Chapter 223
Chapter 223
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 223
Chapter Title: We Are the Rock (4)
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A little more. Fernandez thought as he drove wedges into the gaps between the rampant mana surging everywhere. Like pounding in stakes. The wedges he inserted—formless chunks of mana—were disrupting the complex spells, sprouting up haphazardly.
One by one, without fail, in his wake. Jagged remnants lingered, crackling on their own. As Fernandez dashed through the crumbling interior of the building, he was sketching a kind of map in his mind.
"You vulture!!"
-Kwaaaang!
The map updated. Part of the building exploded, bricks raining down. He wedged one in amid the debris and kept running. Fernandez's map wasn't flat. It was a complex diagram projecting three-dimensional space.
The path he'd taken, the spot where Rene Philippa was likely imprisoned, the collapsing building's wreckage—all reflected in real time. The three-dimensional diagram shifted bit by bit in his head.
And at its center was Manderson. Half-demon now, Manderson writhed with glowing green muscles, lashing out everywhere. His mind was fading. From rage, or hellish mana's corruption.
'Foolish bastard.'
Fernandez clicked his tongue briefly. Handling hellish mana required utmost care—meticulous spells, protective rituals, and gear. Contracting with a demon outright and wielding its power like this? It would only bring his own doom.
Manderson wasn't stupid. At least, not the Manderson Fernandez remembered. Timid and passive, but sharp and capable. A promising mage at the academy's fringes.
"You're expelled, Manderson."
Fernandez smirked and turned his head. With a thud, a cluster of bricks from the outer wall grazed his ear and smashed into the floor.
"How long do you plan to hop around like a rabbit! Come at me! Fight me, I say! This castle is mine. Stop messing up the palace!!"
"That's exactly what you're doing."
Delirious now, he spoke as if he were already the duke. Fernandez tsked, raised his greatsword, and swung at the air. The incoming bricks collided with the blade and ricocheted toward the bastard's head.
"Grk!!"
Manderson clutched his head, staggering from the sudden hit. Soon his eyes blazed with rage and madness.
"Kraaaah!!"
-Ku-gu-gu-gu-gung!
The whole building shook. The archduke's palace had already lost at least three upper floors. Walls barely held by mana crumbled, chunks floating into the air.
The walls no longer held any fixed shape. One by one, they hovered in the air like solitary stone bridges. Fernandez kicked off a wall to the next, grabbed a pillar and leaped to the next foothold, swinging his sword nonstop.
'90%.'
Seizing the moment Manderson's reason faltered from the taunt, Fernandez leaped to the highest floating wall. Gripping his sword reverse—
-It's not quite ready yet.
'Any longer, and Manderson abandons Rene. That'd be our strategic loss.'
-A gamble.
'Our whole lives have been gambles with ourselves on the line.'
This was just more of the same. Fernandez leaped skyward, greatsword point down. Manderson's burning eyes tracked him. His mouth opened, fangs grinding with a crunch. He burst into laughter.
"Got you at last!"
Unlike running on the ground, a falling arc in midair couldn't change course. Predict the trajectory, and crushing this vulture was child's play!
Manderson laughed in ecstasy, swinging his arm. The thick mana in the air coalesced, taking form. Raw power. Not intricate spellwork—just overwhelming mass!
Mana wedges would be useless then. He'd grant the bastard's technique was superb. Manderson smirked. But a mortal. Just human flesh. The brutish pressure of compacted mana far exceeded an industrial press. No human body could withstand it!
"It's over!!"
"Indeed it is."
Their gazes crossed, their words clashed. Just before the sword pierced Manderson's forehead, his mana crushed in from both sides, warping space.
Expecting a burst of gore, Manderson cackled with arms spread wide. But.
The mana halted.
"Wh-what....... What the hell......"
"Should've checked your surroundings."
-Tak.
Fernandez stepped onto Manderson's shoulder. The demonization had bloated him enough that both feet fit with balance to spare.
Moonlight poured through the ruined roof. The dark greatsword gleamed under it. Manderson stared blankly at the blade. At the faint silhouette of Fernandez beyond it.
And those darkly glowing eyes.
"Mana wedges...... You made a ritual out of mana wedges......"
"This technique was yours originally, Manderson."
Fernandez paused the blade and spoke. Drive wedges to sever enemy spells, then link them into a grand magic circle.
Mana wedges—mere wedges of mana, pure noise with no data. Jam them into the frailest gaps of an enemy's ritual to scramble its info structure and dismantle the spell.
Counterspell. Advanced technique requiring full grasp of the foe's construction.
-Magic circles etch mana circuits onto objects to weave rituals.
'And mana circuits are aggregates of condensed mana lines.'
So link the wedges—blank mana clumps—use them as stakes for a massive ritual, filling gaps with the enemy's own spells.
Back then, Manderson called it 'Jack'. Timid naming, fitting him. Feizashi would've dubbed it 'Feizashi's Hijack' and made it his signature.
It deserved as much. Manderson of the Corpse Tower. Timid but diligent and clever. He wielded complex battle magic—shattering enemy spells into fragments, reassembling them to his taste.
"Wh-what's...... the spell's name......?"
"Manderson's Hijack."
"Ha...... I never made any such spell."
"That's why you're lucky. Facing future-you would've been trickier."
"Your name?"
"Feizashi. Feizashi Wildcast."
Fernandez watched Manderson's body crumble from the hijack backlash. Demonic muscles and bones dissolved, revealing pale nudity beneath.
A gaunt, youthful face untouched by years. Necromancy had aged his flesh rapidly, but at death's door, it was pristine, unmarred.
Above it, Fernandez lowered the greatsword. The blade sliced into the withered chest. Moonlight danced on the dark steel. Just above the grip, crooked letters gleamed: Da-in, compassion.
"Holy Pantheon, grant your blessing."
-Hwaruk.
The hijacked spell dispersed slowly, the black halo behind Fernandez's head fading. The bronze throne hit its limit. Mana circulation stopped. Manderson sensed it and smirked. A bit longer, and he'd have won? Too hesitant?
"Damn, what a letdown."
-Kwajik!
The greatsword cleaved his heart. Fernandez stood a moment, blade embedded, head bowed. Hair fell, tickling his cheek. Silently, he drew the rosary from his swordbelt.
Chalak, chains clinked clearly. The key-sword seal dangled long from it.
"Rest in peace."
-Even if we hadn't accelerated his fall, he was a black mage. We had to kill him anyway.
'No such thing as fate in the future.'
-You think even this guy can be saved? That's not mercy—it's hypocrisy.
'Hypocrisy's always better than cruelty, Feizashi.'
Exhausted. The sprint from the wasteland, the immediate brutal fight—Fernandez felt his limits. Even Demonica weren't infinite. Fighting sleepless for three days was superhuman, but finite.
Fernandez sighed deeply, dusted off, and stood. No time to rest. He'd never settled in life, nor would he now. He cracked his neck, surveyed around.
Their eyes met.
"......Brother."
Pascal leaned against the wall on the landing. Not that he'd fooled Demonica senses. The sudden fatigue as mana dispersed had blinded him to it.
Pascal looked grave. Blood welled between ribs. Fernandez approached first, checked the wound. Serious, but treatable. To a priest or doctor...
"What are you, really?"
Pascal grabbed Fernandez mid-examination. Blood reflux reddened his eyes. He coughed, stared hollowly.
"I cannot say."
"If you heal me, I'll report your black magic use to the Church. Beyond cause or Church will—it's my duty."
"I know."
"And still heal me?"
Fernandez paused, met Pascal's gaze. Heal him? Black magic reported—what then? Turn Church hostile while saving archangels? Would they believe him?
No. The Church were realists. The Inquisition charged fallen inquisitors same as heretics. No context, just results. Just 'heretic' or not.
From that view, black magic was clearest proof. They'd seen the burning black halo. Even Beorn couldn't shield him.
"Is your intent pure, brother?"
"......Pardon?"
The utmost respect a rigid inquisitor could muster.
"You've slain wasteland demons, now thwarting imperial rot on Church orders. I thought you used by heretics—turns out I was. Brother, I saw you hunt demons with black magic. Can one commit evil to vanquish greater evil? All inquisitors ponder it...... Cough!"
Pascal spat bloody flecks. Meat chunks—gruesome wound sign. Trembling hand wiped his mouth. Commit evil to purge evil? Sacrifice innocents to kill villains—is that just?
Sacrifice without consent—is it sacrifice? Or same as demon-worshippers' 'offerings'?
Inquisitors never shared such doubts. Personal burden alone. So Pascal thought.
If good requires sacrifice inevitably. Can a saint using demonic methods to hunt demons be tolerated?
By Holy Pantheon's law, rank apostasy. But personally, hard to judge.
So Pascal wiped blood, slumped to the floor. Trembling hand offered his key-sword rosary, engraved with his name. Fernandez took the bloodied rosary.
"If evil acts build greater good. If a world by soiled hands rests safe under Holy Pantheon....... Lord, gladly so. Brother, 'Seek not peace.'"
"'Not you, but my sheep.'"
"'You are the shepherd dog guarding the flock, standing before the wolf. We bring not peace, but the sword.' Brother, kill me and burn my corpse."
"Brother Pascal."
"If I live, this goes to the Church. Can you handle after?"
"Brother......"
"So kill me. I can't shirk duty. End it with your hand, that I sleep in duty. And someday at the crossroads. Of fall and apostasy, remember my blood."
With that, Pascal bared his throat. For a clean stroke. Fernandez raised his sword. Just before striking. He closed eyes, whispered.
"May Heaven have a place for you, brother."
"But my life shall be bedrock of the bright world."
"Holy Pantheon, grant your blessing."
-Kwajik!
The blade sliced air. The straight greatsword's strike felt no recoil from flesh. Just a faint, thread-thin weight of life.
-Fernandez.
'Quiet, for now.'
Fernandez warned coldly, poured oil on Pascal's body. Flames rose soon. The corpse would look battle-damaged. Erasing traces was a black mage's specialty—Fernandez an expert.
Finishing, he stumbled briefly, then steadied and pressed on silently.