Artist
Artist
Kwaaaaah!
Thick limestone dust billowed upward as the well-built baronial castle came apart at the seams. Chandeliers wrenched free from their chains and crashed across the floor, tangled with shattered furniture and bodies.
At the heart of the collapse, Richard was already moving.
He kicked off the ground with mana-tattoo-reinforced leg strength, accelerated, then twisted in midair to smash aside the rubble plummeting toward his fiancée's head where she hung over his shoulder. He wrenched his body past exploding shards of glass, sprang off a crumbling wall as it came down, and vaulted clear.
The sequence gave him no difficulty. For a man who had spent long years in the mountains, this was just a slightly elevated difficulty setting.
Granted, he did have to protect the woman on his shoulder.
But for a martial artist who had reached the rank of Master, the impossible was never the question.
He had to focus, keep his eyes moving, force stiff joints still aching from earlier injuries into sharper responsiveness—but he managed it.
When he finally kicked off the collapsing chimney and burst into open air, he swept Maria into his arms before he hit the ground and rolled once through the landing.
Chajajak. Fine grit still sifting through the air. Maria's face, as the dust began to settle, looked a little dazed—motion sickness, maybe.
Are you hurt?
His hands moved over her, checking. Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she fought to keep her composure. Richard saw the color rise, felt nothing but soft womanly warmth beneath his searching fingers, and let out a breath. He set her gently on the ground.
"Brother Richard...."
Only then did Maria's eyes take in the scene.
The baronial castle of Olpasbet had been enormous—absurdly so for an underground structure, with rooms enough to house servants and still leave half the building empty.
Now that castle was collapsing, its form obliterated by the enormous bulk rising from its center.
It was a monster wearing a human shape.
The body belonged to something between dragon and reptile, indistinguishable. A crocodilian horror.
Dark-green scales shimmered with a metallic sheen, shoving aside the shallow limestone debris. The venom seeping across that hide hissed where it touched the floor, filling the air with an acrid reek.
Forcing herself to breathe through it, Maria lifted her gaze to its head.
The head was human.
Half-rotted, half-wasted, half-preserved in the semblance of life—a human face replacing whatever skull this reptilian nightmare was meant to have. The sight was so twisted, so nauseating, that it pulled a gag and a curse from the same breath. Maria's expression went rigid.
She was no Fighter by birth. She schooled her features, stood straight, tried to project confidence, but the fear underneath was unmistakable.
Richard had seen that fear often enough to read it clearly. He reached out and stroked her hair.
At the touch, Maria flinched. He smiled and began unwinding the bandages from his hands with his other hand.
"Rest here for a while. I'll be back."
"Brother...."
He gathered the loosened bandages in one fist, straightened, and turned around.
The baron was there.
Or rather, the thing that had been the baron a few moments ago.
Wrapping the bandages around his knuckles, Richard advanced slowly toward the creature.
It stood perhaps three meters tall. Fifteen meters from snout to tail-tip. The venom that dripped and sizzled where it touched the limestone was toxic, but not so concentrated that it dissolved its own flesh or bored through solid stone.
Would his fists work?
What about kicks?
He had no way of knowing. But Richard had sworn to himself he would never retreat again. He had never fought a monster like this. There was a first time for everything. The only regret was that he had to face it alone.
Kwakakagang!
Right as that regret crossed his mind, someone dropped out of the sky.
Dust and broken stone erupted outward as a girl with scarlet hair landed—Angie.
"Hoo, made it... sort of."
The girl straightened and swept her eerily glowing golden eyes across the wreckage. She fixed Richard with a flat stare.
"You were here too? Thought I'd be the first one."
Richard let a faint smirk touch his lips and rolled his neck left, then right.
"I was with him. And then he suddenly decided to...."
"Couldn't even stop him from transforming. Pathetic."
"Isn't that a little harsh?"
"What's harsh is how pathetic you are."
Speechless, Richard scratched his cheek. He unclenched his fists and exhaled.
"Either way," he said, "we still have to deal with it. Sammae. The others are probably on their way. We'll need to hold out together."
"Don't call me Sammae. Got a plan?"
"...Before I offer mine, let's hear yours. You've killed more priests than I—"
"Nope. Well, 'punch it till it dies'? Does that count?"
Did that even qualify as a plan? Richard almost said it aloud, then realized he'd have offered roughly the same thing. He shut his mouth.
Instead he settled into a stance. One hand toward the sky, the other toward the earth, his body angled so the enemy entered his flank. From that posture he allowed himself a brief grin. Better to finish this before the rest of the party arrived.
"Glad we see eye to eye, Sammae. I was thinking the same thing."
"I said don't call me Sammae. Creeps me out."
"How about Little Sister Angie, then?"
"Even worse."
Then just stick with Sammae. The girl grumbled and settled into her own stance, and when Richard stepped forward, the instant priest—the thing that had been the Baron of Olpasbet—hurled itself at them.
Guoooooo!
The roar came from a human throat. Neither Angie nor Richard hesitated. Richard lunged forward, extending his arms toward the forelimb swinging down to crush him.
Kwaang!
Forelimb met forearm. Titanic weight. Any normal contact would grind flesh to paste. But Richard did not resist. He flowed with the force, turning smoothly, drawing the arm downward along his body's line. The forelimb's trajectory followed his, like a dry leaf caught by a shifting breeze.
Jjeeeeoong!
The blow slammed into the ground. The floor trembled, gravel sprayed upward, and Richard stood untouched.
After the deflection came Angie's turn. The girl had begun accelerating the instant Richard moved, and now her body crashed into the baron as little more than a white smear of afterimage.
"Hhhup—ha!"
A kiai. The baron's massive body was shoved backward, the air itself booming with the shock. It writhed in pain and lashed out with its tail.
A very long tail. Long enough to account for most of its body length, which meant the force behind it was immense. Richard slipped in front of Angie and crossed both arms.
"Hup!"
A clipped exhale. The tail-strike connected with his hands. A tingling numbness spread from his fingertips.
Shaking off the crushing pressure, Richard seized the tail and hurled it—whipping his entire body through the motion as though discarding it. The tail flew upward, momentum spent.
The technique is complete, but I'm still lacking. If Master were here, he'd have counterattacked twice by now. I need to train harder.
A brief thought. Then came death. Richard's gaze flicked sideways and found the baron's mouth gaping wide, upturned.
A coil of venom gathered inside it.
He realized too late. Just as he started to twist away, someone grabbed him and launched upward.
Kwaaaaaaa!
Venom sprayed forth, dissolving everything from the floor to the walls. The one who had snatched him clear at the last instant was Angie.
"You owe me for this too?!"
She had Richard slung over her shoulder and was already soaring. In midair she flipped, landed, dumped him off, and scooped up a chunk of the shattered castle. A low, hard throw.
Kuoo—kwang!
Gi-ee-ee-eeek!
The stone smashed into the baron's face at a flat angle and exploded into fragments. The lizard shrieked and lashed its tail again.
Angie, poised to throw a punch, faltered. Fair enough. If she tried to block that tail head-on, it would launch her across the field or snap her arm—leaving her with nothing but kicks for several minutes. The girl's indecision deepened. Richard stepped forward.
He planted his right foot and extended both arms.
The moment the tail touched his hands, he turned sideways and folded his elbows, settling the tail onto his forearms. Smoothly, without opposing the incoming force, he yielded to it and redirected it.
Then, at the apex of the surge, he added his own arm-strength and shoved.
Kwaaang!
Yielding—then layering his own force on top to force the opponent to yield in turn. That was Richard's compliance.
The baron lurched far off-balance. In that instant, Angie and Richard lunged together.
Tight fists, low stances, rooted cores. The punches rained like a bombardment.
Kwakagagagagaga!
The sound was not something human fists should produce.
While Richard's mana tattoos flared and he hammered precise blows into the creature's hide, Angie drove her whole body into each punch, relying on raw power and the fundamentals Itar had taught her.
Two angles, alternating impacts. The beast's organs shuddered under the barrage. Thick greenish blood spilled from its mouth and dripped hissing onto the floor, eating into the stone.
The baron's head rolled back, eyes white, convulsing in agony. Richard frowned hard.
The hide's too tough. This won't kill it.
A blade. They needed an exceptionally sharp blade—one that could split this bulk open in a single stroke.
That thought flickered across his mind just as his eyes caught the tail thrashing.
A line of light lanced down from above.
A streak that had ricocheted from wall to wall, roof to roof, accelerating. Deep blood-colored hair with a tinge of blue-violet—murderous intent made manifest.
Chwaaak!
At its center was a blade wrapped in a storm.
The greatsword had a gray, oily sheen, far too long for the elf girl holding it. But the length of the sword meant nothing to the Master of the Sword.
Fay swung the oversized blade as if it weighed nothing.
The edge carved a perfect circular arc like a full moon. When it pulled free, the severed tail tumbled across the floor.
The baron twisted, head turning to incinerate the source of its pain with a spray of venom—but an arrow was already in the air.
An arrow the length of a short spear, moving with force too great for the eye to follow.
It punched precisely through the hide softened by the fighters' fists and tore out the baron's flank. The creature's mouth snapped shut mid-venom; its body convulsed.
As venom bled from the wound, the baron's human face creased in mute, drowning anguish.
Ereta and Aslan moved to put an end to that anguish.
The two emerged from a gap in the collapsed structure, each approaching in a different rhythm—Ereta charging, Aslan extending one hand as though sighting a target.
"Domination."
A low voice. Hundreds of metal feathers answered instantly. They rose, rotated, and then launched.
Tudududududu!
Hundreds of daggers embedded themselves in scale. The baron flinched and spasmed with every impact. While it recoiled, Ereta closed the distance.
Kagagagagagak—fwoosh!
She ran, dragging her axe across the ground. With every stride the heat along the blade intensified, and by the time she swung upward, the weapon was wreathed in flame.
She swung that flame upward.
Chwaaak!
The axe carved clean through the forelimb, rode up, and ripped free past the side of the baron's face. Wracked with pain, the creature's dying reason still managed one thought.
Why can't the power I traded my humanity for even reach them?
The answer was simpler than it wanted to believe.
These were the strongest Masters in history. A hastily fabricated priest could never match them.
Ereta pivoted, absorbing the axe's recoil. Beyond her billowing skirt, Aslan settled into his stance.
Feet rooted to the floor. Breath swallowed deep. His hand snatched a metal feather as it drifted down.
"Purity."
Thunder Call.
A murmured word and a true-word no one else could hear. Thunder answered between them.
Kwarururung!
Even as its reason guttered out, the baron could see it. The unmistakable brilliance of an Ancient God's flame—light no darkness could consume.
That light distorted. Wavered. Surged forward as though a thunderbolt had been seized and swung.
A searing flash. A white blade-trail spread wide, and the baron's flank split apart.
From flank to tail, the sword-blow gouged through as though unmaking it—a strike that severed anything it touched. Everything required for life, from entrails to spine, was carved away. The baron threw its head back.
Gi-ee-ee-aa-aa-aah!
A grief-stricken scream. The enormous body collapsed, venom still seeping from its flesh to scorch the floor and slowly consume the corpse.
Aslan glanced at it, then laid a hand on Stymphalos—its feathers now dangerously depleted—and poured mana into it.
All across the baron's body, embedded feathers tore free and streamed back to him. As the feather-cloak reassembled itself, Aslan turned around.
Because there was something he still needed to ask the baron.
The creature was carved open but not yet dead. Labored, shallow breathing. Aslan listened and opened his mouth—but someone else reached the baron first.
A woman dragging her axe, then raising it high. The blade still glowed with heat.
Ereta.
Slash!
Gi-ee-ee-ee—
An agonized moan as the searing axe-head bit into the creature's skull. Ereta buried the blade deep in the baron's face and asked:
"Where is Mother?"
She looked almost feral. Nothing like the playful, unhurried woman they knew. This was raw. She wrenched the axe-blade sideways, uncaring of the baron's pain, and screamed.
"The one the Artist locked in a cage—my mother—where is the Spider?!"
"Uh, hey, Ereta. Hold on... calm—"
"Answer me!"
Angie tried to intervene, but the woman ignored her, twisting the axe as she shouted. Her lips were pressed bloodless and trembling. The baron's mouth curled upward in response.
On that gigantic head, the expression was impossible to miss.
Mockery.
Disheveled, nearly unhinged, Ereta saw that sneer and ground her teeth.
Because it was the sneer of someone who would never tell.
"Talk—talk—talk!"
Kwajik—uijik—kwajijik!
She brought the axe down again and again. With each blow, bone cracked and cratered. Where the blade bit into flesh, foul-smelling ichor oozed up instead of blood.
A frenzy of chopping, with no technique at all—just raw force. Before long the baron's life was gone.
Slack eyelids, lolling tongue—the creature seemed to flaunt its own death. At the sight, Ereta's strength gave out and she collapsed to her knees.
The cry that tore from her was close to a scream.
She hammered the ground with her fists, too furious to stop, blood welling from her knuckles. Her disheveled hair clung wet with sweat and anguish.
When the last echo died, silence settled over the group. A heavy stillness no one dared break.
Ereta knelt with her head bowed, gasping. Maria stepped forward.
"If it's about the Spider who was caged... the Artist took her."
The words were sudden. And entirely unwanted. Ereta lifted her head and fixed Maria with a look so chilling that Richard instinctively moved to stand in front of his fiancée.
"I don't know many details... but before we entered the mines, the Artist released the Spider. He let her out and drove her deeper inside...."
"...My mother?"
"Yes. Your mother, pushed farther into the mines. Catherine couldn't follow—too much risk of being discovered—so we couldn't confirm, but he was clearly after something."
As Ereta stared at Maria in dazed confusion, a piece of knowledge surfaced in Aslan's mind.
Why take the Spider? As he groped for a reason, he recalled information that very few people in this world possessed—information that had, in fact, helped him track down the Formless One.
And what that information implied now made his blood run cold.
If they had even the faintest inkling of it...
"Damn...."
At the curse slipping from his lips, the party's attention snapped to him. Aslan's expression twisted.
"We're out of time. We need to get ready and move. Now."
"...Huh? What? Out of nowhere? What's going on?"
Angie's face was caught between confusion and relief—as though she'd thought they could finally catch their breath.
Aslan met her eyes, then raked a hand through his hair and shook his head.
"No time to explain. If I'm right...."
Under their bewildered stares, he said it.
"The Artist is going to find the Verdict before we do."
For a long moment, the only response was blank incomprehension.