Chapter 155
Chapter 155
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 155
Chapter Title: 64. Fire (3)
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A quiet rain soaked the forest.
The blaze that had engulfed the woods began to subside little by little. Embers still smoldered here and there, sending up wisps of smoke, but they no longer burned with their former ferocity.
Acrid smoke enveloped the surroundings.
Yuri shook off his sword and asked Yalta,
"Aren't you calling them?"
"What?"
"Your subordinates."
Yalta rolled his eyes.
"Why?"
Yuri chuckled softly.
"If you don't want to, forget it."
"Scared of one-on-one, so you'd prefer a group fight?"
"No. Really?"
"Then?"
"I want to fight just the two of us, but I'm worried you'll get in the way."
"For vermin of Joachim, you've got some pride."
If Yuri had been in Yalta's shoes, even with the fire extinguished, he would have pressed the imperial army forward to exploit the gap left by the Aloi Legion's retreat.
But Yalta showed no such inclination.
Yuri said to him,
"Yalta."
"Just fight already. Why keep yapping?"
"Thinking it over, maybe you had a point."
"My words?"
"Swing as you please, live as you please."
"Flattery won't save you now..."
Yuri seized his chin and roughly yanked his head up.
Yalta's eyes widened.
"You're not about to self-harm..."
Yuri peeled off the slime mask and tossed it aside. A handsome young man with black hair and dark eyes was revealed.
"What, two faces? A magician?"
"Something like that."
Yuri drew a deep breath.
His stifled breathing eased without the mask. His slightly narrowed field of vision cleared.
Above all, he could sense the flow of the air in far greater detail through the skin of his face.
"I am the Third Prince of Brioll, Yuri Brioll."
"Huh?"
Yalta tilted his head.
"This is Joachim territory."
"No matter how dim you are, you can figure out why I'd reveal myself, right?"
"Hmm..."
At Yuri's words, Yalta scratched his cheek. Then his lips split into a savage grin, his demeanor utterly transformed from its earlier naivety.
"So you're here to kill me, kid."
Yuri lifted the corner of his mouth in response.
"Yeah."
With that, the two charged at each other simultaneously.
An explosion rang out.
Yuri's sword rebounded, his body shoved backward.
Yalta pressed forward relentlessly, swinging at Yuri's entire frame.
Deprived of the initiative, Yuri dodged and parried repeatedly. Wounds opened on his thigh and shoulder in the process.
"All that bluster earlier, and this is all you've got?!"
Yalta bellowed as he thrust his sword down.
In an instant, Yuri whipped up a vortex of sword energy and launched it upward at an angle. The interlocking spiral of whirling teeth gnawed at Yalta's blade.
A grinding screech of metal filled the air.
Yalta's sword came to a halt just shy of Yuri's forehead.
Yuri immediately battered it aside and slammed a flying kick into Yalta's abdomen.
Yalta staggered back.
Yuri feigned sheathing his blade, then abruptly thrust into empty air. One Point Thrust pierced through space toward Yalta's chest.
Clang.
The tip was blocked. Yalta had laid his blade sideways to intercept it.
Yalta grinned.
"Clever little tricks."
The sword energy cloaking Yalta's blade surged even fiercer. Mana blazed like roaring flames.
"Show me another. Killing you might actually be fun."
Yalta took a step forward. Then another.
On the next stride, his body rocketed ahead.
He appeared before Yuri as if teleporting, slashing horizontally.
It was like a colossal guillotine plummeting toward Yuri's waist.
The height and rhythm were so cunning that ducking low was impossible—he had to leap upward.
But that would leave him airborne, a perfect target.
Yuri made his choice in a split second.
True to what he'd told Yalta before the fight, it wasn't a calculated decision.
He simply swung by instinct, heedless of the outcome.
Heart-Soul Severing resonated in response.
The swords clashed once more, unleashing an explosion.
Muddy earth and rainwater sprayed outward, clouding their vision.
As the debris settled, the two figures came into view.
Yalta lay sprawled on the ground.
"Wha..."
Yalta blinked in confusion.
He seemed utterly baffled by what had just transpired.
"What the hell was that..."
He stared down at the hand gripping his sword.
His entire arm trembled uncontrollably.
As if he couldn't muster any strength, he clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly.
Yuri gave him no more time and advanced, swinging Guilty.
Raindrops caught on the blade were bisected.
A spray of blood-mingled water erupted.
"Argh!"
Yalta tumbled across the ground. Blood streamed from his forearm. He'd barely avoided a fatal blow, but the gash was deep.
"You bastard!"
Yalta roared.
"Filthy tricks!"
Yuri offered no reply. The world reflected in his eyes had grown hazy.
He hadn't deliberately entered the realm of Heart-Soul, yet Yalta's furious form appeared as little more than a vague mass of shadow.
It wasn't just his sight.
Sounds broke down into individual echoes like tinnitus. Scents registered as fluctuations in acridity, down to the faintest traces.
He could even taste the distant flow of wind on his skin.
Beyond that, something indefinable—beyond any specific sense—stirred within him.
Yuri pinpointed the malice surging toward him.
The black mass embedded within pulsed with malevolent energy, tethered to somewhere far beyond this place.
Yalta was nearly upon him, but Yuri felt no apprehension.
He gazed at Guilty in his grasp.
Its form was no longer whole.
He didn't fully grasp what the Heart-Soul realm entailed, but in this moment, he felt it. He understood, at least a little.
Chaos.
It enveloped him like the enigmatic domain he'd glimpsed in his duel with Moyongchan long ago.
Nothing was predetermined here.
Not even form itself.
Until observed.
What he held now was utter disorder—and infinite potential.
How he shaped it was his alone to decide.
He raised Guilty.
A wedge of light gleamed in his hand.
A raw gem takes form at the lapidary's hands. Skill determines perfection, but the ultimate blueprint rests on the artisan's will.
Yuri wielded Guilty.
He infused Heart-Soul Severing into this blade steeped in the Death Knight's怨念 grudge, then carefully wove in the chaos he'd drawn forth.
Guilty, which had resembled a beam of light, gradually sharpened into its true shape.
Even within the Heart-Soul realm, it retained its essence, manifesting in perfect form.
Yuri lifted his eyes.
As he attuned to this new sense, Yalta closed in with attacks.
But urgency evaded him.
In the possibilities of chaos, a fleeting instant was no different from eternity.
Yuri swung to meet him.
The moment their wills collided, Yuri's mind snapped back to reality.
"Gah!"
Yalta was hurled backward once more.
Yuri tightened his grip on the reverberating Guilty, dropped into a low stance, and thrust at his foe's knee.
Yalta yanked his leg back by a hair's breadth.
Then, committing his weight, he brought his sword crashing down on Yuri's head.
Yuri countered from below upward.
The blades met, and Yalta's torso lurched back. He stumbled, eyes bulging.
"No... impossible!"
Yuri drove Guilty toward the wide-open chest.
Yalta twisted away, but his right breast was impaled.
"Uh..."
Yalta's eyes rolled downward.
As Guilty was withdrawn, blood gushed forth.
"Urk!"
Yalta clawed at his chest with his sword hand. The hilt grew slick with blood.
"Crazy... insane..."
He ground his teeth and activated his Mana Circulation Method. His chest muscles contracted, staunching the flow of blood bit by bit.
It was absurd physical prowess, yet Yuri observed it all with composure.
Yalta glared daggers.
"What the hell happened to you?! How'd you suddenly get this strong?!"
Yuri stepped forward without a word.
Yalta flinched and retreated two paces.
Unable to admit his fear, he contorted his face in a snarl.
"You... filthy... punk..."
But his voice lacked conviction.
Even the rage he'd mustered was crushed beneath other emotions.
"How... suddenly..."
Yuri closed his eyes, then opened them. At his will, his vision dipped into the Heart-Soul realm and returned repeatedly.
He paid Yalta no further mind.
This awakened state was fleeting. He tuned his senses to seize the power more fully.
Yalta lunged forward instead, swinging wildly.
"Raaargh!"
His body swelled as if on the verge of bursting.
Yet a Ten Strong remained a Ten Strong. Even with a blade in his chest, he unleashed gusts powerful enough to topple trees.
But Yuri evaded every strike.
"Raaaaagh!"
Like a beast.
Gazing at Yalta, Yuri thought of Graham.
In a way, the two were polar opposites.
Unlike Yalta, who lived by every whim, Graham had always exercised restraint.
That divergence had forged them into wholly different men.
And Yuri himself—what of him?
He beheld the chaos roiling along his blade.
It was far from welcome.
Gazing into that disorder felt like his mind was unraveling.
His very existence seemed as insubstantial as smoke, liable to scatter at any moment.
Yet he had no choice.
It was the path to power, to repel foes, to safeguard what mattered.
Yuri spoke.
"You killed Sir Graham, so I'll kill you."
"What's he to you?"
"Saved my life."
"What?"
What if he'd died by Graham's hand that day?
Could he have returned to the past?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
One truth stood clear: dying then by Graham's sword would have precluded becoming the Yuri Brioll of today.
Graham's mercy that day—and those melancholic eyes—had shaped him.
"Grace and grudges must be repaid."
Blood vessels bulged in Yalta's eyes.
His mouth worked silently.
"Try it."
"Wha?"
"Beg for your life."
Yuri curled his lip.
"Not bad?"
"Pl..."
"Die."
Guilty arced toward Yalta's throat.
Yalta reflexively raised a hand to block.
As the blade bit into his fingers, four were severed.
"Argh!"
"Just die quietly."
"S-save me! Please, spare me!"
"Oh..."
Yuri crushed the back of the scrambling Yalta beneath his boot.
"Spare me!"
"You've grown up, huh. Sometimes you gotta do what you hate. Like groveling pathetically for your life."
"Please, please spare me! I'll give you everything. My Ten Strong rank. Money. I'll put in a good word with His Majesty—anything you want! Just let me live..."
Yuri looked down at the pleading Yalta and recalled his past self.
He too had begged for mercy. What thoughts had crossed Graham's mind then?
Pathetic? Pitiable?
Yuri let out a sigh and smiled wryly.
"What a truly remarkable man."
"Huh?"
"Not you."
Yuri plunged Guilty home.
The chaos dwelling in his blade was observed at last—through Yalta's death.
"How did he hold back and spare me?"
Yuri tilted his gaze skyward. Rain still fell.
He lowered Guilty and closed his eyes.
The blaze raging within him dimmed gradually.
"Haa..."
He exhaled a long breath.
"Congratulations."
A voice spoke from behind. He knew who it was without turning.
"Lady Inariel."
"Indeed, little one."
The elf with salmon-pink hair stood beside him, peering down at Yalta's corpse.
"You've slain a Ten Strong."
"Somehow."
"Does that make you a Ten Strong now?"
"Who knows."
"A brat like you killing one—unprecedented, I'd wager."
Yuri felt no particular joy.
Inariel prodded the body with her toe.
"Whatever your tie to Graham, I don't know."
"Pardon?"
"Think of it as my gift."
Inariel swung her staff.
"Swapped him out before that fool burst his head. I tried to save him, but he'd already crossed the threshold. He won't hold on much longer."
Inariel said,
"You should be able to say your farewells."