Chapter 357
Chapter 357
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 357
Chapter Title: Hunters and Plunderers (3)
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“Not her either. Get rid of her.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Sigismund nodded slightly and sank back into his chair. Ever since receiving baptism, his body no longer knew fatigue, but his mind was another story—weariness piled up there regardless.
He let out a long sigh and rubbed his forehead.
“Your Highness, Lord Pavilos requests a private audience.”
“Let him in.”
Sigismund rolled the wineglass in his hand as he gazed beyond the tent. Soon the flap lifted, revealing a familiar face.
“Any progress?”
“We succeeded in luring out Shrike, but tracking the remnants has failed, Your Highness.”
“How is that even possible? The Fairn Hunting School couldn’t track that many?”
“They’re Inquisitors, Your Highness. Hunters are experts at following prey’s trails by nature. And those Inquisitors are no slouches when it comes to covering theirs.”
“I didn’t summon you here to listen to excuses.”
“My apologies, Your Highness.”
Sigismund clicked his tongue and downed his drink. Karl seemed to glance at him slyly before bowing his head with a brief smile. He quickly composed himself and continued his report.
“But fear not, Your Highness. They’ll never escape this kingdom.”
“Didn’t they scatter into the east and north over the Dragonspine Mountains? The east might be one thing, but head a bit further north and you’ve got Dane and Leshan. If they’ve got any brains, wouldn’t they bolt that way?”
“Goldenbug’s bats are scouring the area. If we spot them... the hunt won’t be difficult.”
“I’ve already ordered Lord Wolfstal to assist you. If you find them, don’t engage rashly—bring the Griffin Knights and take them down. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Karl bowed deeply once more and withdrew. As he turned to leave, a dark smile played on his lips. The tent flap fell, and he glanced up at the night sky, muttering under his breath.
“Fools.”
The prince was a fool drunk on power. A wretch cloaking base desires in the guise of ambition for self-consolation, wasting time in the heart of the battlefield with women, fine liquor, and gold. Useful only as a figurehead, nothing more.
Inquisitors were fools who mistook fanaticism for justice. If there was one belief in this world that had killed the most humans, it was religion. They claimed to prevent massacres by demons, yet invoked massacres of their own to eradicate even a single devil.
Shrike. A fool who preached humanity needed neither gods nor demons, yet danced as puppet to both. A pathetic fool sunk by his own contradictions. Whether his drift ended in wreck or voyage would be delightful entertainment.
Eternal dominion under his lord. True dominion over this world drew near. Sigismund was merely a stepping stone. The Crimson King would descend, the world would burn eternally, and upon its ashes, the Millennium Kingdom would rise.
All timed to that one man who was no fool. He would become the symbol. The emblem of the old era’s end. The Crimson King looked down upon it all.
“Mac to.”
Karl sneered and made the sign of the cross.
* * *
A thick autumn rain poured over the stormy Northern Sea. Fernandez stood endlessly watching the foam rise where waves crashed against the hull.
-Creeeak!
The keel groaned as it crested and twisted through the swells. The imperial merchant ship, departed from Gurr, sailed straight toward the east across the deep Northern Sea.
Aeren’s northern warriors would be resting inside the fleet’s various ships. The word “rest” felt oddly mismatched with them. Fernandez toyed with the chilled hilt of his sword, staring out at the sea.
He was no stranger to the ocean. Yet the seas etched in his memory were mostly nightmarish storms, especially out here in the Northern Sea.
The fierce clash with House Franzrit. The battle against the Malern royal family. Brutal firefights and desperate struggles for life. Revisiting those memories set his heart pounding wildly.
His knuckles twitched. No fight had ever been easy; some had even cost lives. Strangely, though, he missed that razor-thin margin. The gap between life and death.
“Damn it all.”
Fernandez clicked his tongue sharply. From the moment divinity began to take root, one’s existence gradually shed material limits, drifting toward the realm of concepts. A blessing and a curse. The body surpassed mortal bounds, but much was lost in trade.
Emotions, for one. The past grew vivid, while the present dulled. Memories dwelled in concepts, so recollections sharpened, but real-time feelings numbed.
A rift born of uneven growth: spirit and nature advanced, but soul and vitality—tethered to flesh—lagged. Thus, emotions toward the present faded.
A common issue when conversing with highly divine transcendents. To mortals, immortals seemed “twisted.” Their emotional makeup strayed far from the norm—petty and childish fixations, or incomprehensible detachment. Fernandez gazed at the dim night sky and smiled bitterly.
The rainy night sea blurred boundaries. The horizon smeared; black waters and slate skies churned together. No colors existed amid it. Only the white foam of waves, the light-devouring black of the deep. Nothing more.
Just like him now. Fernandez fiddled with the cold hilt. He missed Feizashi’s voice. In moments like this, the man would appear suddenly, offering quiet comfort.
It might sound ridiculous, but like a father. Bearing an old man’s emotions fully, he’d chide Fernandez’s youthful hot-blooded impulses at times, guide him at others, advancing together.
“Driving me mad.”
Fernandez gripped the hilt tight and laughed. Such narcissism bordered on excess. Seeing oneself as one’s own father might signal early madness.
-Shing.
The greatsword slid free. Wind coiled around its thick blade, doubling its weight. Or perhaps the heaviness was in his heart. Fernandez swung it loosely, retracted swiftly, loosening up.
Warmth returned to his chilled body. Thump, thump. His heart raced. Recalling old foes, he laid the blade flat and slashed long.
-Whoosh!
The cool slice through empty air dissatisfied. A shaken mind? Heavy wind? The tip’s arc wobbled. So, again.
-Whoosh!!
Better than the first. At that point, Fernandez paused, thinking back to when his battles began. Returning to Cerned Barony, slaying his half-brothers and uncle.
Could he forgive them then? He’d excused it as an experiment, but it was really long-harbored vengeance. Childish payback for youthful abuse and humiliation. No feelings remained for them now. If—if he returned to that day. Could he forgive?
“Of course.”
The doubt lasted an instant. Forgiveness? Laughable. That “childhood” revenge was a distant half-century past; they were too insignificant to warrant his blade.
-Whoooosh!
Sever it. Raise the tip once more. Fairn’s Merlinport. His second battle. Swinging while recalling his master, Gian-Kel. The keen edge swept raindrops in an arc—
-Splash!
For a moment, rainwater swept across the void like ink. Fernandez exhaled shortly, sinking into memory. Third battle. The next. And the next...
From opening his eyes in that remote forest outside Cerned Barony to now. Revisiting every fight, every brush with death, step by step.
-Kiiing...
If, then, such words piled up. The blade quivered, channeling his heart. At some point, a hallucination rose—a voice from his past life.
“I regret it. Aria. I regret it.”
The low sob of an old wizard who’d lived without regrets, uttered at his final breath, echoed endlessly in his ears.
-Clang. The blade bit into the deck, trembling. Fernandez hunched, gripping the hilt, gasping. Not bodily fatigue, but emotional torrent. As present feelings thinned, past memories thickened.
How much time passed? Fernandez realized rain no longer touched his head. Yet the deck still poured.
Tch. He straightened with a tongue-click. Emotions flared—had he missed the footsteps approaching from behind?
“Finally looking this way.”
“It’s late.”
“That’s what I wanted to say. Fernandez. Standing in the rain isn’t healthy. Laundry’s an issue, hygiene’s an issue, hmm. Health too.”
“Hah...”
Fernandez chuckled dryly. As if this body would catch cold from a bit of autumn rain. Years together, yet this dragon’s jokes still baffled at times.
He turned to face Abel approaching. She held a large umbrella over his head. Tilted to shade him, her own body soaked through.
“And you’re getting drenched too?”
“Well... sharing hardship halves it, no?”
“Can’t sleep?”
“With you dancing with a sword on deck? Hardly.”
Abel grinned and snapped the umbrella shut. Both already soaked anyway—no point.
“Your blade tip trembled. Not like you.”
“Even I have off days.”
“Magic and swordsmanship are similar yet different. Both shape phenomena from intent. But one tames emotion with reason, the other unleashes reason emotionally.”
Abel spoke in a quiet, song-like tone, laying her hand on his. Her pale, soft fingers traced his rough knuckles delicately. Rain clung like glue.
Her fingers tightened. Naturally, Fernandez gripped the hilt. He yielded as she slowly drew the sword up.
She embraced him from behind, extending the blade skyward.
“So, wield the sword like magic, Fernandez? I know nothing of spells, but I’m decent with blades, no?”
The tip spun to high guard. Fernandez merely adjusted his grip per her lead, shifting stance slightly. Her voice continued in his ear.
“There, there it goes again.”
“What?”
“Tip’s shaking. Not from too much or too little force. Your heart’s unsteady.”
Her fingers clamped hard. As if asserting her presence.
“Your heart drifts. Pulse races, skin heats. Body’s perfect, but not your heart.”
“Then what should I do?”
Abel was an ancient dragon. One who’d long wielded blades among men. In mythic antiquity, she’d trained the king of knights herself—a swordmaster.
She seemed to read hearts from grip, stance, tip alone. Or mere seasoned guesswork. Either way, unimportant. Her words struck true.
Her low laugh answered.
“This is kid stuff for first-timers, but charming enough... Well, Fernandez. What’s swordsmanship’s value?”
“Cutting down foes.”
“Why mages are... Wrong. Swordsmanship is the means to a goal. A wandering tip means you’ve lost sight of yours, right?”
“That’s...”
Speculation. His mouth clamped shut. Words rolled like a lump in his throat. Abel eased her grip slightly.
“What’s your goal?”
The fourth archangel’s whereabouts. Slaying the final great demon. Reverse Heaven’s advent. No, not that. Son... That pitifully extinguished young soul... But dread surged at the thought.
“Ana...”
Now he had a daughter. Absent in his past life. Reverse Heaven overlays this world’s data and souls onto the origin world. So where does origin-exclusive data flow?
If Reverse Heaven succeeds, what of Ana? Vanish? Merge? Or remain as is?
Ana’s existence perfectly opposed his son’s. Post-Reverse Heaven, one precludes the other. Thus, Fernandez’s goal stretched toward cruel choice.
He averted his gaze. Excuses of pressing tasks. Avoid unsolvable quandaries for now—stale rationalizations.
Yet amid dulling emotions from divine accumulation, one blazed: paternal love. For Ana. His blade quivered.
“I don’t want regrets.”
That was his truth. When the regret-free wizard died regretting. From vowing rebirth without them.
Now not just blade, but voice trembled. No more regrets. No submersion in that horror. Once was enough. No—once too many.
No more dying son’s voice. No... No living child’s death rattle. That alone. A villain’s modest wish, who’d raged to end the world.
Then, Abel’s hand tightened fiercely. Amid easing rain, her voice seemed damp.
“Do you regret your life so far?”
This, he could answer firm. No. No regrets. He’d given his all each moment, seized best outcomes. Those dense years outshone decades prior. Reborn, he’d choose no better.
If, then. Such piled words in his heart shattered one by one. Return now, more skilled perhaps, but little change. He’d run again. Somehow.
Past emotions, once vivid, dimmed. Like clearing rain and clouds. Abel guided his arm, extending the sword low.
“That’s it. Swordsmanship’s foundation—and its end.”
-Kiiing... The blade sang keen. Arcing broad outward, it traced a gentle semicircle skyward.
“The means to your goal. Foundation and end.”
Her words closed as the tip softly swept the heavens. Through thinning clouds, a blue moon rose.
Color returned to the night sky. Moon rippled like curtains through rifts, amid red, yellow, occasional blue star clusters twinkling.
Abel guided his hand to sheathe the blade, smiling. She reached toward the star swirls peeking behind clouds, her hand lightly on his shoulder.
“Since the mood’s right, one more question, Fernandez. Answer seriously this time.”
“...What?”
“Remember what you said in that far northern land? Half the stars in that night sky, half of that, and if too much, half again...”
She spun his head toward her with a grin. Inches apart from moments before, breaths mingled.
“You’d think of me.”
Damp golden hair settled calmly. Amid the grayscale night sea, she shone like a beacon.
Fernandez laughed boyishly, stepping closer wordlessly. Breaths briefly intertwined. He pulled back lightly, grinning at Abel still dazedly touching her lips.
“That’s your answer.”
“You’re... infuriatingly smooth.”
He smiled silently, scooped her up, and headed to the cabin.