Chapter 165
Chapter 165
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 165
Chapter Title: The King of Snakes (1)
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*
—We’ve arrived.
‘Bought us about half a day.’
Far off in the distance, the harbor flickered with lighthouse beams. In the early dawn, Fernandez roused the warriors, who were half-asleep and rowing on reflex.
The warriors, nearly utterly exhausted, still couldn’t hide their awe as they gazed at Fernandez. They had covered the two days’ distance from Hazat Palan to Hazat Kazal in less than a day and a half.
“Good lord, sailing at this speed is a first for me. Are all southerners like this?”
“Cut the chatter and get your heads straight. We’ve plunged into enemy territory in a single ship.”
At Fernandez’s cold words, tension finally crept into the warriors’ eyes. Hazat Kazal was one of the strongest clans in the north. Originally a insignificant fief, it had grown rapidly during Yarl Erik’s era, devouring the surrounding tribes.
Now, the only hostile tribe left near Kazal was the Palendar clan. Realizing they were the last remnants of that clan, the warriors rolled their stiff wrists and fixed burning eyes on Fernandez.
“Well, whatever. No one lives forever.”
A warrior with a large scar over one eye barked a laugh. His savage mirth spread like contagion, and the warriors muttered low in agreement. Slowly, they tensed their bodies, lifting shields and axes.
“So, Savior. How do you plan to get us to that harbor?”
“With magic.”
The warriors stared blankly at Fernandez’s reply. The man who’d sliced through demons in seconds was a mage? Ignoring their expressions, Fernandez stood tall on the deck and raised both arms.
—Fwoooong...
The flow of wind felt tangible in his hands. Eyes closed, Fernandez raised his hands like a conductor leading an orchestra. Index and ring fingers folded, wrists turning slowly—one gesture.
—Shaaaah...
Mana knots formed and unraveled simultaneously, splitting into dozens of incantation runes. Invisible to the eye, but Fernandez’s senses captured them beyond his sight, tuning them with delicate precision, then again with precision.
—Sarrruk...
With a motion like parting curtains, he disrupted the flickering mana. The Bronze Throne’s circuits activated, inhaling the flow like a breath, then exhaling to weave the spell.
In that instant, the mudras his hands formed, the angle of his wrists, the speed and direction of his swinging arms—they encompassed the entire three-dimensional space, not limited to left-right or up-down. The gestures themselves became magic.
—Shaaaah...
Not a single thread of that incantation missed by a hair’s breadth. When the third mudra locked, thick fog began dispersing around Fernandez.
“Oh, ooh...”
The warriors gaped in awe at him. Eyes as if beholding some inscrutable monster. A sticky fog that obscured even comrades right beside them enveloped the entire harbor, rising as if the sea itself exhaled a sigh.
—Srailat’s Fog... This one’s served me well.
Feizashi whispered in a voice tinged with nostalgia. Eyes still closed, Fernandez spoke quietly.
“Advance.”
“We can’t see a thing.”
“You don’t need to. I can see.”
Fernandez’s other hand rested on his forehead, palm outward, splayed wide. Within it, a drawn eye glowed purple.
‘Eye of Truth. How long can the Bronze Throne hold it now?’
—Three hours.
‘Plenty.’
If they didn’t succeed in three hours, the operation was a failure anyway. Fernandez chuckled softly. Had there ever been a time he wasn’t pressed?
No, not really. Through his past life and this one, he’d always been fleeing monsters at his back. There was no such thing as unhurried. Not with the apocalypse on his heels.
So. Advance. Forward, forward... Amid the fog, Fernandez smiled at the oars slicing through and the eerie rhythm of the warriors’ flexing muscles.
*
“Magic.”
Orion lowered his silver dagger and lifted his head. The moment sticky mana blanketed the harbor, he sensed the enemy was a superior mage.
Blood dripped from the dagger’s tip. He nodded toward the man standing deferentially beside him, hands clasped.
The man stepped aside wordlessly and dragged in a youth bound tightly with rope. Covered in bizarre brands, hair shorn clean, the youth panted in terror through his gag.
Chopped crudely, his scalp was riddled with scars. Orion laid the dagger slowly atop it. At the chill touch, the youth squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered.
“Are you afraid?”
“Hmmph. Mmph. Nghk.”
“Fear not. I don’t mean to harm you—only to lead you to a great paradise.”
At Orion’s words, the men in the room crossed themselves in unison and bowed. The youth looked up, eyes a mix of hope and dread half-blended.
“This material world faces its end soon. It is my role, as Prophet Orion, to guide those here. You, little beast within us all—simply follow.”
“Hmmphh. Sniff.”
“Yes, yes. It must be frightening.”
At the gentle tone, hope began seeping into the youth’s eyes. Maybe this madman wouldn’t kill him. And the instant that thought struck, a spark flew in the youth’s gaze.
This bastard had slaughtered his family and friends. If he escaped here, he’d swear on Botan’s beard and—
—Slash.
Before the thought finished, the hand caressing his cheek flashed like lightning, blade plunging under his Adam’s apple. The youth gurgled, death claiming him before he even registered it.
—Splatter.
Blood scattered across the floor. It flowed along the engraved channels, glowing red. Orion swiftly formed mudras, slashing the dagger through the air several times. The men in the room mimicked his gestures.
—Fwoooong...
Hot, sticky winds circulated in the room. The corpse, bloodstains, and countless blood-filled vessels. Amid them gleamed a massive pentagram.
The vast room’s wooden pillars were etched floor-to-ceiling with runes in blood and oil, branching like tree limbs toward the center beneath Orion’s feet.
Orion nodded again. The next sacrifice was dragged in, panting.
“You, my faithful servant. Drive out the intruders.”
“Yes, master.”
“Buy time. The ritual ends soon. I permit five serpents.”
As he spoke, Orion placed a hand on the man’s forearm. Sizzle—flesh burned, smoke rising. When he withdrew, a black runeglyph marked the skin.
The man, face unchanging throughout, bowed and retreated. Orion approached the next sacrifice.
“Are you afraid.”
The next, a young woman, wept and screamed.
*
Death and hell reeked everywhere. That was Fernandez’s first impression stepping onto the harbor. Charming. He shook his head, sensing lions’ roars amid the air’s taint.
A rough, crude but potent spell flowed. Layered despair and terror from the dead reached a critical point, becoming magic in itself. This place embodied it exactly.
The moment he sensed it, Fernandez knew the plan had gone awry. Hazat Kazal wasn’t the Kazaldar clan’s capital or Erik’s stronghold.
This city was merely a hatchery. Erik waged multifront wars outside; victories and captives came here, where demons were mass-produced.
It couldn’t be the clan’s capital. No leader, sane or not, would open a hellgate in their own seat of power.
“Truly tragic, isn’t it, friend?”
Fernandez didn’t turn. Thanks to the Eye of Truth, he saw Loft, who’d addressed him. Loft perched on the wall beside him, materializing like wind.
“This stench, these deaths. Meaningless, valueless, merciless. No, no. Death needn’t be noble... but not consumed so vulgarly.”
Loft’s blue-glowing eyes stared into nothing as he wagged a finger. At his gesture, stray soul remnants whirled in the air.
“Fools. Forgotten why we and my brothers gathered warriors, why we prepared for war...”
—Srrrk.
Loft thrust bony fingers into the air and twisted. Soon, a shrieking soul gathered in his palm.
“Abandoned even by gods they trusted. Adrift without fathers. Look upon... these pitiful things, friend.”
—Fwoosh.
Loft clenched, and the soul stilled. Offered to demons, flesh and spirit fragmented it into unstable shards—like broken clockwork souls endlessly replaying death’s agony and fear.
Opening his hand revealed a tiny glittering gem. Loft rolled the teardrop-like jewel between bones, then swallowed it.
“Poor half-thing. Rest easy. Your sorrow is death’s now.”
“Where’s Sadarkelia?”
“Press on, friend. You’re headed right.”
Loft cackled. His wild hair waved in the breeze. Then Fernandez’s head snapped aside. A spear embedded where it had been.
Loft marveled at the sight. “Ooh. Could’ve died. Aren’t I your friend?”
“No.”
“How rude. Haha.”
Ignoring Loft cackling atop the wall, Fernandez eyed the spear’s origin. Through the Eye of Truth loomed massive figures approaching—four-legged demons wielding spears, axes, greatswords.
Fernandez gripped his sword hilt, assuming stance. Loft muttered at the demons.
“Botan, you dolt... You built the Einherjar to stop them...”
Soon, Loft clapped and shook his head, leaping from the wall. His form began fading.
“Where to?”
“Loft means ‘wind’ in our tongue, friend. And wind and death are everywhere...”
So, press on. If you fall, I’ll catch you. Loft vanished like scattering fog. Fernandez tsked, drawing his blade.
The warriors lined behind him stared blankly at his muttering. They couldn’t see Loft. Fernandez eyed their dumbstruck faces, chuckled, and said,
“All hands, battle ready.”
“Battle ready!!”
The warriors roared. Far off, the approaching demons accelerated. Press on? Planned that anyway. Fernandez thought, drawing steel. Gods—never met one actually helpful.