Chapter 298: Joaquin Academy (2)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 298: Joaquin Academy (2)
The reappearance of the Hero, Leon von Reinhardt, carried deep implications.
Leon had killed the Archery Saint, Saki Kojima. Everyone present had witnessed it.
In life, few viewed the Archery Saint favorably due to his arrogant nature. Yet had he experienced some change of heart at the very end? He had drawn his bowstring toward the heavens, saving countless lives.
Sacrifice. His final act was the very epitome of a hero, so he was bound to be reevaluated after the war. Furthermore, given how gossipmongers loved a good plot twist, various heartwarming anecdotes would inevitably be appended to his name.
“Sure, the Archery Saint’s personality was terrible, but he wasn’t rotten to the core.”
Something along those lines.
Leon von Reinhardt was the exact opposite. A boy who bore the duty of a Hero, yet turned into an enemy of humanity. A traitor who betrayed humanity’s expectations. Listing his deeds alone made him a textbook traitor! Escaping the cold glares and condemnation that followed would be impossible.
Or so it should have been.
KABOOM!
The Sword Emperor widened his eyes and stared at the epicenter. The epicenter was the sky. Leon, with ivory feathered wings, and Kuarne, with pitch-black bat wings, stood locked in confrontation.
“Nephew! Have you betrayed my expectations as well?! Ah, half-baked Hero. Incompetent Hero, unable to even draw out the awakening of the Demon King. Even after this war ends, you will remain an enemy to both humanity and demons alike. That is an immutable fact.”
Kuarne slandered Leon, his tongue lolling out.
“Is that all? It will be recorded in history! If that is the case, then be torn to shreds and die right here! While weeping tears of blood at your uncle’s overflowing generosity!”
Kuarne’s voice was raspy like a jackal’s. His face had transformed into that of a black goat, his teeth jagged and sharp. A picture-perfect image of a demon.
“…Everything is my karma.”
Leon thought to himself as he swung Balmung. It was just as Kuarne said. In life, he would have nowhere to set foot, and in death, he would be recorded as an enemy of the world.
‘If I hadn’t come back here, I could have at least lived quietly somewhere while alive.’
Yet he had not chosen that path. Leon willingly faced his own shameful flaws. Even if everyone cursed him, he intended to accept it humbly.
‘Confronting Kuarne is not my atonement for that.’
It was simply the duty he should have fulfilled in the first place. Blinded by rage, he was only performing that duty now. He was not doing this expecting anything in return.
“I do not pray to God to forgive my sins.”
Leon glared upward. Golden rings rotated at the center of his pupils.
“Foolish and impious, Hero. You will end up begging me, not God—begging me to please just kill you!”
Kuarne’s eyes shone a sickly yellow with madness. He did not hold back his surging pleasure and groans, spewing them out for all to hear. Every single word was so filthy and vulgar it felt as if it would rot one’s ears.
The demon’s whispers failed to reach Leon. Leon lightly flapped his wings. Feathers scattered, melting into the clouds.
Ruuuuumble!
The two entangled in the sky, tracing intertwined concentric circles in infinite loops and figure-eights. Long ribbons of light and darkness trailed behind their forms.
This was no mere show. Both fought with all their might, discharging Aura and magic with intent to kill. Every time they crossed paths at the point of collision, brilliant sparks flew, and thunder shook the heavens.
Rumble! Crash! Boom...
The Sword Emperor, along with the other heroes and demons, watched the battle as if spectating an airshow. Among them was Metatron, who had been raging like a wild bull.
Metatron parted his drooling lips. His stiffened tongue slurred his words.
“Le... on...”
He falteringly chewed over the name. Clarity slowly gathered in his blurred pupils. His tightly clenched fist relaxed slightly.
“S-son...”
Metatron was little better than a living corpse. His mental realm had been worn away by the harsh torture of the gods. Although a robust body remained, it was nothing more than an empty shell. He had been thinking and moving at the whims of others, like a puppet strung on threads.
Twitch.
The muscles in Metatron’s arms throbbed. Hot blood coursed through his heart and spread throughout his body.
Crunch.
Metatron used his left foot to crush the shackle binding his right. To think he could break free so easily—freedom had never been far from him.
The clash was fierce. Sword light and magic collided, at times inflicting deep wounds on each other. On the surface, the exchange seemed evenly matched.
However, those of higher realms thought otherwise. Through this war, their realms had risen by two or three stages, enabling them to follow the flow of the exchange with their eyes.
‘The tide is turning in Kuarne’s favor.’
Watching the exchange, Meain groaned inwardly. Being a wingless human, she could only stamp her feet in frustration, unable to interfere—like a dog watching a hen fly onto a roof.
‘Kuarne is capable of self-regeneration, but he’s not using it. That bastard isn’t going all out. He’s probably conserving his strength for whatever comes after this fight.’
Cunning bastard. Even while running his mouth non-stop, he was pacing his energy. He acted crazier than anyone, yet in battle, he was cold and calculating. Observing closely, his transitions between attack and defense were swift and precise.
‘He isn’t just all talk. That’s how he managed to rule over two major factions.’
Grigori and the Demon Realm Gehenna. Those two forces hadn’t joined Kuarne out of inspiration for his grand cause. They had submitted to his power. The logic of power knew no distinction of species, whether angel or demon. Overwhelming violence possessed an inherent persuasiveness of its own.
‘However, abusing it leaves you with no followers.’
One must exert power at the right moment to command awe and respect. Without knowing how to wield power, one is merely a brute.
Kuarne fell into the former category. Even knowing he was an anomaly, the demons had followed him. Had Kuarne not engaged in fratricide, the demons would have willingly laid down their lives fighting for him.
“At this rate, Leon is guaranteed to lose.”
In contrast to Kuarne’s crafty fighting style, Leon’s offensive was far too honest. He simply pressed straight forward. Though he appeared to be driving Kuarne back, none of his blows landed cleanly.
‘It probably feels like trying to swing a sword underwater.’
Even if he had awakened in a short span of time, Leon was still only eighteen. Kuarne, on the other hand, was an ancient monster who had lived for tens of thousands of years. Though their power might be comparable, the gap in experience was vast.
Unless he possessed enough combat sense to make up for that lack of actual battle experience...
“Like Kang Geomma...”
Her inner thoughts slipped past her lips. Timely displays of strength, pacing of power, and combat sense—Kang Geomma was a boy who possessed all three. Though he occasionally agonized at the crossroads between swordsman and sword demon, he never crossed the line.
That was where he differed from Kuarne. Unlike the demons who wished only for Kuarne’s defeat, the heroes desperately awaited Kang Geomma. All-Power, too, keenly felt Kang Geomma’s absence.
Right then, the ground heaved. Startled, the onlookers snapped their eyes downward, then back up. All eyes gathered toward the epicenter of the anomaly.
At the center of attention, Metatron sank his hips low, adopting a leaping stance. The movement of his lower body muscles was dynamic.
“Stop!”
The Spear Saint, standing nearby, tried to restrain him, believing Metatron intended to join forces with Kuarne.
Metatron glanced at the Spear Saint. There was no hostility in his gaze.
“Step back. You might get caught in the aftermath.”
Leaving behind those words, he launched upward with explosive force. The wind pressure blew the Spear Saint far back, and a thick cloud of dust briefly enveloped the area.
Springing up from his core, the Spear Saint immediately looked up toward the sky through the swirling dust. In the next moment, his pupils dilated and contracted repeatedly.
He rubbed his eyes and opened them wide, his eyeballs stinging.
‘M-Metatron is helping the Hero!’
Immediately after taking Kuarne’s back, Metatron unleashed a barrage of fists. Afterimages of fists rained down, devouring the field of vision. From the front, Leon pursued with Balmung in hand.
Father and son skipped any reunion, binding Kuarne in place. Noble angel blood rushed through the veins of both.
“Has your fatherly love flared up only now, Brother?”
Kuarne muttered, his brow furrowed. He had kept this possibility in mind ever since Leon appeared. That was why he hadn’t gone all out.
“Now that things have come to this, there is no need to hold back my strength.”
He was surrounded front and back by his biological brother and nephew. Dozens of pairs of black arms tore through Kuarne’s armpits and burst forth. Blood, gore, and bits of flesh clung thickly to the sparse fur growing on them.
The joints of the black arms bent at bizarre angles, striking back against the rain of fists. Since Metatron’s straight punches were devastatingly heavy, the black arms burst apart instead.
Yet every time an arm blew away, it multiplied twofold. The same went for the front. No matter how many pouring arms Leon slashed through, their numbers ballooned uncontrollably. In an instant, the black arms reached two hundred pairs.
“Kuarne, you monster! What have you done?!”
Metatron bellowed in rage. His mind and body felt disconnected. It had been only a few minutes since he had regained consciousness. His mind remained hazy as if intoxicated by poison, and his limbs felt heavy as lead. Though the shackles on his ankles were gone, his mind was still bound.
“Why so surprised? When I sold you out, Brother, I made a contract with the gods.”
The name of this strange ability was Buljeol—Unbroken. A god’s authority borders on the abstract, a domain existing outside the laws of physics. Concepts cannot be destroyed with fists or blades.
“The condition of the contract was the body of the ‘Hero’ Leon. And they accepted it just like that. Isn’t it hilarious? To make a contract with a minion who once rebelled against them! How utterly embarrassing it was to act as the lapdog for such incarnations of greed! It was then that I realized once more: That Person is the sole master of this world!”
“You’ve gone mad, Azazel. To accept their power just to avoid playing the hound... Do you think spouting such nonsense justifies your actions?!”
Veins bulged on Kuarne’s black temples.
“Justifies? Don’t make me laugh. I simply wish to offer this world to That Person. My everything is subservient to Him. Whether my actions are justified or not is a realm only He may judge!”
“Azazel...”
Seeing his younger brother throw away even his angelic mimicry in the grip of madness tormented Metatron.
Metatron, too, had once been moved by the God of Sword. The gods, who cared only for their personal desires, were a cancerous blight upon this world. Even Metatron, who served them as his masters, had felt deep disillusionment.
Then one day, the God of Sword appeared unannounced and cut away the world’s diseased flesh—the gods themselves.
‘Though he was an enemy, he was the true God.’
Yet Metatron back then could not deny his birth. He was an angel designed never to defy the gods. That was why he had been granted the greatest strength.
‘Azazel turning out like this is not the God of Sword’s fault.’
All of this was purely Kuarne’s madness. A path chosen by his younger brother, unforced by anyone. He had arbitrarily distorted the God of Sword’s existence and blindly worshiped him.
Metatron stared past Kuarne. Leon was locked in a grueling struggle against the black arms endlessly bursting forth.
‘My son. Leon, you have done your utmost.’
Metatron closed his eyes and opened them. His pupils hardened with resolve. He intended to burn all the energy within his body to drag Kuarne down to death with him.
‘I will end this wretched, ill-fated tie right here.’
Just as Metatron was about to leap into the air, a mysterious light suddenly poured through the gaps in the clouds.
Like dawn breaking after the night, a sacred energy warmly enveloped the weary, exhausted battlefield.
In the sky above the sky, a pitch-black presence stood silently.
With the halo behind his back, he pointed his sashimi knife toward Kuarne.
“Y-Y-You...”
The sneer on Kuarne’s lips died into a pale white. He instinctively sensed his end.
Not mere death, but ‘erasure.’ Kang Geomma’s sashimi knife was a blade that erased existence itself. There was no room for mercy or tolerance.