Chapter 67
Chapter 67
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 67
Chapter Title: Though the Dead Return, Do Not Yield
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*
-Fool. Why are you acting so sentimental? Why won't you think? What the hell are you...
‘Ah, come on. Shut up already. Feizashi. My head hurts.’
Fernandez contemplated casting a banishment spell on Feizashi, who kept grumbling nonstop. Once the Bronze Throne's functions were fully restored, wouldn't it be best to banish him first? Could he even do it? After all, they were beings split from a single soul.
The royal castle was eerily dim without a single torch, and not a sound could be heard. Fernandez walked, following the flows of mana revealed by his arcane vision.
-Thump, thump.
His heart pulsed heavily. He'd lost too much blood—his head spun, and his body grew cold. He realized he was dying. It was a familiar sensation, yet utterly horrifying all the same.
As he traversed the castle, Fernandez grasped the nature of the magic spread across the entire city with the castle at its center, and the spells shaping that magic.
The mad Papftet. The Necropolis Conclaves were all master necromancers. Fernandez rummaged through his memories of his past life, recalling what he knew of them.
It was simple enough. Being exceptional meant they'd clashed with him or worked alongside him many times. Which meant their mana-shaping techniques and spell structures were already familiar to him.
‘They're gathering power.’
-...Yes. A massive necromantic ritual. And one prepared for a very long time, at that.
‘So they launched this conspiracy they'd prepared for so long the moment I happened to arrive in the city?’
-No way. Moria's death is probably the biggest reason.
At the end of the direction his arcane vision indicated, he spotted a distant corridor where dark green mana streamed in thick strands. Fernandez gripped his dagger with a faint smile.
‘Sloppier than I remember. For something prepared so long.’
-It's probably because it was triggered earlier than they planned. The ritual isn't complete yet, so they're dragging things out like this.
-Grraaah...
At the corridor's end, between stone pillars, corpses staggered into view. Fernandez quickly checked his physical condition and loosely rolled his wrists. He missed his right hand, but there was no helping it. At least the bleeding had stopped.
Now was the time to test the blessing Shild had bestowed upon him. He didn't know why Shild had acted personally, but it wasn't a bad thing.
Divine power flowed through his dying flesh. Fernandez felt strength coursing through his entire body.
*
“Your Highness! Preserve yourself!”
“Hush! Enough! We can survive. You will not die here, Sir.”
Vicente bit his lip hard and swung his sword fiercely, cleaving through an approaching corpse. A heavy weight settled on the tip of Vicente's blade. The head hung in the air for a moment before tumbling to the floor.
-Ssssh.
The corpse's head instantly spewed dark green smoke and melted away. Mana burst from the smoke, seeping back into the old king atop his jade throne. The old king sat on his throne, forming hand seals as he mocked them.
-Clang!
-Craaack!
From the massive sphere hovering at the center of the throne room, corpses emerged one by one. The throne room's knights and the prince swung their swords desperately against the corpses, but the enemies seemed endless. And worse.
‘They use swordsmanship.’
These weren't mindless walkers or ghouls. Clad in ancient armor, they shambled forward, wielding clumsy but systematically structured sword techniques. The knights were carving through the corpses easily enough, but there were simply too many.
-Kiiieek...
Suddenly, a bizarre shriek echoed from within the sphere. The prince shielded his wounded knight and aimed his sword at the sphere. Red eyes gleamed inside it. Soon, a massive hand reached out, tearing the sphere apart and crushing surrounding corpses.
“...What!?”
A hulking figure in black armor brutally ripped through the sphere and stepped forth. Clank. The black armor it wore rang out noisily. The air around them grew oppressively heavy. A chill of mortal danger pierced the prince's heart.
“...Your Highness. That armor. I've seen it before.”
“I think I have too.”
One of the knights who had been silently swinging his sword beside the prince whispered during the brief lull. The prince swallowed hard as he eyed the emblems on the black armor. It was an archaic suit bearing a clear house crest.
“The Burial Knights.”
[Show respect, young mortals. Weren't you such folk? Pay proper homage to your ancestors.]
The knight moved its chain-wrapped arm, slowly drawing a massive greatsword. Red eyes blazed from within the helmet's visor. Vicente's instincts screamed of death.
“Executioner Pedro...”
[Indeed. Your hero. Ha!]
Of the countless heroes recorded in histories, hero tales, and epics, how many had met their end peacefully in their own beds? A grim hypothesis flashed through Vicente's mind. Most knights had marched to the battlefield and died honorably. That was the virtue of their era.
What if those bodies had been exhumed by someone? Executioner Pedro had been a Round Table knight from King Yuriko the Pioneer’s era. His tale was one of the epic poems children of the Dane Kingdom loved most. His story was even depicted in murals along the audience hall corridor.
The knights hurriedly positioned themselves between Pedro and Vicente. Resolve burned in their eyes. They raised their swords and whispered to Vicente.
“Your Highness, please preserve yourself. You must rendezvous with Sir Paliamein and reclaim the capital. Sir Ivan, break through.”
“Yes, Sir Luis.”
“We leave His Highness to you...”
-Boom!
As the knights reformed their lines and took positions, the audience hall's doors shook violently. Silence fell over the chamber. Who could it be?
-Boooom!!!
The throne room's great doors shuddered as if about to shatter. The impact felt like a siege weapon had struck. The old king scowled at the doors, a groan escaping his lips.
[The bastard's here.]
-Kaboom!!!
Soon, the throne room doors exploded inward, scattering in all directions. The shockwave swept away the corpse soldiers. Thick dust billowed up, then slowly settled. A nearby walker was grabbed by the throat by an arm emerging from the dust and dragged in.
-Crack!
-Snap!
The dust cleared. There stood a face Vicente recognized. Eyes weary with fatigue, unkempt black hair. Slender yet sturdy build. One arm missing? But no bleeding.
“Sir Albert!”
“Looks like the tea party's in full swing. Papftet.”
Fernandez ignored Vicente's joyful shout and advanced. The old king rose from his seat, frowning.
[What can that broken-down body of yours do? You didn't run—you came all the way here?]
“Religious tribunal jurisdiction.”
[What?]
“Summary execution of heretics.”
-Crack!
Fernandez swung his fist, smashing the head of an approaching corpse. It turned to pulp and flew back. Immense power. Vicente flinched and stepped back at Fernandez's momentum.
He moved like a beast. Fernandez strode forward, crushing surrounding corpses one by one.
“Authority of exorcism forces. Authority of holy orders. By these powers guaranteed by the Holy Pantheon, I shall conduct this heretical trial. Necropolis Conclave, mad Papftet.”
[...Beitasser's dog, are you?]
“You wondered. What I could do.”
Fernandez thought of Byemier. He was a knight who knew honor. His death was regrettable, but not tragic. No reason for rage or sorrow. He wasn't a king, savior, or hero, after all.
There were too many righteous souls he'd hanged to grieve for one more. And Fernandez didn't regret it. It had been necessary. For his victory.
And for that victory, he was prepared to play the hero and hypocrite if needed. If it was necessary.
Saving the prince who would sire the future hero-king was easy. Foiling the Burial Knights' plans was simple too. But he never settled for a single move.
‘Our plan was to become the hero. And to prevent war between Fairn and the Dane royals.’
-Yeah, sure. But what's the point now?
He smoothly took the sword from Vicente's hand and walked through the stunned knights. Executioner Pedro, the knight in black armor, blocked Fernandez's path.
-You're full of spirit, Fernandez.
‘It's necessary.’
Fernandez responded to Feizashi as he gauged the sword's weight. Shild's blessing wasn't just some shiny halo. It was ‘martial might.’ His life force burned, fueling his muscles with power.
It didn't matter. Even as his flesh's lifespan frayed away, the blazing power surging through granted him strength.
“The accused, present your defense.”
[Kill that bastard!!]
-Clank.
The executioner raised his sword high. Fernandez matched his stance, coiling his body.
-Thump, thump, thump.
His heart raced. His already expiring flesh screamed. How much time left? Maybe thirty minutes of decent movement.
It didn't matter. Flesh was expendable.
*
The throne room murals rippled, moving as if alive. A young knight slaying a swamp monster. A young knight vanquishing undead to rescue a princess. A knight revered as a saint under Shild's blessing.
-Kaboom!
With every downward strike of the massive greatsword, sparks flew and the blade chipped. Yet Fernandez stood firm, parrying without yielding an inch.
Prince Vicente groaned as he watched Fernandez face the executioner alone. The executioner's strikes cleaved like mountains, but Fernandez stood tall, absorbing the onslaught.
-Kabooom!!
The floor beneath him trembled violently. Vicente's sword was one of the realm's finest, but Fernandez wielded it plainly, without flourish, its edge gradually dulling. With each exchange, moonlight scattered behind him, drawing a brighter halo.
Was this how the epic poems depicted ancient Dane kings? Vicente gazed at Fernandez, feeling the throne room murals come alive.
Moonlight pierced the darkness, illuminating the throne room.
-Craaack.
Fernandez's sword plunged into the knight's chest.