Chapter 187
Chapter 187
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 187
Chapter Title: Ragnarok (2)
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*
In that instant, a bizarre silence descended over the battlefield. The air held its breath, beasts concealed themselves, and not a single grass insect stirred beyond the safety of its nest.
-Whooo...
The sky let out a howl. Beyond the furious snowfall, a presence utterly divorced from mana or divinity began to take root. What in the world was happening? Every soul present froze solid, and the battle ground to a halt.
Even with this brief chance to catch their breath, the warriors grew only more taut with tension. It was unnatural. These were fighters who stared down demons or held the line alongside them—yet now they cowered before something otherworldly.
"Keh, kehhehe... Hahaha!"
Out of nowhere, the demons erupted in mad cackles. Laughter spreads like a plague, and soon the fiends were ripping their mouths wide, baring razor fangs as they howled with glee.
The battlefield echoed with their guffaws, the wind's moan, the patter of falling snow. Groans rose from wounded warriors spilling blood, mingled with the final, ragged gasps of the injured as they scooped up their own entrails.
"Aeren."
Gunnar edged toward her, eyes darting warily across the surroundings. Aeren stood drenched in gore, axe gripped tight as she fixed her gaze straight ahead.
The sight drew a short breath of admiration from Gunnar. In this moment, untouched by madness or bowed by terror—she was the only one on the field.
Gunnar had sharper "eyes" than most. It was a gift bordering on the supernatural, one that had snagged him back from the brink across countless brushes with death. Right now, it blared crimson warnings in every direction.
"We have to evade it. Stay here, and we're dead."
"...What do you see, Gunnar?"
"Nothing. I don't know. Can't see it. Can't see..."
Gunnar swallowed hard.
He scanned the area. The warriors trembled like frogs before a serpent, rigid with dread. Their faces screamed to drop their weapons, bury their heads, or bolt outright.
Yet none could move. An overwhelming presence spiderwebbed across the night sky, blanketing the heavens. Beneath it, they were nothing but frozen quarry.
Was there any path to survival? And even if there was, could they abandon this lot—the dying embers of northern civilization—and flee into some imagined future? Gunnar let out a whimpering whisper.
"No path to life... None in sight."
"Looks that way."
-Rumble...
The ground quaked. Like the beat of a heart—slow at first, then ever more violently! From that distant camp half-lost in darkness and blizzard, all the way to this frontline edge, it shook the vast plain...
"Ragnarok has begun."
To Gunnar, Aeren's words rang as plain, unvarnished truth.
*
-Rumble...
The earth groaned. Fernandez flexed his left fingers one by one, then tucked them into his coat to thaw his frozen hands. He crouched amid the underbrush, eyes locked on the enemy camp.
-The gate is open.
'Our odds?'
-Depends on Sadarkelia's condition.
'Let's pray, Feizashi. Like a proper priest.'
-To whom? Those damn useless gods?
'Hah, as if.'
Fernandez drew his greatsword and spun it once, resetting his grip. Red runes spelled "Dain" along the blade—pity, in the tongue of dragons. He planted a quick kiss on the silvery steel, then leaped down from the tree.
'To ourselves. Gods and demons alike can't fulfill our purpose for us.'
-Sounds good.
*
-Crack!
Zephys paused mid-swing, after cleaving a demon without a word, his nose wrinkling at some strange, acrid scent. A fiend lunged in the gap, fangs bared—only for Fabiano to shear its head clean off beside him.
-Splatter!
"Brother?"
"There's a smell."
The demons charging them had thinned out, bringing the command tent—their original target—perilously close. Three minutes? No, one would do. Enough to butcher the pressuring fiends and judge the tainted leadership.
But Zephys glared at the camp, eyes ablaze.
"Smells like demons."
"Demons are all around us. Of course..."
"No, bigger... Much bigger..."
-Rumble!!
In that instant, a colossal shock wave buckled even the Demonica, sweeping over them. The Inquisitors stamped their feet into the dirt, steadying their staggering brothers.
"Brother, you alright?"
Sarbelio was Enmagicka. Though clad in heavy armor under Demonica guard, his role skewed toward spellcraft and suppression. He stared at Brand, who steadied him, face etched with confusion.
"Brother."
"Speak, Felichiano brother. What's happening? What in hell is this?"
"Brother, kill me."
Confusion twisted Sarbelio's features, swiftly giving way to horror. His eyes gleamed—not with holy radiance or zeal, but a venomous emerald glow akin to hellfire mana.
"I see it, brother... I see. Snakes... the cosmos... flames approaching from afar... dying brothers, brothers, brother. The world burns, pantheon gates swing wide, angels strung on gibbets."
"Brother!"
[Your gods and you pathetic puppets will crumble helplessly beneath the apocalypse I forge.]
Sarbelio's eyes ignited, sockets sinking to bare bloodied, fleshy orbits. Blood poured from eyes, nose, mouth as a serpentine face emerged, forked tongue hissing.
[Yes. You fail, and your pointless resistance...]
-Slash.
A flash blinded the stunned Brand. A gauntleted arm shot forward like lightning, seizing the raving Sarbelio's head—then a greatsword clove his throat in the same breath.
"Br-Brother!"
"He's no brother now."
-Splurt.
Blood fountained. Zephys hurled the severed head to the ground. It rolled, tongue lolling long—then writhing snakelike, scales sprouting as it cackled on its own.
"Purification rites after the op's done. Brothers. As of now, we're under quasi-mental corruption protocol. Brothers. Every five steps, exchange voice codes."
"...Macto."
Holy Pantheon, grant us grace. Zephys spared one glance for Sarbelio's convulsing corpse on the dirt. No time to cross himself. No time to pray.
-Ruuuumble!!
It was a dark night. A garish, eerie night where colors swam like a melting oil painting in firelight. Zephys eyed the swelling gateway casting long shadows over him, looming gigantic.
The greatsword's weight, warhammer, armor—all grew oppressively heavy. The air cloyed, licking at his skin.
-Screeeee...
Less a door creaking open than beasts shrieking in unison. A sound to shatter civilian will, induce coma or madness—now it rent the air.
Zephys tightened his grip as the gate activated, demons spilling forth. The other Inquisitors did the same.
'Heaven has a place for us too, brothers.'
Recalling words to Beorn Shieldbane, Zephys raised his greatsword high and charged in silence.
*
-Screeeeeeeee!!
Fernandez hacked through the demon torrent like a salmon battling rapids, racing toward the screaming gate. Grunts, majors, even archfiends dotted the horde. Demidraco, Parasil, Chelases... Demons of every breed and rank rampaged out.
-Crush! Thud! Crraaack!
His greatsword danced like a blade slicing current. Fernandez's sense of time warped. Hell-mana corruption? Or the primal survival instinct of a mortal on death's edge?
Limits once blocked—by stalled talent, by divinity-clogged Demonica veins—now faded. Purpose clear, movements precise. Yet consciousness blurred.
-Swoosh.
He slid under a demon's outstretched arm, swinging up. Light flashed once; the fiend split and fell. Next. A demon's blade and spear aimed at his throat shattered into five pieces.
-Crack!
Left hand summoned another greatsword. Dual-wielding, Fernandez launched skyward like a fish cresting falls.
-Slash.
Next demon, then the next. His eyes read targets, incoming strikes, malice—and crucially, the battle's flow.
Thus, time twisted strangely for him. A tenth-second split into instants. Each micro-moment scanned by eye, answered by body—as he pressed forward. Ever forward.
-Boom!!
Yet across the field. His position. The fight's end. In this halted time, only he moved freely. A bit farther, and something would be within grasp.
Memories of that duel with Darian in the great wasteland resurfaced. That same temporal sense rousing his body anew. Amid northern chill winds, his cooled flesh heated; breath steamed from his lips.
An annoyance. Even exhalation fogged vision, grating. In utmost acuity, Fernandez surged ahead, ahead.
"Friend."
No time to reply. He carved demons wordlessly, advancing.
"Friend, Valhalla's gate stands open."
Loft matched his stride amid the fiends as if they were nothing, whispering in his ear.
"You did well. Damn well."
Each demon snagged by his blade tip birthed a blue soul that seeped into Loft. He toyed with them now and then, tickling or rolling them on fingertips, chuckling.
"Einherjar warriors... Our daggers reduced to demon fodder. Hounds of the end times."
-Splaaatter!
A hefty demon pressing him cleaved in two. Fernandez vaulted its corpse, kicking off to leap higher.
Loft watched, grinning.
"My Fenrir. You did well. Splendidly. My gamble hits again. Odin."
He turned to the distant battlefield. Demons would reach it soon; humans rigid under hell's aura would drown in the flood, slaughtered.
Oh no. Can't have that. Loft chuckled low, rising slowly skyward. Light as stepping stairs. One pace. Another.
"Odin, looks like my victory again."
The gate to fallen Valhalla yawned, Aesir power flooding him. Demons felled by Fernandez and Inquisitors—their souls scattered, sucked into Loft.
Gazing at the sky staining with hell-mana, Loft tsked and laughed. An apocalypse should be just like this.