Chapter 139
Chapter 139
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 139
Chapter Title: Dragons and Tigers Clash
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*
Fernandez sat cross-legged on his bed, reviewing the recent battle. Not just his duel with Ludwig, but all his past fights, one by one, as he sank into meditation.
‘Gelloga… I can see it.’
The advance and retreat of the blade, the entanglement of power, the threads of counterattack. What if he had struck like that there? What if he had done this instead? The shortcomings in his sword strikes from those fierce battles stood out clearly now.
[Greatsword technique isn’t about brute force, brother.]
The memory of the Inquisition’s swordsmanship lessons felt like ancient history. He hadn’t understood back then, but now he did. The essence of greatsword fighting lay in rotational power and the counters it enabled.
So everything he had done until now was no different from a strong kid wildly swinging a club.
‘How did this happen?’
The body of a Religiosa Demonica rejected mana. Beitasser’s divinity stood in direct opposition to black magic, and the Demonica ritual that integrated it ultimately hindered reaching the pinnacle of martial prowess.
It was hard to say he had reached the peak now, but with a Demonica’s body, there were natural limits to his progress.
Yet this vision… how could he explain this awakening of sensation? Fernandez frowned, gripped his sword hilt, and headed to the training grounds in the pouring midnight rain.
—Dancing with your sword in the dead of night?
‘Need to clear my head.’
—Haha, as if you have any room left to empty?
‘Feizashi, maybe I need to remind you that I know just as much as you. Isn’t that a bit self-contradictory?’
Fernandez chuckled and opened the tent flap.
*
The blade repelled the rain and thrust forward. Splash—the novel sensation of raindrops catching on the tip. His heart pounded with intense motion, body heating up, while the early winter chill cooled his skin refreshingly.
Like steel being tempered. Like plunging hot metal into oil. His body blazed hot, then cooled cold again.
For Fernandez, who had always pushed his body only to the minimum functionality, this was a rare state close to peak condition.
—Shhhh…
Rain flowed down the flat of the blade. Fernandez stood tall, sword in hand, staring at the darkened front of the training grounds. It felt possible now.
—Shing…
The blade halted, feeling the air’s resistance. Space had no physical form, but by hanging his intent on the tip and slicing through sensation. Like slitting silk with a dagger—
—Crack. Crack.
Like embedding the tip in thin ice, just a bit more—
—Crunch…
A warrior at the peak is said to wield mana. It doesn’t just mean surpassing human physical limits. Warriors of that caliber could touch the realm of magic with their combat skills alone.
—Crackle…
The fierce battles, brushes with death, and battlefields they traversed in life fused into their techniques, distilling their essence, culminating and finally—
—Crunch!!!
He slashed. Fernandez felt his wrist tendons swell stiffly as he spun the sword once and sheathed it. His heart thundered madly, sweat pouring like rain from his body. Overheated blood vessels barely returned to normal under the early winter drops.
“You’ve stepped into that realm.”
“Abel.”
At the edge of the training grounds, under the eaves, Abel watched him. She snapped open an umbrella with a flick and walked slowly toward him.
“Impressive. You’ve reached that child’s level, the young Dain.”
“Still lacking.”
Having crossed blades with King Dain, he knew. The precision, power, and experience of the king’s swordsmanship then. The man had been infinitely close to humanity’s strongest.
Swordsmanship that cleaved space. What Fernandez had done was merely a crude imitation, like copying from an answer sheet.
“No one can excel at everything. Some never even learn such a realm exists in their lifetime, others merely dream of it as they sleep. Don’t you have your own strengths?”
Abel said, handing him the umbrella. Rain hammered it noisily. Under it, Fernandez looked into her smiling eyes.
“So take pride. In swordsmanship, you were just a child. Now… you’ve become a full-fledged knight.”
“A realm impossible with a Demonica’s body. Can you explain what happened?”
“Yes, impossible for those bearing Beitasser’s divinity. Indeed, I still sense no manifested mana in you. But your soul’s tier has grown. Fernandez. You no longer seem bound to a mortal’s soul.”
Passing countless brushes with death, actually treading death and forging it into his being. Mortals die once, but Fernandez was different.
He had passed through so many deaths. For him, “brushing with death” wasn’t figurative. Not near-death crises, but actual deaths…
All those deaths, all that experience, fully melted into his soul. Tempered in fierce battles with ancient heroes, great warriors, overwhelming foes, surviving to turn them into achievements.
His soul, refined like folded steel, had transcended a mere human’s tier. The body’s divinity and soul’s tier forged him anew.
“Does that mean I’ve gained an immortal’s tier?”
“…Nearly. You still carry the Demonicas’ unique divinity. But that’s not all. Your soul’s tier has surpassed mortality, reaching the threshold of transcendence. That must be why.”
Not fully ascended to godhood, nor become a demigod. If anything, he had earned the right to stand at the gateway of transcendence, where mortals acquire immortal divinity.
Fernandez knew of this realm. He hadn’t thought he’d reach it…
‘One more thing I couldn’t achieve in my past life.’
—Not couldn’t, but didn’t.
‘Couldn’t is right.’
The gateway of transcendence, commonly called the demigod path, required standing utterly alone. No worship of gods or devils, no faith—only achievements piled by one’s own power could forge divinity for a mortal.
When their power peaked, their deeds transcending mortal limits, they gained divinity. Even the good gods of the Holy Pantheon, the great devils of hell, had followed that path.
So it was impossible in his past life. Unreachable for Feizashi the devil worshipper. In fact, few reached demigod status then. An era where survival demanded borrowing transcendent powers.
“If you want a spar, I’ll oblige… but you don’t need sword enlightenment now. So, shall we return to the Church like this?”
“I still have things to do. Will you join me?”
“Gladly.”
Abel smiled brightly and handed him the umbrella. Fernandez took it, pausing in thought. This couldn’t be…
—Yeah, she means walk you back. Idiot.
Feizashi grumbled.
*
The Eastern Kingdom Alliance’s withdrawal was imminent. Knights mobbed him whenever he stepped out during the day, so Fernandez unintentionally confined himself to his tent.
Packing his gear, meditating occasionally to pass the time. Greatsword across his thighs, cross-legged, eyes closed—when the tent flap opened.
“Sorry to disturb your rest, Knight. A guest…”
“Out of the way.”
“Hey, wait, ah!”
As Fernandez slowly opened his eyes, a figure strode in. The attendant panicked and retreated, roughly shoved aside.
A glossy black cloak fluttered dramatically. Long, beautiful black hair and form-fitting leather armor came into view. Fernandez regarded Kirhas Hearttaker, smiling at him.
“What of your tribe?”
“Didn’t you expect this?”
“I did.”
Kirhas eyed his packed gear and set her own bags beside it.
“Room still open? I’d like to join.”
“Kirhas. You could rise to greater heights in better circumstances.”
Fernandez sheathed his blade and looked at her. Kirhas perked her ears, flashing a confident smile. But he found no anxiety in her drooping tail.
“I hoped you’d live in your homeland, enjoying the rights given to you.”
“But… there’s no silver benefactor here.”
“Won’t you regret it? What you abandon is a position that should have been yours by right.”
Beloved chieftain, ruler of the great plains, undefeated. Such fame, followers, wealth, influence—all could have been hers.
Yet Fernandez’s path was more wretched. More miserable. Like an endless race with death at his side. The moment death overtook him, that would be his end.
A path impossible to stop, destination distant, success odds slim. Fernandez didn’t want to take Kirhas along.
By Abel’s words, he and she were drifters. Wanderers meeting in this timeline, escaped from their own. But Kirhas wasn’t. This era was her present, her time.
Thus, he felt guilt toward her. Different from with Abel. Guilt for twisting her destined path to his will.
“My place is by my benefactor’s side.”
Kirhas smiled, meeting his eyes. She already knew his identity from him. He had confessed taking her in only to use her.
Yet Kirhas thought: if he merely wanted to use her, he would have embraced her. Easier ways abounded to brainwash and train her.
His confessing everything, arranging a new place for her—it wasn’t just guilt. Kirhas smiled brightly at him.
It wasn’t guilt; it was genuine care. True affection for her.
“So, is there still a place for me by my benefactor?”
“…Always.”
“Then gladly.”
That long ordeal running alongside death. Without doubt, fear, sorrow, or regret. She would advance together. Kirhas vowed.
“I gladly pledge my loyalty, benefactor.”
The black mage who whispered purpose over reason, the slave girl who took his hand for revenge—they were gone.
A man who wanted to leave his cherished one safe before pursuing his goal stood here. And a woman declaring him her sole reason and purpose.
—Rustle.
Kirhas approached slowly and bowed to the seated Fernandez. He didn’t push her away. For a moment, their breaths mingled.
“Aren’t oaths usually on the back of the hand?”
“That lacks flair, doesn’t it?”
Kirhas whispered with a flamboyant laugh. One more point ahead. She cheered inwardly, beaming confidently.
Fernandez chuckled and nodded readily. With the undefeated Kirhas, yes, it was worth it. No matter the foe. Even without stigmata or mana, she’d be a great asset.
Time to start the next plan. Winter approached swiftly. Time to return to the Inquisition.
After long summer and autumn, now winter. And winter came on north winds scattering icy gales.
The world’s winter gathered around cozy campfires. But for them, winter meant heading to the coldest place.