Chapter 119
Chapter 119
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 118
Chapter Title: Demonic Sword Forte (20) - Flower Banquet
-----------------------------------------------------------------
It was truly a gloomy day.
The sky was thick with clouds even though the sun hadn't set yet, making everything dark and overcast. The blowing wind carried the mingled scents of blood and corpses.
An ill omen that couldn't have been more fitting, the sage thought.
This place was less than a day's journey from what had once been the capital of some kingdom and was now the Demon King's lair.
If a place like this were brimming with bright, vibrant life, that would be the truly strange thing.
Put another way, it also meant they had reached right up to the enemy's leader. Yet the sage couldn't bring himself to rejoice at the fact.
He watched the soldiers bustling between the ragged tents haphazardly pitched like patchwork quilts.
Worn and tattered armor, swords missing teeth or broken.
Their uniforms were all mismatched without a shred of uniformity, and none of them looked properly washed—they were filthy to a one.
For elite troops who had performed better than anyone in battles against the Demon King's army, they looked utterly pathetic.
"Goddamn bastards."
The curse slipped from the sage's mouth unbidden.
It wasn't aimed at the soldiers before his eyes, nor at those who had chosen to stand against the Demon King's army for their own reasons.
It was for the so-called "allies" who had dumped all the dirty, grueling work on them while spouting self-righteous nonsense from the rear.
"What's got you so upset?"
Turning at the voice beside him, the sage saw the woman called the Saintess standing there with a wry smile.
"None of your business. Get lost, you fake saint."
"I'd love to, but with you making that dour face, it's hard on everyone else."
Her demeanor was humbly deferential yet unhesitating in speaking her mind, stirring a strange sense of sentiment in the sage.
The Saintess hadn't been like this when they first met.
She had been consumed by guilt and obsession over her family's sins, constantly watching the sage's reactions since he knew her true identity.
But the current Saintess, while not exactly close to the sage, at least maintained a somewhat equal footing with him.
No need to spell out that the fool who had dragged him out of seclusion in the forest was the cause.
The sage himself actually preferred this version of the Saintess over the trembling mess she used to be, but he had no intention of showing it. So he kept his usual gruff tone.
"This is fucking insane. Supplies are shit, troops are short. We shouldn't be charging the Demon King's castle—we need to retreat right now."
"Haa."
The Saintess let out a short sigh and conjured a thin spherical barrier to block sound.
She judged that letting the sage's rant carry to the others wouldn't do anyone any good.
Of course, their allies who knew the sage well enough wouldn't pay it much mind anyway, but at least it eased her own heart.
"Retreat where? You know how much we've suffered to get here. And what about the backlash from the allied forces?"
"Fuck. What the hell have those bastards even done to complain? Drop dead."
"They're tying down Demon King troops in various places, keeping them from moving."
"Yeah, without ever pushing toward the Demon King, just holding their ground like cowards. Is that all they've got?"
Sharp barbs flew from the sage's lips one after another.
"If those fuckers hadn't fired decent commanders for their damn merits and internal politics, replacing them with idiots; if they hadn't whined about not providing supplies despite not sending a single soldier; if they hadn't slyly delayed the advance to avoid seeing blood and dumped the burden on us!!"
As he spoke, rather than calming down, his face grew redder with rising fury.
"Then at least things wouldn't be this bad now. They're the ones who created this mess. So what's the problem with retreating?"
The Saintess simply stared at him silently instead of answering.
Her gaze said she already knew the answer, but the sage stubbornly clamped his mouth shut.
In the end, she voiced the fact that both she, the sage, and everyone else here already knew.
"If we retreat, there won't be a next time."
"......"
"It's true the allies are passive, but they're still helping us. If we blow this chance, there's no guarantee they'll help again."
"......"
"We've somehow pushed to the Demon King's doorstep this time, but what's to say we can next time? They'll guard their home base even more thoroughly and relentlessly."
The Saintess's words were spot on.
However, the sage's intellect knew arguments that could counter that orthodoxy.
"Just let the others get fucked too."
"Sage."
"We just pull out. Then the Demon King's army will gain momentum and invade everywhere, dragging more nations into this war. And among them, there'll be talents and forces with the power to stand against the Demon King."
"Sage."
"Am I wrong? Why should we bear all this responsibility from the start? Even you—have you never felt wronged? You opposed the Demon King's summoning, got imprisoned for it, yet here you are hiding your identity just because of blood ties. When there are plenty with the ability and forces to handle this, why the hell do we have to take it all on?"
The Saintess spoke calmly to the worked-up sage, as if soothing him.
"—You know. If we follow your way, an unimaginable number of people will die."
If they escalated the war as the sage suggested.
If they blew it up so no one could remain a bystander, then each nation's leaders would commit fully to defeating the Demon King.
Among them would be transcendents who could match the Demon King evenly, and perhaps the sage and his companions wouldn't need to struggle so desperately.
But in exchange, people would die.
Until the leaders resolved to fight the war. Until that resolve turned into actual power.
Ordinary folk without the strength or authority to move nations would die endlessly.
"We have to defeat the Demon King here."
To stop that, the hero took up his sword, and the Saintess, along with the others, responded to that will.
And since the sage himself was the same, he spat curses but couldn't shout that he was done and running.
"What? Why the long face?"
At that moment, a young man poked his head into the soundproof barrier the Saintess had set up.
The youth with jet-black hair streaked with blue in places looked at the two with a mischievously impish expression, then blurted out.
"Oh, lovers' quarrel?"
"You wanna die?"
"Nope."
Bug-squashed grimace and deadpan neutrality.
Both showed strong rejection without a hint of amusement, making Hero Fernando Valestia burst into hearty laughter.
Infuriatingly so, the sage snapped peevishly.
"Hero, you find this clusterfuck amusing when you might croak tomorrow?"
"If I might die tomorrow, shouldn't I laugh more? Dying with a gloomy mug would be sad."
"Fuck, is that even human talk?"
"Please use elegant, archaic speech, Sage. That's how we protect the dreams and hopes of the young."
"What bullshit is that?"
"Lately, stories about us going around feel just like that. 'Sage, lend us your strength. Your wisdom is needed to aid those suffering under the Demon King.' 'Ho, your intent is most noble! Hero, I shall join your journey.'"
The sage blinked several times, wondering if his ears were malfunctioning, then asked again.
"What bullshit is that?"
"You know you're repeating yourself?"
"So what the hell is it?!"
"What else? Rumors of our first meeting are spreading like that elsewhere."
"The content, the speech—nothing matches! When the fuck did you ever invite me like that?!"
"I admit it's kinda funny, but what can we do? Too busy on the battlefield to go around correcting that it wasn't so cool."
The hero's logic was impeccable, which only twisted the sage's guts more.
History was the victor's record, sure, but they hadn't even lost— what was this horrific distortion?
"What about me?"
"Hm, Saintess was pretty close to the real thing overall. Her speech pattern held up, at least. No leaks on sensitive info, so rest easy."
The Saintess seemed more relieved that her past hadn't been exposed than that her image was intact.
Of course, that irked the sage just as much.
"Unbelievable. This moronic idiot getting portrayed like some mythic hero. What a catastrophe."
"Hey, too harsh. I could pull that off if I tried."
"Why not claim dogs can fly instead."
"Oh? Wanna see proof? If I can or can't?"
The hero grinned, then leaped atop a high mound in one corner of the tent.
"Everyone, attention!!"
His booming command drew the gazes of soldiers busy with preparations or rest.
Confirming the multitude of eyes on him, the hero declared.
"We will win."
Then continued.
"Uh, no, scratch that. Ahem— My comrades, we shall triumph!"
"...?"
Achieving the feat of filling every soldier's head with question marks, the hero pressed on in his mismatched pompous tone.
"The Demon King shall fall before my blade, we shall reclaim our homes, and everyone here will be hailed as heroes. Married folk can tell this tale as a fairy story to their kids someday, and the single ones will have a proud credential for potential lovers. Oh, and jobs! Who'd let a Demon King slayer starve?"
His speech clung to an archaic veneer, but everything else was a total mess. The sage assessed the hero's performance.
"What a fucking retard."
"Mm."
The Saintess, overhearing, didn't disagree.
She revered the hero who had saved her from a life hounded by guilt and duty, harbored secret affection for him too—but this was separate.
The hero kept rambling about generals and good fortunes, collecting bewildered stares, until even he seemed to realize it was too much and laughed uproariously.
"Heh, guess some things just don't suit me! Thought I'd try some pre-battle morale with my poor tongue, but I'm no good. Instead, I can dazzle your eyes with my specialty! Watch closely!"
Shing.
Drawing his sword with fluid naturalness, the hero began swinging it gracefully.
A sword was a tool for slaughter, and the hero had indeed buried countless foes with his.
Yet now he looked so innocently carefree, making the heavy iron in his hand feel like a light twig.
At the twig's tip bloomed deep blue flower buds, which burst open, scattering petals.
When the hero stepped forward, petals flew ahead; when he flicked his wrist, they swirled in eddies.
The beautiful floral blizzard didn't just hover by the hero—it enveloped the entire camp, drifting down over the soldiers' heads.
Tense before the final battle, the soldiers welcomed the petals blooming in the barren wasteland, reaching out or cradling them in palms to savor their texture and scent.
"Hah."
The sage watched, dumbfounded.
He had witnessed the hero's floral storm shredding mighty demons many times.
But these companions suffered no wounds or pain, enjoying it like a true flower-viewing party.
Fifth-circle Aura was merely materialized mana.
But sixth-circle Aura embodied personal imagery.
Since the hero had no intent to harm allies, and wished for their smiles, the Aura petals carried the touch and fragrance of real flowers, soothing his comrades.
The sage suddenly looked up at the sky.
The dark, ominous scene he had lamented was now filled with blue petals, stunningly beautiful.
The air thick with blood and decay transformed into sweet floral perfume, sending shivers down his spine.
His comrades laughing and chatting amid the drifting petals shone with an indescribable light.
Though his current body's senses were in no way inferior to the real thing, he yearned to "personally" feel it.
That was why, for all his griping, the sage couldn't leave their side.