Chapter 112
Chapter 112
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 112
Chapter Title: Great Warrior Kahareper (1)
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*
The greatsword soared through the air. Fernandez stared blankly as it flew roughly from his grip and embedded itself in the glittering ceiling of the Amethyst Hall.
-“Shrieeek!!”
Seizing the opening, Darian’s spear shot forth like a hail of arrows. Even with Fernandez’s razor-sharp reflexes, it was a strike so fast he could barely see more than an afterimage.
-Kwachik!
“Guhk!”
Once more, a massive impact shattered his heart. The spear spun in a vortex, unleashing tremendous rotational force from within his chest. Ribs cracked under the onslaught, lungs crushed, and his choked breath burst free.
It felt like sinking into the ocean depths. Dragged down by an anchor. Down there. Down into the profound darkness, where the only light was the radiance of Darian’s sun spear.
In his blurring vision, Fernandez thought: This won’t do. There was far too little he could learn like this. That was the gap between them. To face Darian at his peak, he needed himself at his peak.
His peak. Fernandez felt a pang of disappointment at how instinctively the word brought magic to mind. That was just chasing the past. He couldn’t do that. He had to surpass it.
Since his body had already regressed to the past, merely replicating his previous life’s achievements would be a waste. If he just shifted his gaze a little, found a bit of mental leeway, bought himself a little more time. Restoring his magic to its peak would be child’s play.
‘Roughly three thousand sacrifices offered up, their souls melted in a soul furnace and refined into essence, then contracting with one of the great demons to carve open my mana circuits. That would get me close to my peak.’
He had the ability, the knowledge, the wisdom, the resources. The Great Wasteland was in chaos, ripe for exploitation. It wasn’t impossible.
Through Kirhas’s forces, inscribe a magic circle across the entire wasteland, burn the barren lands with a vast sacrificial ritual spanning the wastes, breach the grand seal of the Necropolis, and claim Mumto’s weakened soul-flesh.
He could acquire divinity himself and reign as a great demon. That was one path.
‘No.’
But no. Corruption was sweet, repose was comfortable. Yet reality was always miserable and cruel, that thorny path lined with blood, pus, and agony between every step.
And yet, that was reality. Fernandez would never give up. The easy choice of corruption and pleasure wasn’t even worth considering.
He didn’t act for the comforts of reality. His North Star always reached for higher ideals. Even adrift between moments of time, his sea chart always pointed the same way.
‘I won’t give up.’
Becoming a demon to save his son’s spirit from the demons’ grasp was tragic, but a self-contradictory farce. Fernandez would never make that choice.
-Adduk.
Blood overflowed from his gums. Flesh-mingled foam bubbled at his lips. The illusion was so exquisitely crafted that even the pain felt utterly real.
But gathering his last reserves of strength, grinding his molars as if to shatter them, Fernandez glared at Darian’s dazed expression with bloodshot eyes.
“What, did he really die?”
Like a broken wind-up toy, Darian repeated the same line. Yes. That was necessary. So that someday, with enough time, he could reach that height too.
So his peak— not from magic or corruption, demons or the powers of hell, but purely his own power.
So his name could symbolize his peak.
Humanity’s ‘Betrayer’. That was the meaning he’d given his name. In the forgotten tongue of the ancient demon empire from eons ago. Betrayer. Feizashi. He had no intention of denying his past. It was the eternal curse he could never erase.
But no. That wasn’t his name. Not now...
“I am Fernandez. Darian.”
“What?”
“Fernandez Cerned.”
Until he overlaid his name upon the age itself. Until he seized his star with his own hands. Yes. Even across thousands of deaths. He had never been one to settle. That was his guiding principle.
“So. Let’s go again.”
His vision went black.
*
How much time had passed? Fernandez slipped into the familiar soul-death state. Dying, surviving, striking, parrying, flying back, collapsing—those moments flickered through his mind like pages turning in a long book.
‘It won’t work.’
He had to pull himself together. Grinding his teeth to dust, Fernandez forced his eyes wide. His concentration faltered, and the tip of his greatsword wavered. A minuscule motion, but Darian exploited it, driving his spearhead into Fernandez’s heart once more.
-Kwadududuk!!!!
No, almost. Fernandez deflected the spear with his greatsword’s crossguard, letting it glance off. Sparks flew, carving a long crack along the blade’s edge. The sword of the Twin Kings wouldn’t have shattered, but this was merely a replica.
“You blocked it?!”
Darian’s eyes widened. In his judgment, Fernandez’s swordsmanship was at best first-rate—barely potential, not yet enough to stand in the realm of a stripped hero.
It was astonishing. Feizashi Wildcast, a mage of that caliber, had this much talent in swordplay too? Darian bit his lip.
He had to end it before the bastard awakened his martial prowess. If he gained mastery there too, no one could stop him!
-Hwooung!
Darian swept his spear wide and retreated. An elegant, pristine motion. Fernandez read the urgency in Darian’s eyes. His wrist throbbed from blocking the spear. Even glancing it off had torn his ligaments.
‘Incredible power.’
Pure strength couldn’t match the Demonica’s. Their muscles surpassed human limits. But a warrior at the pinnacle infused his body with mana. Darian’s reflexes, reaction speed, agility, and power were a transcendence born of that mana.
‘A body flowing with divinity rejects mana.’
That’s why the Demonica didn’t just bulk up endlessly. Heretica or Enmagicka inquisitors could accumulate mana upon reaching the pinnacle of magic and martial arts, but not Demonica.
Beitasser’s divinity flowed through a Demonica’s veins. They accepted that power, remodeling their flesh, allowing them to carry sanctity in their blood.
Thus, they could never reach the martial pinnacle. Their bodies couldn’t wield magic. In exchange for the world’s mightiest organic anti-magic, they became vessels unable to hold mana.
So Fernandez too could never reach swordsmanship’s apex. He couldn’t embed even a single mana circuit. After sleepless nights researching post-transformation, he’d revised his plan to claim the Bronze Throne instead.
‘So, technique.’
Technique, then. Mana-enhanced strength? Counter with muscle. Mana-boosted reflexes? With eyesight. The measure of martial pinnacle wasn’t solely mana—he believed—
If enlightenment and shedding were impossible, then mechanically hone equivalent skill. Through endless repetition. Like a Saintmetal longsword forged a thousand times!
-Kwadududuk!!
Again. The spearhead struck his greatsword. It shook violently, exposing an opening. The path to his heart yawned wide. Darian’s eyes never missed it. His spear shot forth once more—
-Eudeuk!
His molars shattered. Fernandez, balance lost and stance crumbling, poured strength into his thighs, realigned his center, and swung the greatsword wide!
“Grrraaaah!!”
-Kwaaang!
The inky blade traced a black arc forward. Darian’s blinding white spearhead rushed to meet it.
-Eudeuk! Udeuk! Kadeudeuk!
Every muscle, ligament, bone, and joint screamed. An impossible strike from a broken stance, transcending even Demonica limits. Muscles tore, joints dislocated, agony flooding his body.
-Kwaaaaang!!
Then, the searing spear and inky greatsword clashed. Sparks scattered, trajectories intertwining toward each other. White and black. Vortices of power swirling.
‘Taiji, huh. Reminds me of those Asias High Council bastards.’
In his hyper-elevated mind, time crawling slow, Fernandez laughed emptily. He saw Darian’s grimace as their blades locked. The bastard was anxious.
‘Of course. Even Feizashi being skilled with a sword would warrant anxiety.’
If the pinnacle of contemporary magic could face him bare-handed with martial arts, anxiety was fitting. Of course, it was still feeble technique, not even reaching his ankles.
-Kwaaaang!
The clash ended. The spearhead ultimately flung the greatsword aside. But Darian couldn’t control his own, forced to redirect the force backward. Both stances crumbled.
For Fernandez, it was a devastating blow. His body was no longer whole. Whereas Darian—
“Huh...?”
The bastard held the spear one-handed now. The spear flung wide to shed force lay distant. And his right hand reached his waist, to the sword belt.
“No way?”
-Click.
One hand releasing the spear’s locked force, the other lightly touching the thin longsword atop the sword belt with his index finger—
“Hoo...”
-Sruruk.
His stance sank slightly. In the near-frozen time, Fernandez recognized the familiar form and recoiled in horror.
‘He can do that too?!”
He’d shed the clash’s force one-handed while drawing a longsword with the other! And that stance—the Elven Wild Prince’s iaijutsu...!
Fernandez scrambled to recover, but he couldn’t escape the world’s strongest swordsman. Darian’s index finger on the hilt crooked slightly, and then—
-Sgeung.
“Keuk!”
A flash cleaved his heart.
*
In the wasteland night, before a small campfire sat a man in a purple robe. Kahareper gripped his hilt and advanced silently.
-Chek, chek.
The man, seated in lotus position, moved only one arm, ceaselessly forming mantras. It was grotesque, as if that arm lived independently, filling Kahareper with unease.
-Chek.
-Pajijik!
[Hm.]
One of the many protective wards on Kahareper shattered. His body halted briefly. Wind pushed him back, and he felt something viscous watching him.
A gaze thick with malice and enmity. Kahareper twisted his head away and took another step.
-“Halt.”
-Pajijik!
Another ward around his neck broke. His steps merely grew heavy for a moment. He pressed on toward the man without pause. The man remained seated with his back turned, legs crossed.
Only one arm moved. It twisted unnaturally, forming mudras in the air.
-Hwaruruk.
A black halo ignited behind the man’s head. At that sinister sight, Kahareper was certain.
[Mumto...]
It was him. No records of such a being anywhere in the wasteland. Weakened, yet incarnated in flesh. Kahareper’s grip tightened, hilt rattling.
-“Halt.”
-Kwajijik!
Kahareper was shoved back slightly. Wards shattered and scattered in an instant. Yet he drew his sword without stopping.
-Srurung.
The ornate curved blade gleamed in the moonlight. Kahareper raised it high, growling low.
[We are no longer your slaves.]
Baring his fangs, Kahareper slashed down at the undefended back. He clearly saw the blade pierce between. The foe’s feeble magic couldn’t breach his myriad protective spells!
-Flutter!
But the purple cloak billowed through the air. Kahareper saw his blade plunge into it. And from within—
-Chaeng!
An inky greatsword appeared, blocking him.
“That’s more like it. Wraith.”
-Kadeudeuk!
The greatsword and curved blade locked in midair. Kahareper looked down in shock at the youth two heads shorter. A mage, surely. Mumto’s incarnation or soul-flesh?
[...Who are you?]
The cloak fluttered down. Gloomy blue eyes flashed through. Fernandez flicked back his half-drawn greatsword, retreating into stance.
-Chiiik.
“Feizashi Wildcast.”
[Wildcast... A mage dares swords with me?]
“I’ve always been versatile.”
Fernandez shook out his numb wrist.
‘How long has it been?’
-Five hours.
‘You lured him in.’
-Time is money. So. Can you win? No mana stone veins here. Can’t expect much magical support.
‘It’s fine. I’ve got preparations too.’
You did well. Feizashi. Fernandez slowly drew his greatsword into stance.