Chapter 380
Chapter 380
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 380
Chapter Title: The One Who Forgives Your Sins (4)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
“Damn you! You bastard!!”
She had blocked it somehow, but Aeren was in agony. Faced with the bull-like charge, all she could do was parry, deflect, or get kicked away rolling.
She had shoved forward with her shield to deflect the attack, but in the end, the shield shattered along with her, sending her tumbling across the ground. Aeren shook her dizzy head and gritted her teeth, glaring at the falling axe.
-Kwang!
With an impact like her arm was being torn off, Aeren rolled across the ground once more. Kirhas had tried to provide support several times, but she only managed to carve a few more scratches into the beast’s body. It twisted its body violently to shake her off and strode forward.
[Are you afraid of death?]
A sneer hung in its eyes. The stench of sulfur wafted over her. Aeren’s face twisted in fury.
“No one can live forever... Only glory endures eternally!”
-Shrieeek!
A dagger was yanked from the back of her neck. Like lightning, she thrust it forward for one final strike. But Sigismund smirked and took the dagger in his chest.
Crack. The dagger stopped, unable to penetrate more than a certain depth beneath the skin. As his muscles contracted to grip it, Aeren ground her molars and poured strength into her grip.
-Sizzle!
Immense heat emanated from the dagger’s hilt. It wasn’t just temperature—something profane seemed to surge through the blade embedded in its body. Veins bulged on Aeren’s forehead.
[Call upon your god. Scream for salvation! I wonder what great grace your master might bestow if you offer your screams to him!]
“Your master can do nothing.”
-Crackle!
As Sigismund gloated in triumph, a flash erupted right before his eyes. His ears rang, and his head spun. He shook his head and turned toward the source of the sound.
Fernandez and Vicente staggered toward him. Sigismund curled his lips in a wicked grin and bellowed.
[Your struggles have been amusing, you mortals. You always devise new tricks to beg for your pathetic lives. But the game is over. I’ll kill this wench and—]
“You talk too much.”
-Bang!
Sigismund’s head snapped to the side again. The throbbing pain from his jaw made him unwittingly release Aeren’s arm.
Kirhas swiftly rushed in, scooped up Aeren, and leaped away. Sigismund bared his fangs and growled.
[What did you do!?]
That feeble incantation shouldn’t have worked! Sigismund clutched his still-aching jaw and snarled repeatedly. Fernandez, now atop the ramparts, looked down at him with a snort.
“Did I look ridiculous holding the vanguard?”
[What...?]
“A handful of mana, a single hand seal...”
Fernandez flicked his hand and slowly, ostentatiously, began forming hand seals. He continued, moving his fingers with precision.
“Or even a spell beneath a single phrase. Even while scattering spells across every direction to the point of exhaustion, I kept your feet bound until this moment. You should have realized your own powerlessness, you fool.”
[I am—]
“A puppet Tyban wouldn’t even bother with.”
Fernandez cut him off coldly.
“Did you think that dumb bull cared about anyone else? The power granted to you was mere entertainment for him to enjoy your demise as a spectacle. Were you so intoxicated by your flesh’s prowess that you failed to examine your soul’s state? You’re nothing but a half-breed who couldn’t even ascend as a true demon.”
[How dare you speak his name...!]
“In a way, I was your senior.”
Fernandez completed the hand seal by folding his fingers. At the same instant, a shock like a slap struck Sigismund’s head. He shook his head in confusion. How? How could a human possibly harm his body?
But his mind soon cleared. The bastard was a spellcaster. Utterly helpless up close. A frail body worth less than a punch!
[I’ll kill you!]
“Don’t we have unfinished business first?”
-Kaang!
Sigismund’s axe halted in midair. Vicente had slipped between them, laying his blade flat at an angle to deftly bind the axe haft.
Without clashing blades or touching the attacker. It was a precise technique to intercept and deflect the connection of force with the flat of the blade. Tyban’s blessing manifested destruction after a hit landed, and in this deadlock, it struggled to exert performance beyond raw power.
But... how had he spotted that vulnerability? And at this speed, how could he block the attack with such finesse? Sigismund stared at Vicente in bewilderment.
Vicente laughed heartily and shouted.
“Sir Albert. This is killer!”
“Left arm, Your Highness.”
“Right! Got it!”
As Sigismund tried to pour in strength, Vicente’s blade slyly slid away. Sigismund’s axe cut empty air and slammed into the ground.
Vicente flowed past his left side like a fish riding the current, then in an instant stepped onto his shoulder. His longsword thrust toward the sky.
[You filthy worm—!!]
Under the ash-gray sky tainted by its mana, Vicente’s platinum hair billowed like a lion’s mane. Mana flowed along the blade, pausing at one point—
[I’ll kill you!!]
Seizing the opening, Sigismund’s right arm yanked the axe from the ground and reached for Vicente on his shoulder.
-Shrrk!
Just before it touched Vicente, a black iron chain shot from somewhere and wrapped around his right arm.
Vicente’s longsword fell—clearly, yet not slowly. Tracing a graceful arc, it descended vertically.
* * *
The blade’s motion was so vivid it felt as if time had frozen. The ash-gray sky split like a curtain, sunlight streaming through to brilliantly paint the blade, scattering reflections.
-Kwadud—
At a certain pinnacle, all techniques tend to converge into similar forms. Especially when viewed from the realm often called the ‘summit.’
No need to exalt it as ‘all rivers return to the sea.’ Whether a swordsman at the peak, a master mage at their zenith, or a carpenter, blacksmith, or even a tenant farmer.
Those who have scaled the final heights in their field shed all superfluites. Every simple action carries intent—a realm where even the self reaches its ultimate refinement. That moment, people call the ‘summit’—
-Kwadudud—
Infusing intent into action to forge concepts. That is the ideal technique pursued by those who attain such heights. Thus, it is not quite ‘all rivers return to the sea,’ but closer to convergent evolution.
-Kwadududuk!!!
He slashed, and it was slashed. With a single ordinary longsword forged of steel. Transcending matter, embracing concept.
It cleaved space. That was King Dane’s swordsmanship, the final strike he had pursued in life.
The blow that slaughtered the giants oppressing the people. The oppressors’ doom.
The Giant Slayer’s blade. A fragment of that myth now descended from Vicente’s hand, perfectly severing Sigismund’s left arm.
Space tore. All matter entangled within it. Even the longsword in his grip. As metal shards flew, slicing his cheek and tearing his clothes, Vicente glared at Sigismund to the end.
“The war is over now, King Sigismund. With your death!”
* * *
“So that’s how it’s done.”
Fernandez muttered, shaking off steam rising from his right hand. Thanks to King Dane’s memories, he could mimic up to a similar realm, but that blade’s true summit required some epiphany after all. Of course, forcibly elevating Vicente’s physical performance via spells played a part too.
-Sizzle!
The mana circuits overloaded and burned out completely. They had been on the brink earlier, but he had managed to push through somehow.
It was purely due to memories from his past life. Having fully grasped Tyban’s mana, as long as he had enough focus for calculations, exploiting and striking its weaknesses was possible.
The unavoidable blood he shed to minimize allied casualties was irrelevant now that the battle was wrapping up.
“You... bastards...!”
Sigismund had reverted to human form and was gasping. Blood gushed uncontrollably from his severed arm, soaking the ground. Vicente looked down at him with cold eyes.
“Your Highness.”
“Sir Albert. Well done.”
“Shall you finish it?”
“If you yield the honor.”
As Fernandez nodded, Vicente bent down to pick up a fallen longsword from the ground. With the sun at his back, he slowly assumed his stance and spoke.
“The civilian massacres, indiscriminate destruction, border provocations and invasions, looting and arson—listing your sins would have no end. But the lofty council of Dane pronounces a simple verdict, Sigismund. Death alone.”
“Spare me.”
Sigismund’s parched lips mumbled, vomiting blood-like words.
“Spare me! I was wrong. The treaty... I’ll honor the eastern treaty! No, wait! Yes! Uphold tradition, King of Dane!”
“Tradition?”
“Yes!! A king cannot assassinate another king!”
Vicente’s face twisted oddly at Sigismund’s words. Fernandez looked at him with a troubled expression. Kirhas approached quietly and whispered.
“What tradition is that, benefactor?”
“The East waged civil wars for ages before forming the alliance, Kirhas. You know that?”
“Yes. Up to the point of forming the union to curb war casualties...”
“Those kings back then loved war more than anyone. But those with power fear death most of all. So their wars had a long tradition.”
No matter the defeat, a king could never be killed. It was the final safeguard the petty eastern kingdoms had set for one another. Even in loss, without fearing death, their pact stripped war of anything beyond sport and gamble for the secular royal houses.
This tradition had endured nearly five centuries. Others might ignore it, but for Dane—at least among the easterners, hardcore traditionalists who’d overturn the entire region for their handful of customs—the word ‘tradition’ carried unique weight.
Vicente gazed down at Sigismund with disgust-tinged eyes. As he said nothing, Sigismund coughed out a laugh.
“Yes, tradition! The tradition you stable hands so revere! Your ancestors, their ancestors, and theirs before—all upheld this tradition. Think we never routed you? But your bloodline endured only thanks to this merciful tradition! So show me respect and mercy!!”
With the sun at his back, only Vicente’s eyes gleamed fiercely, his expression shadowed. Sigismund gasped, struggling to rise.
“Stanch the bleeding and transport me to the rear. Let’s make a peace treaty! I’ll give you everything you want. Land and people, gold and grain. Your country’s in ruins—you need them...! Winter’s almost here!”
“I’ll spare your life, King of Fairn.”
“King Vicente!!”
Aeren shouted in disbelief. But Vicente merely gazed silently down at Sigismund, expression unchanged.
“No treaty. The last mercy I can show you is one thing alone. A small village of fifty tenant farms.”
“Vicente!!!”
Aeren could bear it no longer and yelled. But Fernandez raised a hand to stop her. As she scowled at him, he shook his head and murmured softly.
“Wait and see.”
Fernandez watched Vicente and Sigismund impassively. Those words were an insult equating Sigismund’s stature to a mere village headman of tenant farmers. The utmost humiliation a monarch could hurl at another in formal settings.
Yet Sigismund grinned broadly, nodding as if oblivious.
“Yes!! So be it!”
“You’re wrong, Sigismund. You should have denied this insult and chosen death instead.”
“...What?”
-Thud!
Vicente brutally kicked Sigismund’s chest and mounted him. As Sigismund let out a final gasp, Vicente laid his blade long across his throat.
“Th-the treaty! Tradition!!”
“I gave you the final chance to die as a king. What is a king?”
“The ruler! Sovereign! I am the last royal blood of the great Fairn dynasty, bearer of divine right—”
“No. One who stands as an example of honor before the people. Sigismund, your final honor is gone, so you are no longer a king, and executing you violates no eastern tradition. Priest, bear witness!!”
Fernandez stepped forward at Vicente’s call and bowed his head.
“Albert of Cerned, ordained priest of St. Bartholomew Monastery, bears witness.”
“Does the priest consent to executing this sinner!”
“Absolving worldly sins belongs to the Lord alone, but escorting sinners to His side is our duty.”
“Priest, pray for this sinner!”
Fernandez drew his rosary and lowered it over the fallen Sigismund’s head. With a clink, the iron chains wound, and the small key-sword rosary swung slowly like a pendulum.
“Sinner who followed demons yet remains mortal. Your flesh crumbles, your soul doomed to be plaything of the nether realms. The profane grace upon you was mere sport for your ruin, yet one final chance remains. Pray. To any god, any words. Earnestly.”
“I’ll pray. I’ll pray! Beitasser! Shaild! Maclaren! Anyone!! Spare me, spare me!! Spare—”
“Priest, cease prayer. Dane shall not invoke the pantheon’s grace for you.”
-Kuduk!
“The penalty for the accused is death.”
Vicente’s sword cleaved Sigismund’s slender neck. Bitter, hollow, or anger-filled—depending on the gaze, his eyes held varied emotions as he stared long at the severed head.
The clamor of weapons, shouts, and screams echoing across the battlefield gradually faded. Raindrops began pattering, wetting the ground.
As if the whirlwind heat of battle had been a lie, cold rain fell over the parched earth.
“The last rain of autumn. Winter comes now.”
Fernandez whispered lowly, gazing at the sky.
The brief but hellfire-like civil war that crushed the East was over. What remained was a long winter of starvation and famine.
Fernandez sighed shortly and approached Vicente.
“Let us withdraw, Your Highness. The road ahead is long, and time short.”
“What becomes of us now?”
The words held many meanings. They had miraculously saved Altbert, securing the refugees’ lives. But Dane... no, the East had lost its self-sufficiency.
Fernandez smoothed his lips and bowed his head quietly.
“My sins are grave and deep.”
The old black mage lowered his head.