Chapter 159
Chapter 159
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 159
Chapter Title: Guest of the Northern Pantheon
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*
Winter in the North Sea is unkind to sailors. Fierce storms, bone-chilling cold, and gusts and blizzards that throw off even the most reliable chronometers. Yet Leia's flagship remained unscathed by the sea winds, and Gaimern's sea charts never lost their bearings in any waters.
And the flesh of a Religiosa Demonica suffered no impairment from natural cold. Fernandez, clad only in his priestly robes over a light tunic, cautiously grasped the door handle.
It was night. North Sea gales whistled menacingly through a small gap in the window. Thick snowflakes had just begun to swirl, piling up thickly against the window bars.
Inside the cabin, Abel lay asleep on the bunk. The woman who had provocatively taunted him with such confidence had drifted off before dawn. Fernandez gripped the greatsword leaning against the doorframe and quietly opened the door.
-Whoooosh...
Snowflakes clung to his body along with the harsh wind. His sweat-dampened hair cooled in an instant. But right now, this was just what he needed. He had to chill his half-aroused body and mind.
Careful not to wake Abel, Fernandez closed the door and stepped out.
*
He walked slowly toward the stern. The blizzard had cleared the deck of people. Thanks to his body that could ignore the snowstorm, it made for the perfect nighttime stroll.
Reaching an open space where he could swing his blade freely without issue, Fernandez unfastened the greatsword's scabbard and set it on the deck. His adequately warmed body had cooled. He gripped the chilled hilt tightly and drew the blade.
Snowflakes danced in the air. Winds near gale-force tousled his hair wildly. It was the dead of night, even the mana lamps dim and faint. Few people about, only the sound of the wind in the surroundings.
His lips curled slightly upward. Happiness? A sense of accomplishment? Who knew—it felt like an illusion born from his immature flesh. A debauched fever.
He was not an ascetic like the other priests. Quite the opposite; he was honest with his desires. But he was no hedonist. His desires lay farther afield, more faintly.
All his desires had to serve his sense of purpose. They must. This was his penance, and his path must be no different from that of any pilgrim.
-Regret it?
'No.'
-Then it doesn't matter, right?
'That's not it either.'
The blade extended. The greatsword's broad blade felt doubly heavy against the wind's resistance. Yet the flesh of a Religiosa Demonica felt no such weight.
-Whoooosh!
The greatsword swung lightly, tracing a wide arc. Mana lamp light gathered on the blade's edge and reflected dazzlingly. Snowflakes sparkled brilliantly.
'Honestly, I don't really know myself.'
-I felt the same when I first got married.
'You're me. Feizashi. At least back then, you were. Don't talk nonsense.'
He raised the sword and paused. His eyes tracked the falling snowflakes. His dynamic vision, pushed to human limits, registered each one individually, gauging their motion along the wind's grain.
Just like in his duel with Malern, his senses expanded that horizon. Centered on himself, grasping the movements and physicality of everything around him. His brain burned hot. Yet the flesh of a Religiosa Demonica made it possible.
-Whoooosh!
The blade danced again. Snowflakes cleaved in half midair. Left, right, another half-turn without a single hesitation. One fluid stroke—
-Whoooosh!
The greatsword sliced through the snow. Five strikes flowed seamlessly with his breath. Greatsword techniques were founded on rotations and chains—unlike elven swordsmanship, which devoted itself to single, powerful blows—
'Of course it's enjoyable. Blissful, joyful. In this world, for someone—anyone—to know my past and love me completely. Naturally, it's joyful.'
-But why?
'That goodwill being part of the plans I laid out. The current state of affairs, people's goodwill, the relationships around me—all unfolding within the framework I set.'
He couldn't accept people's goodwill simply as goodwill. Fernandez had to suspect endlessly. Every stranger who showed him favor.
He had failed to protect his wife, killed his own son with his own hands, hanged countless heroes and sages, and ultimately contributed to the world's destruction as a villain.
Thus, he could never accept any approaching goodwill at face value. Even if it was certain the other party meant it purely, without ulterior motives.
'Might it not be the outcome I intended?'
Had he induced them to like him, to show him favor? Like with Kirhas—was it not due to his schemes?
Probably, with high likelihood. Most of his schemes began by instilling a sense of debt in allies. To prevent betrayal, and to bind them more deeply to him.
Thus, Abel's—and Kirhas's—goodwill felt excessive, undeserved.
-You live a tiring life.
'It's your way of life, Feizashi.'
-No. It's 'your' way of life. For reflection on the past, it's far too bothersome a method. You want to repent for the past, deny it. That's your defense mechanism, I suppose.
'Is that wrong?'
-Who said it was wrong? It's a delusion. And snap out of it—that's not self-objectification; it's plain self-loathing. What 'I' did was merely a struggle for survival and desire.
'Past life. For just surviving, there were far too many things I did.'
-So, will you kill yourself? The past can't be changed. But the future can.
And fortunately, we regressed to the past to change the future. Listening to Feizashi, Fernandez slowly closed his eyes. Snowflakes settled on his hair, melting instantly from his heated body warmth and dripping down.
Cold droplets from his hair tips struck his nose. At the same moment, his wrist twisted slightly, redirecting the greatsword.
'Yes. We can change it. May salvation lie at its end.'
Return to the past to alter the future. That meant the death of Feizashi's memories. Fernandez and Feizashi both knew it. It signified him fading as an outdated specter from another dimension, another world.
Thus, may 'our' salvation come. Even if the path forward differed. At this road's end, may both stand together, laughing.
-Krrrrrack!
Space tore. Once. Cascading snowflakes halved, scattered, crumbled. The greatsword slashing through space, the snowflakes between—or regrets, remorse, self-reflection, loathing, all of it.
-Krrrrrack!
Twice. From below upward, then again. Not snow or wind or empty air or space, but time itself severed.
-Crunck.
His wrist snapped back sharply, ligaments swelling from the strain. Injured muscles heated, then cooled in the winter wind. The blade flipped, now from above downward.
Downward, then sideways again. Left to right. Diagonally upward, a full turn, then plunged down. A single sword dance unfolding in half a breath.
The wind halted, new gusts rising from its wake. From Fernandez and the greatsword's motions. Slowly, faster. More fiercely!
-Krrrrrack!
And when Fernandez, soaked in sweat and snow, panted and opened his eyes. A momentary silence fell. A snowless, windless instant. Beneath the greatsword's perfect windless zone, Fernandez glared into the darkness with half-lidded eyes.
'My head's cooled.'
-Enough rest?
'Fortunately.'
-Shing.
After sheathing the blade, snow began falling on him again. The throbbing in his wrist and forearm quickly subsided. His heart pulsed, circulating Demonica blood through his body. Torn muscles and swollen ligaments realigned in moments.
The flesh of a Religiosa Demonica took no damage from such exercise. Fernandez fiddled with his wrist and turned.
-Clap, clap, clap.
Then, applause sounded. Fernandez paused, turning toward the source beyond the swirling snow.
In the dark night, under faint mana lamps, only pale white hands clapping were visible in the shadows. Fernandez narrowed his eyes, peering below them.
Not white hands. Bones. Fernandez slowly placed his hand on the hilt, assuming stance. Soon, from those shadows below, a whistle sounded.
"A sturdy warrior, indeed. Quite impressive."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, I've been called by many names, friend."
Slowly, a man emerged from the shadows. Wild, unkempt hair; a bare body etched with ornate tattoos. Muscled bulk reminiscent of a Demonica. Over half his body crudely stitched from exposed bone and flesh—a monster.
Clearly not human. Fernandez frowned at the sticky presence emanating from the man. Demigod, or half-god.
Blue glow leaked from the man's eyes. He swaggered into the light.
"Jester, hypocrite, trickster, shapeshifter... I have so very many names. Even I get confused sometimes, haha, friend. So, let's talk about something more important than my name right now."
As if to say go ahead, Fernandez nodded. The man chuckled and stopped just beyond sword's reach. He perched casually on a snow-covered flowerbed planter, dangling his feet.
"I've been waiting for you to leave the 'Holy Pantheon of Good Gods' domain, friend. From here on, it's the North Sea. Beyond the Pantheon's reach. Your gods can no longer aid you."
"I never acted expecting their help from the start."
"Really? Mumto... Oh, I never thought it possible, but. When you killed Mumto—was it purely your power? I heard you lost all those precious blessings of yours?"
"They were mere tools. So, who are you? How do you know of that incident?"
"Because I was there."
The man's eyes blazed. He snapped the bony fingers of one hand.
"The divinity of death. The one he swallowed—that divinity of death was me. Not just me, mind you. But my power was part of it. Wandering the world, then suddenly devoured... Felt awful, really."
Well, thanks to you, I gained freedom! The man cackled.
"If you're free, that's that. What business do you have with me?"
"I'm from the Northern Pantheon, friend. And it seems you and I share a goal?"
"Goal?"
"Returning home after a millennium... What a mess it was. So terrifying I fled before even setting foot. You're interested too, aren't you?"
Sadarkelia. As Fernandez narrowed his eyes, the man burst into laughter.
"Yes, yes! One's hard, but two? A guy who's caught a great demon sounds trustworthy. In this harsh world, you must have someone you want dead. Me too. Luckily, this time it's the same guy we both hate."
"You're sure it's not you?"
"Yes, oh no, not at all, friend. I hate demons as much as you do! And the other 'gods' too."
The man giggled, lowering his voice.
"Even those who worship them. All the ones you're dying to kill—they're packed in that northern land."
"Who?"
"Young pup Eric. Oh, your face is priceless! Haha. Stop him from burning the world and remaking it in 'Valhalla's' glory."
Eric— that name again. Fernandez frowned, slowly sheathing his sword. Worth hearing out. Seeing that, the man's smile deepened.
"In exchange, I'll return what you lost."
"What?"
"Ah? About the Northern Pantheon. One-eyed giant Botan, that bastard claimed to be the greatest and dragged off all the dead heroes... But from the start, 'death' among us brothers was my domain."
The man snapped his fingers, pointing at Fernandez's chest.
"Under my domain, 'death.' So. I shall remain as your ally."
The man rose slowly, tossing Fernandez a small object. Catching it, Fernandez saw a slender twig glowing faintly purple.
"Careful. Very delicate friend."
"What is this?"
"My most cherished mistletoe. As long as you carry it, death will shun you. More concretely than that southern 'war god's' blessing."
The man walked slowly into the darkness. His presence faded, then vanished. Like a winter breeze passing, a whisper lingered.
"Compared to those 'great' warriors of Einherjar that the one-eye clings to, you look more promising, friend. If you like, call me 'Loft'."