could mimic that swordsmanship.
If only he could unleash a strike like that.
Then he could overcome his given trials, fulfill his contract. Accomplish the impossible. And so, to imitate that sword, Kyle resorted to another path.
Gathering starlight. Accumulating it. Again and again...
"Futile."
Kyle muttered without thinking.
"You can't imitate it with something like that."
The scenery scatters with the memory.
Time snaps back to reality. A swordsman stands before Kyle's eyes. Death's Blade, Ganikalt. He assumes a certain stance.
His right arm dangles limp as if severed, one eye closed, sword gripped in his left hand.
A stance Kyle never learned from Kuntel.
But he knows it. He has no choice—he saw it countless times in his dreams. The stance that swordsman took.
"As I thought."
In this instant, Kyle is certain.
"It was you."
Ganikalt gazes at Kyle.
Kyle stares back at the swordsman before him.
'■■■■ ■ ■■■■.'
The name erased from memory.
Forgotten by all.
Has the starlight dimmed? Kyle vaguely recalls the memory the stars had buried.
"It was you, Ganikalt van Galatric."
Ganikalt offers no reply.
He simply steps forward.
Boom!
The ground quakes.
The battlefield's flow reverses. Realizing the technique Ganikalt intends to unleash, Kyle swallows hard.
'It's coming.'
Ganikalt's left arm stirs slowly.
Not fast. Not slow. As if time itself has frozen and only his sword moves, the greatsword traces a silver-white arc at an uncanny pace.
Tick, tick. Tiddick, tiddiddick.
Everything the blade touches splits.
Space fractures along the tip's path. Vast gashes scar the air. The blade tip bears down, slicing through the void toward him.
Before that advancing edge, Kyle feels death.
He can't evade. He can't resist.
Thus, it is Death's Blade.
"...Ah."
A human sighs before encroaching death.
Eyes open to the last, Kyle watches the sword death swings. He burns that infinitely beautiful, terrifying stroke into his retinas.
And death descends upon Kyle.
Slash.
The scenery cleaves diagonally.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 2.
Slash.
The instant the sword swings, Raniel yanks chains toward Kyle with all her might. They bind his body, yanking him backward.
She senses it instinctively too.
You can't block that. You can't dodge it.
Even an unbreakable holy sword—that strike would cleave it all the same. That's the certainty surging through her. And she was right.
Shhaaaaaaaaack!
A colossal gash rips through the air.
The scenery severs diagonally.
The sundered space, slipping out of alignment, doesn't snap back into place like before. It stays offset, fused that way. In that moment, Raniel feels common sense shatter.
Distance vanishes.
Common sense turns worthless.
Providence warps.
Something beyond reason—something defying comprehension even as it's witnessed—engulfs the canyon. Escaping its reach was mere delusion. The raging blast hurls Raniel and Kyle airborne.
Thud!
Not even grazed by the blade, yet the wind pressure rends their bodies. Kyle and Raniel spew blood, tumbling across the snowfield.
"Guh, urk!"
Her vision swims red. Her body throbs everywhere.
Raniel vomits blood, slowly lifting her head. What fills her sight is a landscape utterly transformed.
The sky has split.
The diagonally fused canyon crumbles slowly. Boom, boom—the earth rumbles.
"Ha..."
Raniel forces a hollow laugh. She can't even process it anymore. What is that thing?
"Cough, urk."
Raniel glances sideways.
There lies Kyle, retching even more blood than her. He looks beyond standing.
"......"
Raniel rises slowly.
Leaving Kyle collapsed and unable to rise, she confronts the inescapable death. In the end, every plan of hers failed utterly. Which leaves...
'Just one option.'
Time to decide.
Rustle.
She rolls up her sleeve, thrusting her arm forward.
A scale materializes before Raniel. She hesitates briefly, scale in place, but at last rests her finger upon it.
"Offering..."
The moment the word forms on her lips.
Grab.
Kyle seizes her ankle.
"Didn't I tell you?"
Bloodshot eyes glare up at Raniel.
"Don't use it."
"If I don't, we're all dead. What then?"
"Even if you do..."
"I know. It's pointless."
Raniel smirks.
"So get lost like back then, you idiot."
Kyle's eyes twitch.
Raniel advances another step. Kyle's grip finally slips from her ankle. As she takes a few more strides.
Plop.
Snowfall whispers from somewhere.
Raniel looks up toward the sound. A figure stands there.
"...Rak?"
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ 3.
There once was a man called Grace.
He had a single master, who to the orphan was brother and father alike. He revered his master. Idolized him. Yearned for the proud swordsman who always returned triumphant.
From him, he learned wisdom.
Received much.
Grateful beyond words, the youth—now come of age—sought to repay that grace. His master only smiled bitterly and replied:
"If I should lose my pride, awaken it in me." A reply befitting a true master.
The youth nodded, though doubt lingered. Such a proud swordsman, stripped of pride? Unthinkable.
Yet it came to pass.
The master fell to defeat.
Forgotten by all.
Ere long, he was branded a calamity.
Death's Blade, Ganikalt.
A new name pinned to his master—feared as calamity, a slayer of men. No longer a hero. The youth had to honor his vow.
But how?
Kill the master.
Free him from that torment.
Yet he lacked the strength. A lifetime of honing, and still he never dreamed of reaching him.
Humans ponder endlessly.
At thought's end, one answer emerges. Gifted by an elf, comrade to the master. Together with the elf, the human prepares a single gambit.
"It's linked." Link after link.
"Next one. Then the next." For the day that must someday dawn.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ Rak leaps into the canyon.
His hands grasp nothing. Steam rises from his body, as if Overheat stacked to its breaking point.
Thud.
Rak lands and advances on death. Death narrows his eyes at him.
"You."
Death recognizes Rak.
Recognizes the blood coursing through that frame.
"Grace?"
"Rak van Grace."
Teeth grinding, Rak declares his name. Then steps toward death. Death questions him.
"A swordsman?"
Rak answers.
"A warrior."
Eyes bulging, Rak presses on toward death. Raniel screams, unheard.
"To keep my vow, I stand here."
Just closing in, blood streams from Rak's eyes.
His flesh begins to creak. Yet Rak presses on, mouth open.
"The pride we swore."
Rak thrusts his empty hand into the void.
Left hand clenches empty air.
"Before death, Grace shall reveal his pride." The instant the progenitor's dying words are spoken.
Light erupts from Rak's fist. It coalesces into sword form. Ganikalt's eyes narrow at the perfected blade.
The hero, Ganikalt van Galatric.
The sword he once wielded now rests in Rak's grasp.
The dazzling glow halts Raniel mid-leap to stop him. Her wide eyes catch something looming behind Rak.
"I'll go now, Master." A memory. A lingering specter.
The remnant of the man called Grace, who once stood here, overlaps Rak. Rak steps toward death, stance set.
Then—tap.
Rak kicks off lightly.
...No secret arts pass down the Grace line.
No refined techniques exist for them.
Only brutal, devastating blows swung on instinct, sense, and raw power. Later heirs of Grace's blood simply failed to unlock their potential.
The progenitor, Grace.
The man devoted his life to forging one technique.
For that solitary swing, he sacrificed everything. Honed it to lethal perfection.
A technique to slay the master he revered.
Time flows onward, and now it manifests through Rak's hand. Gripping the sword, ancestral memories flood his mind. Echoes of the forebear who challenged death endlessly.
The great warrior, Grace.
Rak recreates his strike.
Starlight sealed in the holy sword accelerates Rak's form. In a flash, his eyes blaze red. Heat pent in his superheated flesh detonates.
Grace Style: Formless Sword.
No set shape. No fixed form.
What matters is held in hand. If there's a target to cleave, that's enough. Grace's interpretation of his master's heart-sword (?) teachings, forged into this stroke.
A greatsword fills Rak's grip.
But swung, it's no sword (?). Like an axe, it rends space as Rak's blade collides with Ganikalt's.
Kaaaaaaaang!
A thunderous roar—and starlight explodes.
The surging radiance is the pride Death's Blade lost, the soul's missing half he abandoned long ago. Starlight rattles the fallen hero's spirit.
Shadow tangles with starlight.
Space twists in that instant.
Rak, unable to endure, hears every bone snap. He loses the sword at last.
"Urk!"
Blood spraying, Rak rolls across the ground.
Failure to execute fully—but the attempt bears fruit. The erupting starlight binds the shadows seeping from Ganikalt's body.
For a fleeting moment, Ganikalt can't wield them.
Rak eyes the dropped sword.
It spins through air before thudding into the snow. Planted between Death's Blade Ganikalt and Hero Kyle Toben.
The greatsword impaled in the snowfield.
Kyle stares, dazed.
Raniel eyes the blade too.
The same thought dawns on them both. Raniel warps the hovering scale.
No longer a scale—now an Offering.
All ten fingers offered to the altered balance. Then she stomps the lingering circuit on the ground. Prepared for any wildcard. It blazes radiant now.
"Urk, ptui."
Kyle spits blood from his mouth, rising.
bereft of his holy sword, hands empty. Without it, Kyle Toben is no Hero. The man Kyle Toben stands at Raniel's side.
"Hey, Kyle."
Raniel speaks.
"Remember the Black Dragon subjugation?"
"Like I'd forget."
"Then you know what I'm about to do?"
Kyle grins.
"Of course, Raniel."
Finally owning up, you stubborn bastard.
Raniel smirks, snapping every finger.
Charrarararak!
The circuit flares. Chains erupt.
Myriad strands blanket the sky, filling the battlefield. Hundreds, thousands. Their target self-evident. Raniel twists her lips and bellows.
"Go, Kyle!"
Kyle doesn't reply.
Wordless, he kicks off the ground—racing forth.
Toward the holy sword planted in the snowfield.