Chapter 222
Chapter 222
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 222
Chapter Title: We Are the Rock (3)
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Night is. A night lush with stars and moon is a time of mystery. A time when spirits weep, and also when secret wisdom flows. Thus, night is the time of the mage.
Yet witch hunters, Inquisitors always hurl themselves into the deepest darkness of night. They have no allies save themselves. Even in the heart of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods' domain, they always assume the worst of the worst.
“Huuu…… Hoo…….”
The Saint Metal longsword dripping with blood hung limp. The blade that had pierced the mage's heart gleamed coldly under the moonlight. Pascal gasped for ragged breaths.
His lungs were damaged, letting air whistle through. Blood surged up his throat. He spat it out and coughed violently for a long while. With trembling hands, Pascal shoved the mage away. The mage's body rolled limply across the ground.
Even so, the skeletons encircling him did not vanish. He had realized it midway through the battle. This mage was not the mastermind behind the incident from the start.
“Court Mage Antaen. This tribunal sentences you to death.”
“Krk, kuh, kekeke.”
The identity of the robed mage who had bombarded the battlefield was Antaen. Pascal scowled as he stared at the chuckling Antaen. With blood-soaked hands, he pointed at the sky beyond Pascal's head.
“Under that night sky, all are sinners. Pronounce the death sentence as payment for everyone's sins.”
“May the Pantheon bless us.”
-Kwachik.
He twisted the blade and yanked it free. The old mage's body crumpled to the ground. Pascal's mind was a whirlwind. Where had it all gone wrong? The discovery and denunciation of heresy had happened almost simultaneously. Someone had orchestrated a plot.
Who dared? Who dared to provoke an Inquisitor with black mages and heretics? Pascal thought as he slashed at the approaching skeletons with shaking hands.
The Empire. Court Mage Antaen's origin was the Empire's capital. And the noble who had reported the heresy was an imperial count. Was it a scheme against the Elector? To dare drag the Church into their own nation's politics?
-Kwachik!
The blade that smashed skeletons and cleaved spirits trembled but did not dull. Still sharp. Still keen. Pascal crushed a spirit's skull and panted.
“Saint…… Brother……!”
With breath that seemed ready to snap, Pascal cried out from the heart, vomiting blood. His plan. His advice to ignore the Empire's report. He had mentioned secret contact with the Pope. Then, he must have been investigating this matter.
I was the fool. I got in the way. Pascal bit his lip. He had thought the strange words were incitement, but it was he who had been misled. He had to correct his mistake.
His physical limits were near. But his will's limits were not yet. Where had it gone wrong? Worrying about that now was too late. Where to start fixing it. That was what he needed to ponder now.
From where, whom, and how.
To burn them.
Witches, heretics, demons……. If they used the Church for petty worldly affairs, then they were heretics themselves.
Crushing skeletons, he began to run as fast as he could. Not toward the safe inner lines guarded by the duke's forces. Toward the duke's palace.
* * *
Kirhas wrinkled her nose, focusing intently. What was this smell? In truth, knights on the battlefield always carried the unique body odor of those sweating and aroused by excitement, and in this forward outpost, it was hard to find anyone who didn't, so relying on scent quickly hit its limits.
Everyone reeked pungently. Tension, excitement, fear……. The smell unique to battlefields. No, the smell of war. Sharp killing intent mixed with scorching fury.
Yet amid it all, a familiar scent wafted. Familiar somehow. A scent she felt she had smelled before……. If smells had colors, this one was purple. That was the vibe.
‘Where did I smell this? What is it?’
In truth, she was doing nothing more than maintaining a stern expression, lounging lazily in her chair, and watching the battle unfold. How she longed to leap into the front lines and rampage, but Fernandez's orders prioritized the duke's safety over victory in battle.
Thus, she had volunteered as bodyguard. Self-deprecating as it sounded, she was trying to find her role in this chaotic battlefield's crevices. At least a way to pass the time.
This battle would end at dawn anyway. As long as the duke survived unscathed until then, it was their victory. Her master had said so, and she had never doubted him.
‘Unpleasant smell……. Hmm……. Sea. Hmm, no. Not the sea……. Something closer…… closer…….’
A sticky scent. Mixed with fishiness. Close to the smell of iron. Iron could be found anywhere on the battlefield, and blood smelled much like iron-fishiness, making it easy to miss.
What smell was it? What……
‘Melisildur's Dawn.’
Hearing talk of victory with the sun's rise brought that magic to mind. The moment miraculous flash swept the harbor.
Magic? Harbor? Why did those words pop up suddenly…….
‘Elf smell?’
Elves smelled of sea fishiness. The salty tang unique to harbors. Salty dispositions too. Nitpicky, grumbling, yet arrogant to boot. Unpleasant folk. Pointy-ears!
‘Hmm. Similar, but not quite…….’
Not elf smell. More sinister. Similar, both salty. Fishy, but closer to iron-fishiness…….
‘Iron-fishiness is like blood smell.’
Blood smell. Iron-fishiness. Similar to elves. Harbor. Melisildur's Dawn. Dragon……? No, Abel smelled good. Not dragon.
“Vampire!!”
Kirhas screamed and leaped to her feet. The knights around her, checking their gear to head back to battle, jumped in alarm. Kirhas's eyes rapidly scanned the surroundings. Who? Where?
And in one corner. Her eyes met those of a knight staring at her. Yellow pupils glinted briefly beneath his visor.
“Found you!”
Kirhas's face twisted terrifyingly. Sticky killing intent coiled around her body. The empress of the hunt, Cardan's chosen great chieftain. Her true nature was revealing itself.
A face she could never show Fernandez. The instinct that ignited upon finding the trail of prey. Veins bulging, claws sharpening, every muscle taut like a bowstring, aiming for the quarry.
From the dimension of Mumto to here. The instinct of the chosen, perfected Kirhas Hearttaker, who had crossed with Cardan's divinity, awakened—
“Damn it.”
Seeing that, the vampire sighed shortly. The disguise had been perfect. Even an Inquisitor wouldn't have detected his presence. How, just how did she know? The vampire's deliberation was brief.
-Tat!
Like lightning, Kirhas's body lunged. Grabbing her sword hilt mid-leap, she struck in one blow.
-Kang!
The ground shattered as if clawed by a beast. The vampire instantly fled his spot, dashing somewhere.
“Wh-what is this—!”
“Out of the way! The duke's in danger!”
Flustered knights sprang up. Kirhas slipped through those trying to block her, chasing the vampire vanishing into the darkness. The direction he fled…… the rear lines. Where the duke was.
* * *
The duke's palace had history entwined with Libye's. Their ancestors were the ancient clan chiefs who first named Libye and settled there, and that clan had endured and prospered into modern Libye.
Thus, the historical significance of the duke's palace equated to all of Libye. Ancient traditions, long history. Authority and respect lay not in bloodlines, but in the walls piled up by those bloodlines.
And at this moment, the duke's palace was crumbling. The sturdy inner citadel, which had never once fallen to invaders across eons, was exploding.
-Kugugugugu!!
Fernandez ran along the collapsing banquet hall wall, forming hand seals. Kwadeuk! As the spells entangled, wedges slammed in. Seven attack spells targeting him crumbled simultaneously.
-Kwang!
Using falling bricks and pillars as footholds, he leaped, seeking the next perch. He couldn't stop for even a moment. At this point, with Manderson-turned-demon demolishing the duke's palace with spells, stopping meant burial under rubble and death.
And at the same time, he had to find her.
‘Manderson's spells are protecting someone.’
No need to wonder who. Amid the collapsing building, Manderson himself wasn't avoiding debris. Who he sought to protect was obvious.
No demon or heretic could emerge publicly without erasing society's foundations entirely. To gain outward status, they had to parasitize somewhere.
And that host. The beautiful woman holding Manderson's desires. Noble blood, shining talent. Rene Phillipa. Manderson planned to devour this region through marriage to her after dealing with Fernandez and completing plans with the imperial court.
In that case, Rene Phillipa had to appear publicly. As an elector's pawn in imperial politics, and as a puppet ruler over the people. She had to be unscathed, flawless in public view.
Thus, the protective spells on Rene Phillipa signified Manderson's rationality. He didn't know how long it would last. But at least while he was rational, he had to extract and protect her. The moment Manderson snapped and abandoned protection for attack, she would be crushed under this rubble as a corpse.
-Kwarurung!
Bricks flew on their own like arrows, pouring down. Like trebuchet shot. Each one's physical impact was too ferocious for human flesh to withstand.
-Kang!
But he parried. Each swing overloaded his muscles massively, but it wasn't impossible. Strength against strength. Sword tip batting away cascading bricks, forward. Forward!
-Kwajik, kwajik, kwajijik!!
And with his other hand, hand seals. By the Bronze Throne's reserves, he was near his limit. Few spells left. Thus, only for Hajoo. He operated the Bronze Throne solely to drive ma-force wedges.
Inserting ma-force wedges to disrupt spell flows was a technique leagues beyond mere casting. No ordinary mage could do it while leaping and swinging a sword.
Thus, it bordered on acrobatics. Fernandez keenly felt Manderson's bewilderment. Fighting like a warrior, countering like a veteran mage, yet not using attack spells.
“Are you toying with me now!!”
He trampled Manderson's pride. A mage of this caliber could surely overpower him with spells—stronger, deadlier ones. Yet this bastard, this puny human. Just swinging a sword to bat bricks, dodging about, circling him playfully.
“Hardly. I always give my all.”
“You…… You bastard!!”
-Kwang!
Mana surged, a spirit's form rising. In that instant, everything around the spirit rotted rapidly to dust, mold sprouting, spores blooming. Demon of decay.
Fernandez twisted his body, changing direction, swiftly forming seals. Before the decay demon fully manifested, blue lightning grazed its form, crumbling it to powder.
Another spell counter. Manderson coughed up backlash from the forced disassembly, raging. Every high spell was inevitably wedged.
Near-artistic counterspell. Even he couldn't attempt such instantaneous, precise ma-force insertion at peak mental condition.
Thus, he resorted to raw mana volume for crude physical tricks. Projecting mana to lift bricks and burst buildings was effortless.
Because of that, Fernandez bit his lip, swinging his sword relentlessly.
‘Damn it, if you're a mage, use magic!’
-Says the sword-wielding mage—hilarious.
‘No, then just swing the sword! Fighting like some street telekinetic kills the romance of magic battles.’
-How far along?
‘75%!’
Dispersing the foe's attention, without overwhelming victory, securing Rene Phillipa's safety, draining his power—the process now at 75%.