Chapter 182
Chapter 182
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 182
Chapter Title: On the Border Between Infiltration and Breakthrough (2)
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*
In the face of the overwhelming presence emanating from the white-skinned demon, the warriors stood frozen like stones, staring rigidly at him. Even though they had joined Hazat Kazal's legion and this wasn't their first time seeing a demon, this one's aura surpassed that of an ordinary fiend.
Just breathing the same air as the demon stirred a sticky unease and terror in their hearts—or rage, or self-loathing, or baseless hatred.
"Huuuh..."
Thick saliva bubbled from one warrior's mouth. Foam formed as he widened his eyes and trembled violently. Reflexively gripping his axe, he bellowed at the demon.
"I'll spare one, spare one of you, that's what I'm saying?"
[At least one of you humans shows some spirit. Very well. I shall definitely spare one. This is the decree of I, Akarizis, Herald of Depravity.]
"G-Good!"
The warrior swung his axe on instinct. In that instant, another axe hooked onto it like a hoe, deflecting his weapon.
-Clang!
"Get a grip, Randall! You idiot!"
Barrein snarled at the dazed warrior whose eyes were still wide. The demon clapped at the sight. Yes, this was it. False hope was slithering across the entire camp.
In times like these, it was better to provoke rather than hesitate. They needed to learn there was no such thing as choice anyway.
[Let me make your resolve a bit easier.]
-Whoosh... Crunch!
With those words, the demon suddenly whipped his arm. His white-skinned arm, veined with bulging black lines, vanished from sight for a moment before piercing the heart of the warrior in the front row.
"Kuh, heuk!"
No one among them had seen the demon's attack. Seeing him casually tear through a seasoned warrior's chest without changing his stance, the clan warriors froze like statues.
Death, stark and vivid, mocked them in physical form. The demon slowly extended his long, purple tongue to lick the blood tangled on his fingertips.
[The feeling of hope dying... it's truly sweet.]
"Looks like it."
At that moment, a low growl, like that of a beast, rumbled from behind the demon. He widened his eyes and slowly turned his head.
-Whoosh.
A wind carrying flecks of snow swirled across the barren hill. Beyond the camp's wooden palisade, at the demon's back— from the southern forest—a man and a woman approached him.
Their tattered cloaks flapped in the wind. The young man gripped a greatsword nearly as tall as himself at an angle, glaring at the demon.
"Bring your hope, demon. I want to taste that sweetness too."
[Who are you?]
"Thus, I am the spear of judgment."
-Snap.
The dry snap of fingers echoed. The young man's bandage-wrapped arm emerged from his cloak, pointing skyward. And soon—
-Krarung!
Lightning crashed down, slamming into where the demon stood. Caught off guard, unable to sense the flow of mana, the demon took the bolt full force.
Like an improvised lightning rod, his body stiffened from the surprise attack, and the overflowing current ignited the dry palisade, spreading rapidly.
-Fwoosh.
The flames swelled in an instant. The palisade encircling the camp blazed uniformly, forming a barrier of fire. Unaffected by natural flames, the demon calmly perched atop it and swung his arm.
-Piiiing!
The sound of air tearing followed his arm. A strike faster than sound. Even a trained warrior would struggle to react to such speed—not that an ordinary person could, anyway. Even one who could spot and deflect arrows.
It was a matter of familiarity. A split-second moment wasn't just about reflexes; life experience shaped a different sense of time.
Someone from a culture that had never seen anything faster than arrows couldn't easily perceive faster entities, even with sufficient ability.
In contrast, Demonica possessed dynamic vision to track the tip of their own thrown dagger to the centimeter. Ability, experience, even environment—all ample—
-Whoosh!
That "instant" carved from another's split-second. Divided into seconds, then tenths, hundredths, then sixtieths, sixtieths of those. In extreme tension, a Demonica's biological perception could sense even the breath of muscle fibers.
The black-nailed fingertips, sharp as spearheads, descended toward Fernandez's chest. The moment he perceived the strike, the greatsword in his grip twisted, angling minimally to deflect the assault.
Like magnets repelling, the demon's claws scraped along the blade and veered away. Already anticipating this, Fernandez didn't even assume a defensive posture.
-Sring.
As he adjusted the greatsword's angle, his left hand moved from his sleeve, drawing a throwing dagger. The moment honed technique shone through dozens, hundreds of repetitions.
-Clang!
By the time claws scraped the blade and missed, the dagger was already gone from his hand. Thrown on release, no need to aim. The target appeared palm-sized from afar, but still distant.
To him, that distance was no more than a giant like Altbert's.
-Boom!
The force and speed were anything but ordinary, making the impact more explosion than strike. The dagger buried to the hilt in the demon's chest sent it flying beyond the palisade.
-Tat.
"Break the entrance and follow!"
"Got it!"
Fernandez barked at Abel behind him and charged. His thighs flexed, then his whole body propelled forward in a running leap. He kicked off the building-sized palisade once and vaulted over.
"Kugh! Who... who are you?!"
"Thus, I am the shield of humanity."
He spun in midair, twirling the sword to right himself. The demon struggled to grasp and pull the dagger from its chest. Not mere impact. A full saint-metal forged throwing dagger—the pinnacle of Inquisition Enmagicka craftsmanship.
Saint metal was poison to demons and their followers. Clutching the blackened, smoldering wound, the demon glared at the descending Fernandez.
[Heretic... Inquisitor!!]
"Thus, deem me your end."
-Kwaaaang!!
With the greatsword poised like a nail, Fernandez plummeted onto the demon. The blade crushed its chest and gut into pulp. The demon foamed, slowly melting away.
Fernandez knelt on one knee atop the mangled corpse and chuckled faintly. A black mage's jest from his past life. Reciting scripture while fighting foes.
Back then, his enemies were mostly priests, grudge-filled faithful, or righteous heroes. Nothing insulted them more than a black mage quoting scripture. His utmost mockery.
Silence blanketed the area. The sudden stranger butchering the demon as swiftly as he appeared. Lightning from a clear sky, flames engulfing all—it was surreal.
The man who had whispered something in the demon's ear slowly rose. Sheathing his greatsword with a flourish, he turned.
When familiar northern tongue flowed from his lips, tension among the warriors eased somewhat. At least he was comprehensible. Human? Uncertain.
"You're the leader?"
"You could say that, say so. Who are you?"
"Reinforcements for Hazat Falen. Perfect timing. Lucky."
Fernandez laughed, back to the thudding palisade. Flames grew fiercer, belching acrid smoke.
"This spot'll be found soon. Move. Unless you wanna get cremated amicably here."
-Kwaang!
A corner of the palisade collapsed, air rushing in to fan the blaze. Abel, who had carved a path through fire, stood at Fernandez's back. He turned and walked the trail she made.
The warriors, stunned by the sudden events, trailed dazedly behind.
*
Snow blanketed the forest clearing, serene and still. A place Fernandez would never approach normally—impossible to erase traces. But now, leaving and erasing them mattered little.
He led the warriors silently into the clearing. Thoughts burned hot, then cold, in his mind.
"Why?"
Abel spoke softly, matching his stride.
"Why what?"
"Why save them? Easy enough, but our mission wasn't infiltration? Sneak past enemies, wake Einherjar warriors intact?"
"Well, does the reason matter?"
"It does."
Abel gazed steadily at Fernandez. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them.
"Reconnaissance."
"Reconnaissance?"
"If infighting erupts among enemies, grasp the cause. Erik's foes are our allies. These are potential allies on a grand scale."
"Finding potential allies and weakening foes is Kirhas's mission."
"...Fine. Understood."
Fernandez halted. Unable to follow their continental common tongue, the clan warriors stopped fearfully. To them, the inscrutable stranger had merely shifted from demon to human guise—no great difference.
He eyed their state. Warriors from a poor minor clan, incorporated into Erik's legion for survival. Singed hair and clothes from escaping the inferno.
"...I wanted to stop it."
"The demon massacring them?"
"No. Not that. I didn't want them killing their own children."
His face flushed hot. He could never get used to such talk. Facing Abel's narrowed eyes, Fernandez feigned stoicism.
"Ending your own child's life with your hands—even out of mercy—is tragedy enough. The world is hellish already, but that parent's life becomes worse."
From that moment to their death. A parent who slays their child lives in hell. He spoke from experience—a calm testimony.
Thus, his words rang true. Fernandez addressed Abel, himself, not just Feizashi but himself.
A common tragedy. Overlaying himself upon it was trauma-fueled hallucination, nothing more or less. Not kindness or morals—just selfish whim. He didn't want to see it.
Yet Abel's eyes warmed. Perhaps heated.
"Ah, Fernandez."
"Not the time for that."
"You... you're..."
Abel quietly clasped hands to her chest. Her gaze pierced all, beholding him.
"You've become someone who can weep for a child fallen by the roadside."
"Misunderstanding."
"Hasn't been long since I knew you, but you're shining brighter with time."
"Trying to shame me to death?"
Fernandez sighed deeply, cradling his forehead. Feizashi's voice, muffled in embarrassment, whispered in his ear.
-Damn it! Let's kill that wench.
'Please, shut up for once.'
*
[Southern gods' playthings, eh.]
Bard chuckled at the frail skull kneeling before him. It clattered its teeth, bowing. Countless candles burned around him.
[Fine. No immediate change. What says Jörmungandr?]
"M-Master rages at this affair."
[Naturally. Southern pantheon's soldiers must be quaking.]
Bard shrugged. He lounged on a brass throne adorned with iridescent metals and gems, chin propped.
[Go. Tell Jörmungandr not to worry, just wait. Plan unchanged. This tedious play ends before winter's close.]
Bard crooked a finger. Blood at the skull's feet boiled up. Candles burned purple as the skull dissolved into smoke. A soul's pyre crackled.
To converse with slumbering Jörmungandr in the grand seal required a soul's worth to pierce even a needle's gap. Trivial. Humans were the material world's most common sacrifice.
Even tiny holes tear cloth eventually under myriad needles. Efficiency, speed—that alone mattered.
Thus, Jörmungandr would manifest by war's end. Irrevocable divine prophecy.
Bard waved indifferently. Warriors dragged in a trembling man, forcing him to kneel in blood. With practiced butcher's strokes, they slit his throat.
Blood pooled. His body convulsed; candles flared emerald.
[Now, let's ignite Ragnarok.]
Ripping the man's chest birthed a pale demon. Next sacrifice, then next. Exchanging useless for useful—he was no different from a savvy merchant.
Human souls: among the material world's most common resources, paradoxically most useful. Bard delighted in this treasure chest of a world.
Certainty it would be his. Unchangeable prophecy of gods—the sole fuel warming his bland existence.