Chapter 382
Chapter 382
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 382
Chapter Title: The Beast King Awakens
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Surging droplets of blood and the encroaching shadow of death.
A duel with the swordsman extinguishing the halo of light.
Facing the brilliant radiance he had so desperately longed for.
Each time the light battered his body, each time pain seared through him, the beast recalled the past. The past he had lost. As the memories flooded back, the beast's muscles contracted. Its colossal frame shrank with a grinding crunch.
The body, several times the size of a human's, had soon dwindled to half that. The compressed muscles and hide grew even tougher. The beast no longer let its arms dangle or hunched its back. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the beast's spine straightened.
The beast's feral glare softened.
"A name holds no value to me."
"It no longer does."
A voice echoed in the beast's ears.
It was the voice of the human the beast had first sought to understand—the final, desperate cry of one it could never comprehend.
"It's nothing to me now. Everyone who knew my name, everyone who would call it... you killed them all. Didn't you?"
So the human said.
"Take it."
"I have nothing left to give you... but I can give you my name. So take it."
As she took her own life, the woman bestowed a name upon the beast that had once loved her.
"Barta."
"That's my name."
The moment that name resurfaced.
The beast reclaimed every memory. It remembered the path it had walked. A torrent of recollections engulfed it like crashing waves, awakening its reason.
And so, the beast became a king.
The noble king of magical beasts.
The King of Magical Beasts, Barta, opened his eyes.
2.
As he swung his sword, Rak suddenly realized it.
The beast he faced was changing. Transforming into something entirely different. Rak sensed it instinctively.
The atmosphere, the air, the flow—it all shifted.
The future Rak had glimpsed wavered.
The movements laid out through foresight began to shatter. Hundreds, thousands of sword paths unfurled in the air snapped one by one. The beast before him even seemed to splinter into dozens of forms.
Drip.
Blood trickled from Rak's eyes, burst capillaries weeping crimson. He gritted his teeth and swung his blade. But the balance was already broken. Slowly, Rak began to fall back.
And then.
"......"
The moment the beast's eyes calmed.
Every future Rak had pursued exploded into fragments. Beyond the shattered visions of foresight, the beast extended a hand. The instant claw met blade, Rak's body launched into the air.
"...!"
Claaaaang!
A deafening roar tore at his eardrums as Rak tumbled across the ground. Planting his holy sword into the earth, he barely rose and lifted his head. The beast made no pursuit. It simply stared at Rak in silence.
Eerily serene eyes.
At last, the beast parted its jaws. No more frothing blood. Only a human voice resonated through the air.
"...Ah."
The quiet voice rippled outward.
Then, the beast lowered its head—slowly, so very slowly. Too high for submission, too low for arrogance. At just the right angle, it spoke.
"My thanks to you, who awakened my pride."
Its head bowed, but its gaze remained fixed on Rak. Rak's eyes trembled. Thanks? For what? The beast that had savagely torn apart warriors like family now expressed gratitude in human tongue. Rak's mind went blank.
"My name is Barta."
Barta reached out.
He roughly tore free his right arm—not truly his own. Flesh and dark blood sprayed with wet rips and crunches.
Whoosh.
Barta swung the severed arm lightly. Wind whipped along its arc, snow gusting skyward. The patchwork magical beast hide clinging to the bone sloughed away with it.
What remained was a straight length of bone.
Crude, yet unmistakably the form of a sword. Barta leveled the bone blade at Rak.
"A swordsman."
One who lives by the sword.
One who proves their life with the sword.
"What is your name?"
He had no name to reveal to a mere beast.
Rak rose, teeth clenched. Ignoring his grinding knees, he charged. His body at its limit, yet he moved faster than ever.
Countless futures unfolded before him.
Myriad sword paths appeared.
Still unfamiliar and faint, he took them in and swung his greatsword. Even from an unsteady stance, the blade's trajectory neared perfection. But Rak's sword could never be truly perfect.
It wavered. His understanding of the blade fell short.
He had not yet reached the realm attained by those who devoted their lives to a single sword.
Thus.
Crack.
The unstable futures Rak envisioned shattered entirely. Just as his sword neared Barta, the paths vanished from his sight. No path to victory remained. And in the frozen time, Barta moved.
Splitting an instant, his blade flashed.
The swung sword engulfed Rak's. From below, it parried the falling strike like a guillotine, launching it skyward.
Claaaaang!
Rak's shoulder wrenched back. A crunch as it dislocated. From that single clash, he felt the weight embedded in his foe's technique.
Grind.
Teeth gritted, Rak gripped his shoulder with his other hand and forced the joint back. Twisting in place, he swung. He unleashed every technique he knew, everything he had learned.
But none landed.
All were dismantled. No matter how cleanly executed, no matter how he accounted for variables, Barta countered from a step ahead. As if he could see the future.
Slash.
Each time the beast swung lightly, Rak met it with resolve to die. It didn't last. Rak flew back, rolling across the ground. His sword hand trembled.
Powerlessness, humiliation, hatred.
Lifting his head, the beast still loomed, gazing down. It did not pursue. Instead, it spoke again.
"I asked your name."
Rak staggered to his feet.
He raised his sword in silence. No name to give—and even without it, one thing was clear. Rak had not accepted defeat.
Barta assumed a stance in quiet acknowledgment.
No more words were needed.
To hold back was to insult the foe. To trample their pride. If he refused to name himself, it would be respected. Barta exhaled deeply.
Thud.
His true left leg stamped forward firmly.
His artificial right leg pulled back. His breath was calm.
"......"
The air trembled.
Rak prepared his final strike. The raging blizzard surged skyward for a fleeting moment.
3.
Lania toyed with the crystal orb.
The orb Cardi had sent from the front lines contained information on the King of Magical Beasts. Having met all conditions, Lania accessed it effortlessly and learned more.
Name: Barta.
Etymology unknown.
He revealed it to no one, yet in his rematch with Ganikalt, the King of Magical Beasts named himself so. Barta.
"Hmm..."
Lania tapped the crystal orb.
She absorbed every memory Cardi had stored within. At the end, she could only sigh.
"This is gonna suck."
The King of Magical Beasts, Barta.
Lania had seen the scene through the orb: Barta clashing evenly with Ganikalt. Even was no exaggeration.
Inflicting mortal wounds on each other.
Blood spraying.
A desperate struggle on the boundary between life and death.
A battle where victory and defeat blurred into meaninglessness. Lania leaned back with a long sigh.
"Hoo..."
Galatric swordsmanship.
So it was called. Lania had faced it time and again: from the superhuman swordsman Kuntel, from the Sword of Death Ganikalt, and from Kyle.
The style shifted with the wielder's path. Same roots, but branches diverged wildly. Some strayed far from the mainline... but.
'All of 'em a pain. Annoyingly so.'
Exceedingly tricky.
Lania grimaced, recalling her clash with Reverse Heaven Blade. Her hand absently traced the hole that had pierced her chest, a groan escaping her.
Memories she'd rather forget. Even now, facing that Kyle again, victory wasn't assured.
A horrifically tricky swordsmanship.
Enough to be called the mage's natural enemy. The pinnacle of all techniques.
"And yet."
Lania tapped the orb.
"This guy's Galatric style too?"
In the memory of that fierce battle.
The King of Magical Beasts, Barta, wielded the same swordsmanship as Ganikalt. He parried the strike that cleaved a wave of beasts—with the exact same technique.
That meant...
"He can pull off the same crap."
Simply by appearing.
Simply by swinging his sword, Ganikalt swept away all swordsmen—earning the title 'Sword of Death,' the most dreaded calamity.
If Barta could do the same.
She had to stop the King of Magical Beasts from fully awakening, no matter the cost. Lania felt it keenly.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The moment he moved to swing.
Rak saw Barta's blade precede his own. In stretched time, the crude sword inched forward. The moment its tip touched the rising snow, it burst apart with a crack.
Snowflakes, particles—tiny white specks.
Shattered finer still.
Though it seemed impossible to divide further, Barta's sword reduced all it touched to nothingness, advancing relentlessly. The instant it completed its arc.
Tick, tick-tick-tick-tick.
Snow piled on the ground surged along the path. Space screamed in the wake of the swing. Severed voids refilled in a rush of wind.
The incoming gale carried.
The stench of death, rotting and foul.
'...Ah.'
Before the oncoming strike, Rak realized.
He couldn't win. Couldn't resist. Death approached. No escape from it. His swinging blade tip wavered.
'I'll die.'
Having achieved nothing.
Without vengeance.
Here.
'No.'
Rak rejected it. His wavering tip steadied. Warriors had drilled it into him countless times.
"A warrior must remain a warrior until the moment of death."
"Resist to the end."
Facing death, Rak thrashed.
His holy sword clashed against the encroaching demise. No clang of metal. Utter silence. From the point of contact, space groaned and tore.
Space ripped without sound.
Voids mended, tore, refilled in cycles. Shocks and winds battered Rak relentlessly. His body creaked and split.
Screeech, skreeee!
Pushed back.
Relentlessly. Yet Rak never released his sword. Gripping the rebounding hilt, teeth clenched, he endured.
Drip, drip.
Dark blood poured.
From eyes, ears, nose, mouth—it gushed madly. Still, Rak swung as he was driven back. The deathblow began to part.
Slash.
Rak's sword cleaved death.
A single sliver. Death grazed past, slicing air beside him, bisecting the forest behind. Trees crashed amid the din as Rak vomited blood.
He had cleaved it.
But not won.
Rak dropped to one knee, spewing blood. The blizzard cleared, revealing Barta. He touched his chest.
"......"
Rak's strike, born from defying death.
It had grazed Barta's hide, ever so slightly. Gazing at the blood on his hand, Barta raised his sword calmly.
As if in reverence.
"Next time."
The moment their blades crossed.
The human who parted his strike—the King of Magical Beasts instinctively knew. The potential within. The future realm this human would attain. A threat to him, without doubt.
Thus, he must kill now.
But.
"I shall await the next."
To the human who restored his pride, Barta offered respect.
"Next time."
Beyond the snowfields, to the northern fringes.
As he turned back whence he came, he said.
"I hope to hear your name."
The King of Magical Beasts departed.
Gazing after him, Rak ground his teeth. He tried to rise, sword in hand. But his body, at its limit, refused. On his knees, he roared.
Pounding the ground in fury.
Amid the corpses of warriors scattered across the snow, Rak chewed on his humiliation. Powerless, achieving nothing—he screamed through gritted teeth.
This day.
The guardian of the north failed to protect.
The northern humans he swore to shield.
His own pride.
The sullied pride of the warriors.
He protected nothing.