Chapter 438
Chapter 438
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 438
Chapter Title: One Dissipation
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One Dissipation.
In the stillness where no sound or sight could reach, heat overflowed. The heat surging in an instant didn't take the form of fire. If it had to be described, it was closer to a wave of light.
The wave crashed in. Light flooded everything.
Everything touched by the overflowing light evaporated, crumbled, charred black, and ultimately turned to ash. No—even leaving behind ashes would be fortunate. Far more had their very existence erased root and stem, leaving nothing at all.
The wave of heat rolled forward. Like a calamity unleashed.
Not even the searing heat of that cursed sun hovering high in the sky could compare to this torrent of light.
Szzzzzzzzzzzzzz!
The lake of curses evaporated.
Transformed into steam and rising toward the sky, poised to fall again as cursed rain—the lake could no longer do so. Even the moisture held within the thunderclouds had evaporated. All that remained in the wake of the light's passage was parched, barren earth.
The ancient calamity was erased in a single fleeting moment.
As the revived disaster vaporized and vanished, the wave of light pressed onward without pause. In a span of time sharded into infinite fragments, barely a flash—the torrent of light finally reached the heart of the temple where the Apostate stood.
—————!
Fragments of the Forgotten Gods enveloping the Apostate shrieked in agony. Though the distance blunted the full force of the heat, their flesh still bore scorch marks.
And then.
"...Ah."
To the Apostate herself, Gleria Bell Armias.
"......"
She silently gazed at her one arm. The skin was burning away. The flames extinguished in moments, the wound healed just as quickly... but the scorch mark lingered long after. Staring at that trace, the Apostate smiled.
...Kelrhalim's life had finally touched the calamity.
The life of a transcendent being who had endured over a century was scarred by the calamity. In that scarring, it proved her presence here. That your prophecy was wrong. That her life had not been in vain.
Yet some might say otherwise.
That this strike was insignificant.
A wound that healed in moments. A scar that would soon fade. Indeed, they might be right. If the final strike Kelrhalim had wrung from her demonic path was meant to kill the Apostate... then perhaps its value was low.
But.
"The path is open."
The purpose of this strike was not to kill the Apostate. From the beginning, Kelrhalim's goal lay elsewhere. Though she had long relinquished her position as Arctia's chancellor, Kelrhalim remained an educator—and a senior who walked ahead.
The role of an educator and senior was.
"Go."
To show the way forward.
To clear the obstacles before the children and guide them onward.
"Your place is not here."
Kelrhalim raised her arm.
Standing firm on the withered earth, she pointed to the temple's center. Pointing there, Kelrhalim spoke in a voice lighter than ever before.
"Your stage is over there."
Kelrhalim did not look back.
She lacked the strength to turn—and there was no need. As she pointed ahead, someone brushed past her side.
With a thud against the ground.
Resti passed Kelrhalim and charged forward.
She advanced beyond where Kelrhalim had halted. She ran along the path Kelrhalim had opened. The value of Kelrhalim's strike would be determined by Resti herself. Watching her back, Kelrhalim smiled faintly.
...A child who resembles my prized disciple.
Seeing Celestia in her silhouette, Kelrhalim slowly lowered her hand. No mana remained in her body. The source of power that had always been with her through long years was gone—and something else departed her side.
The eternity granted to her.
Her immortal life was leaving Kelrhalim's side. With her demonic path, mana, and all that defined her as a mage stripped away—even eternity itself peeled off—what remained was neither mage nor madwoman, but a mere human.
A mere human, Kelrhalim murmured to herself.
'Ah.'
She let out a light laugh.
"This should do it, Celestia."
2.
Sword Ghost Draka.
The vengeful spirit of a man who had craved revenge his entire life had finally unshackled the chains of the stars. Freed from those chains, Draka beheld the stage before him with his own eyes, by his own will.
The land of Alkeia, at the abyss's end—for those who rejected faith.
Before him stood the Apostate's masterpiece, along with hordes of familiars crashing in on waves of filth. Staring at the viscous sludge, Draka recalled the past. The memory of that day when his entire domain melted away.
...Ah, Armel.
His daughter's face flickered before his eyes.
Draka could never forget the day everything was taken from him. Chewing on that memory, he gripped his sword. Gripping it, he walked forward.
"You..."
There stood a boy looking at him. No—now a young man. His face was familiar to Draka. Likely the boy he had encountered that day in the northern snow mountains.
Time had passed, turning the boy into a young man.
What emanated from the young man was the aura of a transcendent.
Draka let out a hollow chuckle as he gazed at the youth who had ascended to transcendent in mere years and built such profound mastery. Watching him stirred thoughts of Draka's own wasted time.
...A few years.
The time Draka had lived as a puppet.
...Decades.
The time Draka had lived mad with revenge.
...A lifetime.
Time in which others achieved something, found satisfaction or resignation, and died content or regretful. But Draka had squandered it all. Spent it on one sole purpose. Wasted it.
A single blazing flame. Draka had thrown all his time as kindling into that fire. The flames still burned, still consuming his life.
Flames named revenge.
Before being engulfed by those flames, his life had sparkled like the young man before him. There had been a brilliant era. But now, days he could no longer dream of. Draka no longer clung to those faded years.
"Ah..."
Draka groaned.
"Truly, the perfect stage."
What he clung to was revenge. The purpose of his life.
Without hesitation, Draka hurled his remaining time into the flames. Whoosh—the blaze roared higher.
Draka raised his sword.
He was still a swordsman.
And a swordsman spoke with his blade.
3.
The wave of beasts surged forward.
Gazing at the oncoming wave, Draka began to walk. As he stepped forward, he saw the king of beasts at its end. Toward it, Draka advanced.
Shiiiing—Draka's blade sang long and clear.
...Draka van Haroct.
Sword Ghost, Draka.
Having lost everything save his name, he had come to be called the Sword Ghost. Because people found his disregard for means in pursuit of ends unsettling, dubbing him a demon.
They condemned him, reviled him, pointed fingers.
Draka's life was misguided, impossible to call righteous. A life that could not be glossed over by any means. Draka knew this himself. He had not committed evils out of ignorance.
Knowing full well it was unforgivable, he had still committed them.
He had lived like trash. For his goal, he had killed countless people. With a flick of his finger, he had sent comrades who trusted him to their deaths. Pursuing only efficiency, Draka had trampled others' lives.
That was how he had lived.
Walking solely for revenge.
In that life, he felt no need to romanticize his pain, trials, or adversities. No need to deny his path. Why should he?
Kiiiiiiiiing!
Draka's sword trembled long and fierce.
With surging sword ki, the path of the sword appeared before Draka's eyes. It was crude. Rough. Far from smooth or clean—utterly chaotic.
That was Draka's life.
Facing the sword path laid bare before him, Draka confronted his life. A horrific, blood-soaked road, but one he had forged himself. A swordsman could not doubt his own path.
Draka did not deny his life.
He swung his sword along the path he had drawn.
Slash.
Draka swung forward and advanced. From his blade's tip, sword ki spread like a net. The net trapped the oncoming beasts. Sliced them apart. Amid sprays of blood in all directions, Draka swung again.
Shwaaaaaaaa!
A mist of blood rose.
Cleaving through the wave of beasts, Draka pressed on. Each time they bled, a smile crept across his lips. His mouth split wide in a mad laugh.
"Come."
He laughed.
"Come as many as you like. Bite all you want."
A beast sank teeth into Draka. He seized the creature lunging for his flesh and crushed it bare-handed. Sliced it to pieces with his sword. Drinking the pouring blood, Draka swung.
More beast than any beast.
Draka rampaging among them like a wild animal was truly a sword-wielding ghost. A ghost tearing through the beasts.
"—————!"
Draka roared. A sound like laughter or a scream. His mad eyes beheld the sword path unfolding before him.
...Draka knew.
That little life remained to him.
That he walked toward his end. Knowing this, Draka chose gladly. To burn every last bit of his remaining life here.
It was what he always did.
Sparing no means or methods, Draka craved revenge. Even if it cost his life. Draka no longer calculated efficiency. He burned his remaining life without regard for consequence.
Whoosh.
His life as kindling set the sword path ablaze.
The path before his eyes began to transform. Shaking, burning. As if questioning Draka.
Is this the right path?
This twisted, warped road?
To that doubt, Draka gave the same answer as before. Why deny it? This is the path I have walked. Right or wrong, it is mine.
Kagagagagagagak!
Draka's sword went berserk.
Not a blade but a saw, sword ki tore outward in frenzy. Beasts touched by it died in agony. Screaming, writhing.
Thud.
Curse me. As much as you like.
Mock me. As much as you like.
Point fingers, condemn, revile—as much as you like. My life deserves it. I know better than anyone.
'It doesn't matter.'
Draka swung.
'I walk my path.'
Faster than before, more chaotically. With each swing, filth was swept away. Covered in blood, Draka advanced.
The burning sword path grew ever clearer.
Because he had forsaken his life. Because he had walked for one purpose alone. Because he never denied himself to the very end. Because he did not hesitate before his finale. Thus, Draka's sword was complete.
A sword forged by sheer stubbornness.
Yet that completed sword path was not perfect.
Crude. Rough, not smooth. Not straight—twisting, bending, chaotic. No one seeing the trajectory of his blade would call it beautiful.
That was Draka's sword.
That was Draka's life.
Twisted, broken, wrong though it might be, Draka had lived by his convictions. He never tried to prettify himself, nor sought understanding from others.
The Sword Ghost, Draka, was that kind of man.
If there were those who walked radiant, noble paths like Galahal, then in some corner of the world, there were men walking twisted, reeking roads. And so, a man stubborn in his path reaches his end.
Draka did.
The Sword Ghost did.
The ghost swung its sword.
The ghost's eyes were no longer human. Scattering crimson light, it slaughtered everything in sight. Amid the gushing blood, the ghost laughed.
Behold, Apostate.
Am I still a pathetic man?