The Sword of the War God
The Sword of the War God
Aslan surveyed the battlefield, then shifted his gaze straight ahead.
Still distant, beyond the reach of ballistae and arrows alike, stood the Sword of the War God.
Observing the situation as if directing it.
Now only one option remained to him, and Aslan knew exactly what that option was.
He lowered his bow and ran straight for the base of the wall.
At the fortress gate below, several horses and riders were gathered.
Among them, Rumel was already mounted, waving a hand at Aslan. Her smile carried a visible edge of tension.
"You've come, Lord Aslan."
"Yes. Are you ready?"
"...I'd like to say no, but unfortunately, I don't see how we could be any more prepared than this."
She gave a rueful laugh. She was already fully armored in thick plate.
Over the dress Anton had gifted her, she wore white iron armor Anton had further enchanted — she looked every inch a knight.
"Good. Anton is...."
"Right here. Been loosening up while waiting for your slow ass."
Anton emerged through the cavalry forming ranks. Watching him ride up with practiced ease, Aslan smiled faintly and mounted his own horse.
The beast had seemed ready to collapse from the surrounding noise moments before, but the instant Aslan settled into the saddle, it went still, expelled a long snort, and scraped the ground with a forehoof.
In a heartbeat, it behaved like a legendary warhorse reborn.
Purely thanks to Aslan's riding skill, honed to its ultimate level.
A perk that burns a mount's lifespan to dramatically boost its combat performance.
A prolonged fight would be impossible, but for this battle, it was more than enough.
Aslan glanced beyond the wall.
The Sword of the War God had few options.
The damage among the Warrior Monks was mounting, and it had likely realized that sheer numbers wouldn't bring this fortress down.
So the Sword of the War God's next move was inevitable: it would have to take the field itself.
Its most powerful card was its own body.
That was exactly what Aslan was counting on.
And to achieve that aim, he needed riders of exceptional skill.
The finest cavalry drafted from every nation, noble-born Rumel who knew how to handle a horse, and Anton, who had once been a stablehand.
Aslan glanced at those who were risking their lives for him, drew his mace, and exhaled slowly.
―A soft rasp.
The sound of earth peeling back.
"Sound-absorbing barrier!"
A familiar command. As the sergeant shouted, mana blanketed the front — and a howl erupted beyond it.
―!
A voice still seething with the same malevolence. The barrier shattered and scattered. Through the sound of something colossal closing in fast, Aslan bellowed:
"Open the gate!"
And he lashed the reins.
Horse and rider shot forward. Twenty-odd soldiers and two heroes followed, surging through the gate.
The battlefield beyond the gate was more hideous than he had imagined.
The ground was littered with the traces of Warrior Monks — burned, impaled, mangled beyond recognition — and the earth ran red, dark crimson, and green with the blood of those who had retreated.
Even the retreating were far from whole. Aslan nearly whipped the reins as he raised his mace.
There, beyond them, was the Sword of the War God.
KWAGAGAGAGA!
The Sword of the War God closed in like a thunderclap.
Dozens of arms and legs crawling across the ground, hundreds of longswords, greatswords, twin blades, and every weapon imaginable flailing indiscriminately.
The face, twisted with malice, bore no trace of humanity — but that insectoid visage was etched with absolute fury.
With the mass of a creature that made humans insignificant, the earth peeled and scattered wherever it brushed, dust billowing like fog.
Malice and rage poured from its entire body, an oppressive illusion that threatened to crush Aslan. He answered with a crooked smile and, as if brushing aside that weight, spurred his horse forward.
He cut across the battlefield, charging straight for the Sword of the War God. The cavalry behind him, Rumel and Anton, fell in at his back, surging in a wedge formation.
CLANG!
Aslan smashed aside the head of a Warrior Monk that lunged to block him, and the remaining Warrior Monks gave chase as if they meant to swallow him and his riders whole.
Heavy infantry charged from the flanks; dismounted cavalry blocked the path ahead.
"Haht!"
Rumel speared through a heavy infantryman trying to tear into their flank.
KWANG!
Aslan's mace crushed the skull of a Warrior Monk blocking the path at the very front.
"Die, all of you die! Die and atone!"
Anton's crossbow punished the cavalry pursuing from behind.
Cavalry, heavy infantry, archers. The army of Warrior Monks swept past as if in flight. Breaking through and beyond them, only the Sword of the War God remained ahead.
A monster closing in with overwhelming mass. The Myth Killer. Aslan raised his mace and swung it in a wide circle — the cavalry, Anton, and Rumel wheeled their horses aside, splitting away from him to race across the wasteland.
Only Aslan charged the Sword of the War God head-on.
―!
A roar not of attack, but of pure rage. The Sword of the War God bared its fury openly and accelerated toward Aslan.
He had taken Aslan's straight-line charge — refusing to kneel before its supremacy, refusing to show fear — as provocation.
Watching it, Aslan smiled a twisted smile and drew a single feather.
Then came a voice that defied reason.
"Purity."
White flame, blazing divinity, absolute order. What materialized in his hand was the legacy of an Ancient God.
Purity.
White light tore through the shadows cast by the Sword of the War God and surged forward, and the Sword of the War God screamed even louder.
Because it looked as though a mere human dared to face it alone, head-on.
Even if Aslan had no such intention.
That a human — no matter what master he might be — would try to match it.
The Sword of the War God took that fact as an insult.
Its face contorted with unbearable, seething rage.
Beyond that twisted centipede face, Aslan held his crooked smile and felt cold sweat run down his skin.
He wanted the Sword of the War God enraged. He let Purity hang low and drove his horse faster.
At last, when the scenery around him seemed to blur and fracture —
KUGUGUGU...!
The Sword of the War God reared its body up.
At the apex of that raised mass, in an arm raised just as high, was a single sword.
A greatsword three meters long, shimmering like flame.
The cherished blade of War and Knowledge.
Victory.
Aslan saw Victory lifted high and understood what the Sword of the War God intended.
Its second most powerful means of attack was neither its countless weapons nor its dazzling swordsmanship.
It was weight.
A downward slash leveraging the overwhelming biological mass.
A blow that could split mountains and cleave fortresses in a single strike.
The strike of a mythic monster versed in martial art.
That was the attack the Sword of the War God was about to deliver.
A blow carrying its entire colossal weight — the kind that couldn't be stopped by mere tricks.
A heavy strike that could not be endured without a miracle.
And Aslan, who happened to hold a miracle in his hand, had been hoping for exactly this.
―!
A short roar.
What fell next was like a thunderbolt.
A force that would have shamed even lightning. The air displaced by the strike screamed and boomed like thunder.
KWAGAGAGAGAGA!
The surrounding earth shattered and scattered before the blow even landed.
Amid the dust swirling like a waterspout, Aslan raised Purity.
The instant the red arc vanished without a trace —
―!
A circular shockwave severed the rising dust at its base and detonated it outward.
A strike that should have pulverized any weapon on contact, leaving not even a handful of ash upon the ground.
KAGAK....
Any ordinary human should have been crushed and broken.
KAGAGAK...!
But Aslan did not fall.
He simply held firm beneath the impassively raised Purity.
[Scale of Order - You can withstand any attack you block.]
A system message asserted itself at the edge of his vision.
Beyond that message, as his horse let out a long, fluttering snort, Aslan raised the mace in his left hand.
The Sword of the War God's startled expression was fleeting. Aslan smashed the mace against the flat of the blade and murmured:
"Thunder Call."
KWARURURUNG!
The thunderclap that rang out drove forth an impossible might.
KAAAAAANG!
A metallic shriek rang out. The Sword of the War God's colossal body was pushed slightly back.
Not overturned, not hurled through the air — just a slight tilting backward.
But Aslan judged it was enough.
With an opening this wide, the Master of the Bow would never miss his mark.
Aslan's gaze flicked to the side. Just barely visible at the edge of his sight, a blue-iron tent fluttered.
A tent placed outside the fortress under an invisibility spell.
Inside it, Tiyamal — stripped of all clothing — released the bowstring.
—TUNG!
The sound of compressed air detonating. An arrow flew.
Not an ordinary arrow. One forged of white iron, crafted for this single moment.
It flew and struck the gap in the armor on one side of the tilted body.
KAGANG!
The carapace shattered on impact and scattered. Pale flesh was laid bare.
The spot where its vocal cords lay.
If the Sword of the War God's second most powerful weapon was its weight, then its most powerful weapon was its roar.
A roar that could kill a human effortlessly. An area attack that had been a nuisance even in the game.
Simply sealing that roar would drastically improve their odds.
So Aslan had built his entire plan around this one moment.
For the instant they could tear those vocal cords to shreds.
As Aslan gripped the reins and pulled back, Anton's crossbow flashed, bolts punching through the scattering fragments of carapace.
"This is from my son. You goddamn bastard."
TWITWITWITWITWITWIT!
The bolt-handle cycled in rapid convulsions, and dozens of bolts glided precisely through the gap in the armor and buried themselves in the exposed flesh.
Pale fluids scattered like the pale flesh. Indiscriminate fire — an entire magazine emptied.
Click, click!
When the crossbow had no more bolts to fire and only dry-fired, Anton tilted it back and extended his hand.
"INCENDENT."
A voice steeped in hatred and rage. The bolts swelled massively at the intoned word.
KWADUDUDUK!
The dozens of suddenly expanding bolts shoved against each other inside the flesh, ripping it apart —
—, —...—!
The mythic Warrior Monk screamed, a sound like vocal cords tearing open, and writhed.
In the rain of fluids pattering down, Anton was laughing.