Velus Ma'kel
Velus Ma'kel
Aslan watched Kornil Ashuld stride ahead.
The man's walk was imposing—and in an entirely different sense, grating.
Following in his wake, Aslan needed only the slightest turn of his eyes to glimpse Ileina.
She trailed them at a careful distance.
Ileina had come to warn people who seemed to be walking into a trap of their own volition.
That much was easy to predict, and Kornil Ashuld had surely noticed it too.
Yet he didn't stop her. Not so much as a word for her to fall back. He couldn't possibly be unaware she was following—yet he merely flicked a glance at the girl and kept leading the way.
It told Aslan exactly how narrow Ileina's standing was within the Imperial Palace.
Her influence was likely even weaker than this Kornil fellow's. She was the daughter of the previous Emperor, sister to the current one.
'Perfect.'
Aslan saw the silver lining.
It meant he could plant a favorable impression early with Ileina—the woman who would become the next Emperor.
Aslan let the corner of his mouth fall from its earlier smile and fixed his gaze on the great door at the end of the long, dim corridor.
The entrance was massive—clearly not designed for humans to open—yet it swung wide and smooth the moment Kornil Ashuld and Aslan's party drew near.
"We have arrived. Welcome to the audience chamber of Velus Ma'kel."
Kornil Ashuld bared a greasy grin and stepped inside. Aslan followed.
The first thing he registered was the enormous terrace spanning from just overhead to the space beside the throne.
It was a kind of mezzanine, a stone-railed structure set heavily into the walls of the chamber.
From the terrace drifted a faint human presence—and an ominous presentiment. Aslan couldn't say whether it was his Luck stat feeding him a warning or just his instincts, but he became certain there were archers up there.
'I would have stationed bowmen up there and would shoot to kill.'
Judging by his own standards, he committed the terrace positions to memory as he moved forward.
After the terrace, the soldiers drew his eye.
Spear, sword, mace, and shield. The soldiers were solidly armored and wore helmets that obscured their faces.
Following the line of those faceless troops led his gaze to the throne.
"Hm-m. So you are the rumored Emperor-slayer."
The figure seated upon it bore a resemblance to Ileina—yet the face was subtly wrong.
The eyes and hair color were unmistakably the same, but whereas the girl held something almost innocent in her look, the Emperor's was stamped with baseness.
That impression of baseness was sharpened by his gaunt frame and made absolute by the Warrior Monk standing at his side.
"You look... cleaner than I expected. I thought you'd be rougher, more of a man. You've got a somber look. Must have made a good number of women weep in your time."
The Emperor wore a sneering, thin-lipped smirk.
Aslan's eyes narrowed as he studied him.
"Your Majesty also differs from what I imagined."
"Differ, how?"
"I expected someone... more imposing. More gravitas."
The faint smile that accompanied the words made the Emperor's own smile twist, as though hiding a flicker of bruised pride.
"Is that so? I am somewhat slight of build, it's true."
The Emperor's mouth twitched. He sank deep into his throne. And then—skitter-skitter—the quiet sound of crawling bugs reached Aslan's ears.
Aslan followed the sound, closing his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. While his eyes were shut, a foul odor hit the back of his nose.
He knew that smell well. The kind of stench that only rose from places teeming with insects.
Catching it too, Harod swished his tail anxiously across the floor. Angie's face twisted in open disgust. Aslan alone remained expressionless at the center of it.
"Now then, before I state the business with you... let's resolve a little family matter first. Ileina."
At the sound of her name, Ileina—still standing by the great doors—approached the Emperor.
She stopped before him, eyes shut tight, lips pressed firmly together. The Emperor swung his hand with the ease of habit.
"Ngh."
A crisp slap turned her head to the side. The Emperor, having backhanded his own sister across the cheek, swept his bangs back with an air of satisfaction. Wordlessly, Ileina stepped aside to stand next to the throne.
"There. Family matter sorted. Now let's get to the purpose of this summons. Do you know why you've been called here?"
The Emperor spoke as though none of it—or all of it—was beneath notice.
Aslan gazed at him for a moment, then answered.
"Because of the power I possess, I imagine."
"Hm-hm, quite right. My loyal hound tells me... that you are the last remnant of an Ancient God. Is it true?"
"Yes. I am the last remnant of an Ancient God."
The unhesitating answer made the Emperor's eyebrows arch in surprise.
"No hesitation. None at all. I do like that spirit. Then I'll ask again—do you know what I intend to do with you?"
At that, Aslan deliberately let his gaze roam over the soldiers. The Emperor laughed with relish at the sweeping glance.
"Ah, no need to be quite so wary. I've no intention of doing you harm. Not yet, at least."
"...That's reassuring."
Aslan feigned a look of bitter indignation, and the Emperor laughed in great delight.
"What I have for you is an offer. You see, the War God holds your worth in very high regard. A last remnant of an Ancient God—and a Master of Combat besides. He has every reason to, naturally."
A trace of something like inferiority bled into his voice. Aslan caught it but pretended not to notice. The more he lulled them into carelessness, the better.
"Get to the point."
"Tch. I don't much care for your tone, but considering the glory the War God bestows upon us, I'll overlook it this once. So. The War God's offer is this: if you swear fealty to the War God here and now and become his Sword, your life shall at least be spared."
Inwardly, Aslan smirked. The Emperor was obviously handing down the War God's terms as if they were his own generous gift—and that was funny.
"With your caliber, they said you might aim for the Sword of the War God—perhaps even higher."
"...Is that so."
"Yes, it certainly is. Guaranteed by the War God himself."
The Sword of the War God. The familiar name pulled a faint smile from Aslan.
The Sword of the War God was the name—or title—of the War God's high priest.
In reality, it was little more than a colossal centipede-like insect granted countless blades to wield, but even in the game it was a viciously troublesome powerhouse.
Something that surpassed such a monster... the depths of monstrosity it would reach were obvious.
Aslan had no intention of becoming a monster.
That was the root of his mockery—but the Emperor misread it entirely, taking it for a smile of temptation.
When Aslan closed his eyes and opened them again, they were brimming with fury.
"Is it that good? In that case..."
"Did the War God actually say that?"
The Emperor's mouth stopped mid-word at the transformed edge in Aslan's voice. His eyes twitched.
"Did that so-called god actually say that? That if he promised to turn me into a monster, I'd come crawling?"
Watching the Emperor lose his words, Aslan let his face twist.
He loathed the gods.
Loathed the gods who simply pillaged the world and slaughtered humans.
The loathing was thick in his voice.
"Revolting."
Harod flinched at the anger-laced tone Aslan had never once shown before. Angie stared at him with rapt, unblinking eyes.
The Emperor stared at Aslan, then burst out laughing.
The laughter faded slowly—then inverted into searing rage. The Emperor dug his fingers hard into the armrests of his throne.
"...Do you want to die?"
"I'd rather die than serve some pathetic god."
"Huh-uh. Is that so. What a pity. In that case..."
"Ah, and one more thing."
The Emperor, whose hand had been lifting into the air, froze as Aslan cut him off again.
The soldiers, who had been a breath away from drawing their weapons, halted. The Warrior Monk still stood with his hands resting on the twin swords at his hips, silently watching.
Knowing every eye in the hall was on him, Aslan flicked a glance toward Ileina.
He saw her bewildered expression and grinned.
"Tell the War God to eat shit."
"...Kill him."
The Emperor's hand dropped.
In the same instant, archers erupted from the terraces—and the tattoo stretching across the back of Aslan's right hand, from knuckles to shoulder, blazed with light.
The tattoo could store up to five spells at a time. As it flared, dense mana poured forth.
"Shield."
[Remaining spells]
[Equalization] [Metal Heating] [Acceleration]
The tattoo flared violently, and a system window flickered up in the corner of his vision before vanishing.
The light streaming from the tattoo surged, then swirled into rotation.
As the spinning blue mana shaped itself, it resolved into what looked like a massive, translucent shield.
The moment that shield locked itself into the air, arrows rained down.
Thwip-thwip-thwip-thwip!
The airborne shield spun and shifted, intercepting the incoming arrows. Deflected, the shafts clattered away with soft reports.
"...What?"
The Emperor's expectation—that three people would be turned into pincushions in an instant—shattered.
Watching the flustered Emperor, Aslan gripped the Executioner's Sword and twisted his body.
The massive blade slid free without a sound, gleaming with a chilled, menacing light. The twin-sword Warrior Monk stepped forward.
'No shield.'
That made this easy. Perhaps underestimating him, the Monk hadn't even assumed a guard stance.
Before Aslan had fully brought both hands to the Executioner's Sword, he reinforced his legs with wild magic.
Mana drained from him as the muscles and sinews of his legs tightened, hardened, and grew dense.
The reinforcement wouldn't last one full second—but that was enough.
'Thunder Call.'
It only had to hold for a single moment.
CRACK-A-BOOM!
Thunder Call was normally a technique that imparted violent rebound force to whatever it struck, sending the target flying.
Under ordinary circumstances, it was a special feat capable of hurling back even an opponent of a much greater weight class.
But there was a peculiarity about the skill that Aslan had only discovered after falling into Geladrion.
If used against something that absolutely could not be pushed back, the user was the one who got launched.
And the classic example of something that could never be pushed back was the ground itself.
Aslan activated Thunder Call through his reinforced legs—and drove them hard against the floor of the audience chamber.
CRUNCH!
The floor cratered, marble fragments scattering. In the stretched, syrupy perception of time, Aslan righted the Executioner's Sword and aimed.
Then he accelerated.
BOOOOM!
SPLURTCH!
He accelerated to a speed even he himself couldn't consciously track. Inside that acceleration, his only job was simple: keep the edge on target.
"Guu-hurk—!"
The Warrior Monk, who'd been holding his twin swords too loosely, had his flank cleaved wide open, spilling its contents.
His spine half-severed, he couldn't even react—he simply dropped to his knees.
"Wha—, wha—?!"
The soldiers were scrambling to draw their weapons. The archers hesitated, torn between targeting Angie and Harod beneath the shield or aiming for Aslan.
In that breath of confusion, Aslan adjusted his grip on the Executioner's Sword.
A priest—a Warrior Monk, at that—was a monster beyond human ken.
But that didn't make him invincible. The vital points from his human days remained vital.
Swung by the Master of Combat, the five-kilogram Executioner's Sword was not something a wounded Warrior Monk could block or evade.
SCHLICK!
The blade fell true, splitting the Monk's neck and sending his head into the air. The severed insectile head bounced across the floor.
Aslan looked down at the rolling head and murmured briefly.
"Shouldn't have let your guard down."
If even a basic defensive stance had been raised, the Thunder Call acceleration wouldn't have scored a fatal wound.
But they'd been careless, judging by the image Aslan had shown them.
The result was unforgiving.
Seeing the bowstrings drawn tight and the soldiers closing in at speeds beyond human, Aslan seized the Emperor by the back of the neck.
"Urk!"
The Emperor was yanked forward, planted as a human shield in front of Aslan.
Aslan threw a quick glance at Ileina and shouted.
"Unless you want it written into imperial history that the same man struck down two Emperors—drop your weapons!"
Under normal circumstances, disarming would be the correct response.
Aslan had the Emperor by the throat. The Emperor's sacred person filled the angle of any bowshot.
Yet the soldiers kept coming. The archers kept their bowstrings drawn taut, arrows aimed at Aslan.
Aslan let out a short sigh.
"Thought so."
He felt the carapace of a bug beneath his grip, lodged at the nape of the Emperor's neck—and let a cold smirk cross his face.