The Sword of the War God
The Sword of the War God
As in all games, the true fight began at Phase 2.
Phase shifts delivered novelty and a sense of escalating power—patterns changed, forms morphed, the underlying logic of movement transformed. Aslan understood the principle. Whether this world had once been a game or had merely become one, whether the chicken or the egg came first, one fact remained: game-like logic held true here.
And the real worth of the Sword of the War God, that Myth Killer, was about to reveal itself.
In Phase 1, its centipede-form swordsmanship had been technically flawless—but it was still technique forced through an alien body.
Now, in Phase 2, it had assumed human shape. Its swordsmanship was no longer technique dragged by flesh; the flesh itself had become part of the technique.
—!
A screaming human body. Flesh that resembled the maw of a Bug. The body shrieked and twisted, and Aslan snapped back to full awareness, a visceral chill running through him.
"Ah—!"
Rumel's startled cry rang out as Aslan reached past her, unbothered by the contact against her chest, and seized the reins himself.
Rrruuuuung...!
A resonant hum, like a tuning fork scaled to monstrous size, silenced her. She stared at the Sword of the War God with blank shock.
It pivoted, sweeping its centipede-form lower body in a wide arc. At the tail's end, countless appendages—arms, legs—gripped a bristling array of weapons.
The trajectory ended where Rumel and Aslan sat.
It moved like a whip, and like a whip cracking the sound barrier, the enormous form blurred into white nothing.
This was the same class of attack that had split the fortress and answered Aslan's provocation moments before—sheer mass wedded to swordsmanship. A left-diagonal slash that closed in at speeds beyond perception, hammering the spot from which Rumel's horse had just begun its leap.
—KRAAA-KWAGAGAGAGANG!
The displaced air crashed back like a tide, a detonation filling the void.
The struck ground caved inward, launching a plume of earth as heavy as the blow itself skyward. A bomb's detonation. The centipede's tail, rebounding off the ground, slammed into the fortress.
The result was all that could be grasped. The trail crawling upward from where the tail had swept: the entire left front section of the wall simply ceased to exist.
The strike had been sudden, but the outcome was undeniable. Rumel, who under normal circumstances would have flustered at the physical contact and retreated into reverie, now gaped at the destruction behind her.
Where Aslan's teal eyes and Rumel's pale-brown eyes both landed, there was not much left to see. One side of the fortress wall, torn away as if ripped by teeth. Bricks scattering on the wind. Human bone and flesh thudding to the ground, all trace of their former humanity erased. Pulverized—identifiable only by the red stains that remained.
Beneath the sudden downpour of human remains, screams rippled across the fortress. The ballistae on the walls stuttered silent. More than a few mages had been caught in the blast; the magical barrage halted with them.
The moment the bombardment ceased, a new wave of screams erupted—from the other direction.
—!
Echoing the Sword of the War God's own shriek, the Warrior Monks charged as one. Terrified, clutching their weapons, they sprinted toward the fortress.
"...Damn it."
The curse slipped out. Aslan had finally grasped the creature's aim.
An assessment of the situation that was chillingly precise.
From the Sword of the War God's perspective, the weapons capable of dealing meaningful damage were few. The ballistae. Magic. The sniper fire from the Master of the Bow. The third had been neutralized. The Sword of the War God seemed certain that if it just brought the fortress down, victory was assured.
And that calculation was correct. Partially correct, at least.
If they lost the fortress, their odds collapsed. Functionally zero.
Aslan closed his eyes, opened them, and placed the reins back into Rumel's hands. She turned a bewildered expression on him, but he was already dismounting.
"Lady Rumel, rally the cavalry and strike the Warrior Monks' flank."
He drew a small whistle from his tool pouch and blew a long note. A shrill, birdlike sound. Though it hammered at the eardrums, Rumel did not so much as blink. She kept her eyes locked on Aslan.
"Lord Aslan... what do you intend to do?"
She had already read something in his posture. Meeting her anxious look, Aslan gazed past the shattered wall. Beyond it, glimpsed in fragments through the dust, infantry formations were shifting.
The ballistae and mages had to pour every ounce of firepower into the Sword of the War God; if they diverted to halt the Warrior Monks, it would destroy the fortress without hesitation. For now, all firepower had to stay on the creature, and the infantry still needed time to deploy. But leaving the Warrior Monks unchecked meant the fortress fell.
No real choice. A flicker of unease crossed his eyes. He blinked, swallowed a sigh.
"I'll buy time."
He pulled the Artist's white-iron shield from its sling across his back, gripped it, and rotated his right wrist—Purity's edge turned low toward the ground, leaking a faint white glow.
"At the very least, someone has to stall until the infantry gets out."
The logic was unassailable. Rumel had not spent decades as a mercenary, but she could see it. She turned her head slightly. The problem was the horde of Warrior Monks thundering closer.
"N-no, you can't. That's suicide! That many—no matter how strong you are, Lord Aslan—!"
"Rumel."
Watching her fluster, Aslan smiled faintly.
"Please."
Informal speech, rare from him. Rumel flinched. Aslan kept the smile in place as he added,
"I might die. But I've never fought without facing that possibility. So please—do as I ask."
No answer came. Aslan kicked off the ground and sprinted, not looking back.
One of his auxiliary skills: Maneuver. It boosted overland movement, and at its final level, it carried him rapidly across the earth. His fighting spirit had raised his endurance; he did not slow. Before long, he reached the center of the Warrior Monks' line of advance.
The distance had been short to begin with, but he took it as a good sign. Evidence that his limbs still worked. That he could still fight.
He exhaled the breath he had been holding and fixed his glare on the onrushing Warrior Monks.
This was the real fight now.
Without his companions, the soldiers, the allies, he would never have made it this far. Now it was his turn to step forward.
He did not hesitate. He charged straight toward the mass of Warrior Monks.
Faces contorted with terror—men determined to crush him and get past. Frightened priests. Beyond them, the Sword of the War God was advancing slowly, its colossal form drawing nearer. As the shadow of its raised greatsword began its tilt, Aslan drove his left foot hard into the ground.
A foot wreathed in mistlike thunder.
His consciousness sharpened to a point. The blade in his hand canted at an oblique angle.
'Thunder Call.'
He became the thunder.
CRACK-KRRNNNG!
The boom split the air as his form blurred white. An instant later, the spot where he had stood erupted with the sound of a bomb—the Sword of the War God slamming down where he had been. His Luck screamed a beat late, the afterimage of the greatsword's arc overlapping his vision in translucent overlay. A dizzying sensation trembled through his limbs.
His Luck was blazing like it had against the Dragon-king, like the moment he faced Ash. Wild and screaming. Warning him that death was at his throat, that this time it could not be dodged.
Aslan seized that Cassandra cry by the neck. He listened, and he thought.
This is the turning point. What I'm doing now is my role.
Hold the fortress. Sustain firepower on the Sword of the War God. Deal damage continually. Buy time for the infantry to form up and block the Warrior Monks. Survive every swing the creature threw.
That was his job.
He had to stall until the battered fortress could reorganize its infantry and march. Here, now, he was the only variable that could tip the scales. The only one who could do this. A situation he could not walk past.
The victory condition was simple.
Survive until the infantry joined the fight. Then he won.
Absurdly difficult.
But in twelve years, it never had not been.
Facing a crisis that felt no different from all the others, Aslan let his breath go slow and loose.