The Sword of the War God
The Sword of the War God
The vocal cords were shredded. The air whistling through the wound mimicked a scream—a human scream.
A chilling sound, as though it were the last scream the creature had ever made while it still lived.
As that scream echoed across the fevered battlefield, Aslan exhaled heavily and returned his mace to his belt.
Pale ichor pattered down like rain. The terrible shriek. The chitinous shell slamming against the earth with a thunderous boom. And the Sword of the War God itself, rearing high and twisting its body in agony.
The scene skirted the edge of unreality, but the acrid smell of dirt and the stench of the bug clinging to his nostrils reminded Aslan all too clearly that this was real.
―!
The plan had worked. He had neutralized the most critical threat—its roar. With its vocal cords torn apart, the indiscriminate slaughter that usually followed that sound would not happen.
But.
Kuoooooh!
As the towering Sword of the War God writhed, a keening wail began to emanate from the air itself.
A roar was merely one of its means of attack. It was never the Sword of the War God's only weapon.
Even silenced, it still possessed hundreds of blades and an immense, crushing mass.
The Sword of the War God remained very much alive.
A monster that, once met head-on, would scatter death and harvest souls.
A true terror that had achieved mythical feats and butchered lesser deities.
Aslan knew this.
He had even anticipated its next attack patterns.
What he hadn't anticipated was the speed—the speed at which the Sword of the War God recovered from a shock.
A capable warrior swings a sword through the pain. The Sword of the War God was no different.
―!
Behind a splitting roar thick with savage fury and horrifying malice, the Sword of the War God twisted its body.
It looked like the death throes of a dying bug, or a futile dance trying to devour something in the sky.
It would have been merely that, were it not for the hundreds of cutting arcs that followed.
A horse, frothing at the bit. Aslan hauled on the reins, twisting his body while moving his waist and hands as one to pull the animal back.
The horse pivoted sharply, slamming condensed power against the ground. The beast, which had traded its lifespan for strength and intelligence, accelerated at its rider's command.
It had barely covered a few strides at blurring speed when the immense weight came crashing down almost simultaneously.
Kwaaaaaaang!
Earth and turf erupted skyward. Scattered. The blooming dust cloud mirrored a detonation.
A body slam. The earth shook violently, the space itself seeming to vibrate. Watching the Sword of the War God twist its body, Aslan clicked his tongue.
Immediately after the body slam, the Sword of the War God coiled into itself.
The motion didn't stop there.
Its limbs, the appendages designed for wielding weapons, accelerated. In that instant, Aslan's single eye lost track of the movement.
An acceleration so rapid the massive body seemed to vanish from sight. The trajectories that followed were invisible too.
But he could feel them. As his luck, honed to the level of foresight, blazed hot, Aslan sensed dozens of trajectories.
Dozens of slashing paths converging on a single point—aimed precisely at him.
Dozens of sword paths generated simply by twisting its body. Gritting his teeth, Aslan saw the trajectories overlaid on his vision and wrenched the reins, forcing his horse to leap.
―Kuoooo!
An acceleration so fast even the keening wind couldn't catch up. The jump's height far surpassed that of a normal horse and rider, yet it was still not enough.
The spectral trajectories corrected their error instantly, closing in. An inescapable death. Before Aslan could even draw a breath, the horse he was riding kicked him off.
―!
In the fleeting moment Aslan's body slipped through the gaps in the trajectories, his horse met dozens of them.
A thunderous, crashing roar split the horse to pieces. He couldn't even see the process of its destruction.
The remains of the beast scattered, leaving only a spray of blood and a few scraps of hide. Cataloging that trace alone, Aslan clicked his tongue softly and rolled across the ground.
Destroying the vocal cords was only a means to improve his odds. It was never a guaranteed path to victory.
Its martial power remained supreme even with one weapon lost.
That was the reason the Sword of the War God was so strong. The reason it was called the Myth Killer.
Monstrous swordsmanship, despite its grotesque form. Hundreds of sword paths perfectly integrated into that heteromorphic body. A strength no human could oppose, a monster nearly impossible to topple even with a miracle.
Only beings with unthinkable resilience or unthinkable firepower could stand against it as an equal.
Aslan, who possessed neither—who was merely human—had no choice but to accumulate miracle after miracle.
So the real plan began now.
Just as Aslan rolled and sprang to his feet, watching the Sword of the War God writhe like a serpent, three sword scars superimposed themselves on his vision.
Fewer than the dozens from moments ago, but still numerous, still utterly lethal trajectories. Aslan raised Purity.
A conventional block meant death. Deflection was impossible.
What was needed was a perfect defense that left no margin for error.
A feat achievable only by the likes of Aslan or Fay.
An attack that tolerated not even a millimeter's deviation.
But Aslan could do it.
Combat arts and swordsmanship pushed to the very limit of human ability. Defensive techniques. The sword Purity, imbued with the Scale of Order.
"Shadow Flip."
And the Shadow Flip technique on top of it all.
As the twelve years of Aslan's accumulated feats converged, three trajectories met two sword scars.
―Jeeeong!
The displaced air burst outward like a storm, and the earth, split by three sword paths, fanned out around Aslan, kicking up dust.
A defense made possible only because he possessed every one of those tools. Immediately, hundreds more trajectories overlaid his sight. Beyond them, he saw the Sword of the War God coiling its body, following through on its swing's momentum.
This will kill me. I can't take it head-on.
The instant that thought formed, Rumel burst through the dust cloud behind him.
"Aslan!"
A shout. The meaning was simple. Aslan grabbed her outstretched hand and launched himself onto the horse behind her.
With the effect of their mounted combat skill, Rumel spurred the horse into a bolt-like dash just as hundreds of sword scars erased the space they'd occupied and hammered the ground.
Kwagagagagaga!
An explosive roar. Hundreds of earthen waterspouts erupted like detonations. As Aslan and Rumel, sharing a single horse, accelerated out of the danger zone, the Sword of the War God let out a short, sharp roar.
―!
The ringing struck their eardrums. The Sword of the War God followed. Warrior Monks caught in its violent wake were scattered like chaff, dying in droves.
The Sword of the War God reached out its legs toward the fallen Warrior Monks and seized their weapons.
Then it hurled them.
Death flying in straight arcs. Aslan desperately swung Purity against the storm of weapons hurtling at them, leaving only streaks of pale light in their wake.
Kaaaaang!
Hammers, spears, axes, and swords deflected with a ringing clang of metal. Cold sweat soaked the nape of Rumel's neck as she drove the horse, and Aslan's eye twitched.
Scanning the surroundings with that trembling gaze, he spotted the figures keeping pace alongside them.
At a considerable distance, cavalrymen and Anton were merely following, unable to intervene.
Tututung!
Anton fired his repeating crossbow, but the Sword of the War God merely glanced his way.
Kakakakakang!
With a twist of its body and a casual swing of its blades, it deflected every single bolt.
"IN―."
An incantation lost to distance and the roar of battle. Simultaneously, the scattered bolts in the sky exploded, but they failed to scratch the Sword of the War God's thick carapace.
They only added a sound like pelting rain. Frowning, Aslan looked toward the fortress drawing ever closer.
Normally, the Sword of the War God was a boss meant to be challenged at level 15 or higher—late-game, in terms of the world's flow.
Even then, if you hadn't built a setup capable of high damage output, fighting it was an exercise in pure agony.
At a time like this, their options were few.
Weapons with fixed damage. Emplaced siege weapons with high armor penetration, or specific spells.
Right now, they couldn't fight it head-on, nor did they have the raw firepower to take it down.
That was where Aslan's chosen method lay.
Using the siege engines and magic installed at the fortress.
Human power, bolstered by a miracle.
Aslan glanced back at the pursuing Sword of the War God, let out a strained breath, and lowered Purity.
He gauged the range against the countless ballistae.
They were barely entering maximum range. He wasn't sure if they would hit, but letting it get any closer would endanger the fortress itself.
Aslan raised Purity high.
On the fortress walls, the soldiers manning the ballistae saw the pure white light flaring amidst the dust clouds.
The light of the Ancient God, drawing every eye. The blazing fighting spirit of a human.
Without waiting for an order, the soldiers moved at once.
Their aim: just beyond the thick dust cloud, right behind that pure white light.
Amid countless metallic ratchets, archers adjusted their aim and nocked arrows, while mages wove incantations and hand seals in parallel, preparing a barrage of different spells.
Countless manifestations bloomed above the fortress—ice, fire, lightning, stone, hints of darkness, hints of light, and metal.
Amid that brilliant light and grim silence, Frida raised her axe on the wall and bellowed.
"Fire!"
Tututung!
Kwaboom!
Hundreds of trajectories embroidered the sky.
Hundreds of ballista bolts, arrows, and spells.
Tearing through the rising dust cloud, the projectiles hurtled toward the massive form hidden behind it.
―!
A short roar. The area attack that couldn't manifest because its vocal cords were torn. In the moment the Sword of the War God faltered, that countless murderous intent hammered into its giant body.
Kwagagagagaga, Kwaaaaang!
Flames erupted, lightning arced, ice shattered, stone fragments flew, and metal slammed into carapace, splitting and scattering it.
The attack was clearly landing, unmistakable to any observer.
Under normal circumstances, it never would have worked.
Normally, the Sword of the War God could simply let out its roar and easily annihilate an army.
Even failing that, incoming magic and projectiles would lose all force and fall before the overwhelming roar that felt like it was tearing space apart.
Human power was never meant to reach the Sword of the War God.
That was precisely why Aslan had targeted its vocal cords first.
All for this single moment.
Within the storm of hurtling bolts, arrows, and spells cast by mages pouring out every ounce of mana, the Sword of the War God twisted its body and swung its swords.
With hundreds of trajectories scrambling the air, it shot down the bolts, arrows, and magic, unleashing a tearing scream.
―!
It was focused entirely on defense. And into the gap created in that instant.
Twuuuung!
Another arrow flew.
Shwaaaaak!
Tiyamal's arrow, made from a standard steel short spear—not white iron, nor blue steel.
But it was an executioner that had sentenced numerous priests to death.
Kwajik!
The shot pierced precisely into the Myth Killer's eye.
――!
A resonating scream. Ichor and vitreous fluid gushed out. Writhing in agony, the Sword of the War God hurled one of the swords it held, smashing a tent to pieces.
But among the scattering fragments of blue-iron scales, not a single piece of bone or flesh spilled out.
Tiyamal had already vacated, leaving only the thrown blade lying beneath the ruined tent.
It was a humiliation.
That the Sword of the War God, which had silenced countless divinities and spread terror with its overwhelming might, was being tormented in a place like this. That it had only managed to kill a single horse.
It was humiliating. And terrifying.
It felt as if the War God's wrath could descend upon it at any moment.
Driven by the fear swelling within, the Sword of the War God was pushed, and pushed, until it screamed.
―!
And what came next was its most powerful remaining means.
The same crushing downward slash it had used against Aslan. A powerful strike capable of splitting the fortress in a single blow. This time, delivered with dozens of its arms.
Even if blocked, it would slice through with dozens of simultaneous cutting arcs.
There would be no failure this time. It steeled itself with that vow.
Kugugugugu...!
The wounded giant heaved itself upward, surging toward the sky. Its shadow fell over the fortress, and the Myth Killer's single remaining eye blazed with hatred and malice.
The target was the fortress. The intended attack was a turbulent, chaotic strike—a flurry of dozens of simultaneous slashes meant to erase all trace.
Just as the raised Sword of the War God began to tilt its blades for the strike.
Something revealed itself from inside the fortress.
From within the stockade, a massive covering was pulled aside.
In hindsight, it was obvious.
A wooden stockade alone could never hope to stop the Sword of the War God, or even a Warrior Monk.
The stockade, therefore, had to serve a different purpose.
For instance, concealing something.
And that something now entered the leering eye of the towering Myth Killer.
A human body imbued with the clear divinity of an Ancient God. A human with hair as scarlet as the sun.
That human was holding something massive, aiming it directly at the Sword of the War God.
It resembled a ballista.
But it was far from a simple ballista.
It was a weapon the Sword of the War God, once the last Emperor of the Empire, recognized.
It was built for a single shot.
A weapon barely reproduced by using Anton's enchantments to enlarge it, Anna Heleminus's magic to harden it, and Aslan's Taking Root technique to boost its efficiency.
A weapon of the lost Ancient Empire.
A hyper-giant ballista the Ancient Empire had called the Dragon Slayer Cannon.
A weapon devised by some Ancient God to hunt dragons that had devoured metal and grown hard scales.
Ordinarily, a dragon-slaying weapon meant to be mounted on the vast walls of Belus was now clutched in the hands of a young woman.
And the only one who could wield the Dragon Slayer Cannon was Angie, her strength amplified solely by the divinity of an Ancient God.
The strength boosted by that divinity increased by redefining the very laws of physics.
Thus, she could swing her overwhelming power without being flung away by her own body's reaction, or wield something larger than herself without being dragged by it.
Even when supporting something far larger than herself, its immense weight would not cause her to collapse under it.
In all the world, only Angie could hold and fire this weapon.
That was the goal Aslan had been aiming for.
Tear its vocal cords. Lure it to the fortress. Blind it with Tiyamal's shot. Distract it with magic and ballistae until it perceived the fortress itself as a nuisance.
Force it to open a gap by winding up a powerful attack.
All of that procedure existed solely for this single moment.
Just as the towering Sword of the War God began to sweep its blades downward to block.
―Guuuuung!
Guided by Fay, Angie lined up the Dragon Slayer Cannon and pulled the trigger. The sound of the bowstring snapping tore through the air as a deafening roar.
The Dragon Slayer Cannon shattered into splinters. Among the scattering broken pieces, Angie's arms were torn apart, blood gushing out—but the fired hyper-large arrow faithfully fulfilled its duty.
The target was the vocal cords. The spot where the carapace was shattered and fully exposed.
Under Fay's guidance, with a rigorous aim directed at that exact spot, the Dragon Slayer Cannon's spear pierced through it.
A ghastly sound—half thud, half boom. Pale fragments of flesh scattering. The Sword of the War God was hurled backward by the massive force, and the huge arrow that had punched through its body slammed into a distant forest.
The Sword of the War God tumbled across the ground after it. As the 50-meter-long giant rolled, gushing ichor, a cheer bordering on a scream erupted from the fortress.
Soldiers embraced each other, weeping with joy. But the elation was short-lived. The fallen Sword of the War God was slowly rising again.
Staggering to its feet, the Myth Killer trembled violently, leaking rivers of blood.
It looked weak at a glance. But it wasn't.
Aslan knew the real battle was only beginning now.
Following his exhaled breath, the re-gripped Purity hummed in his hand.
Just as the Sword of the War God was trembling now.
Kung!
The Myth Killer plunged a sword into the ground. The 3-meter greatsword was named Victory.
Kugugung!
The last Emperor of the Empire crushed a mace into the earth. The 2-meter mace symbolized the Emperor's authority.
―――!
The Sword of the War God screamed. Its ruined vocal cords produced no sound, but the mere exhalation tearing from its long body was a cataclysmic noise.
A roaring howl that ripped the wind and churned the earth. A raging cry seething with fury, hatred, and malice.
And beyond that cry, the head of the mythical monster split open.
Crrrrack. Cr-cr-crack. The splitting sound was so immense and appalling it burrowed into the ears of the soldiers standing on the fortress walls.
As soldiers clapped their hands over their ears and reeled, dropping to their knees, passing out, or screaming, something slowly emerged from the crown of the Myth Killer's head.
It was a kind of metamorphosis.
Like a massive centipede splitting its cocoon, the moment a wily monster that had lived for millennia was finally being born.
But it was nothing as beautiful as a butterfly leaving its chrysalis.
It resembled a human.
A vast, 8-meter-tall human.
But it was an abomination, so steeped in malice one didn't want to see it as human.
A maw that mixed insect and human anatomy, and eyes resembling a beast's.
Not a clumsy imitation, but an exact one.
And glimpsed within it all, the thick vestiges of humanity.
A being with the lower body of a centipede and the upper body of a man.
And that sight plunged all who saw it into terror.
For the people of Geladrion had no way to describe it.
Only Aslan knew the word for it.
Demon.
Clutching Victory and the mace of authority planted in the earth, the demon screamed at the sky.