Chapter 237
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 237
Chapter Title: Sword Demon
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Pesakaines.
The immortal sword demons who would not die even in death.
United under that name, they were now keenly feeling that their choice had been right, and that the promises their master had made were far from empty hopes.
From the hero Chiron, they had received flawless foundational training and bodies that were incomparably superior, inheriting the blood of the gods.
And on top of that, their master was the unparalleled supreme figure—the first human to be acclaimed for ascending to the Manifestation Realm—bearing the secret arts of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult, which boasted a history of ten thousand years from a distant future.
Lush forests and rugged mountains were no different from open plains to them, and battle-hardened mercenaries and savage barbarians fell easier than straw dummies in a training yard.
"...Haha."
Jason, who had scaled the cliff first and kicked off the ramparts to precisely sever the commander's neck.
Looking back on the path he had taken, he couldn't hold back a wry chuckle.
Sheer cliffs like knife edges, a fortress so tight a needle couldn't pierce it.
Arrows raining from above were fierce like the storm winds Zephyrus whipped up, and the flames coating their tips created a spectacle reminiscent of a meteor shower.
Moreover, the straw spread around the fortress, and the logs and boulders tumbling from the walls were soaked in oil.
The result was a fiery inferno below, evoking Phlegethon itself.
"If that's Phlegethon, then are we the demons of that river of flame?"
Well, it didn't seem like a wrong way to think about it.
Look at that.
Forty-seven swordsmen bounding up the walls from all directions as if they were flat ground.
The barrage of arrows parted into empty gaps the moment their swords swung once.
And the falling flames, boulders, and logs were kicked or slashed back at the fortress's masters atop the walls, scorching Demeter's own skin without mercy.
"Kee-haha! Right here!"
"Kihi-hi! Over there!"
"Fire, fire!"
Looking up, the winged twins were soaring above the fortress, toying with the enemy with movements that would astonish even their father.
The mercenaries hurriedly raised bows and spears to target them, but...
-Slash!
-Slash!
"Kaaak!"
"Kuhuk?!"
"Slow, slow, so slow~!"
"Fast, fast, so fast~!"
One moment above, the next crashing to the ground; one moment ahead, the next swinging swords from behind—the sons of the storm were no match for even the most seasoned soldiers.
The walls were already their stage, and the fortress commander—the mercenary king's right-hand man—was dead. Today, Wolf Valley would be theirs.
"Haha, hahahaha!"
How light they felt!
How strong they felt!
Had they ever felt this strong, this invincible, in their living days?
Their thrusts outshone any spear in grace and sharpness; their steps outpaced and outmatched any arrow.
They who had hunkered in deep forests, waiting endlessly for that unknown moment.
Abandoned by the gods, rejected by humans, swept away by the tides of time—they were now driving out the humans who had rejected them and raising their voices against the gods who had forsaken them.
The last time, against Alloadai, Dianes had calmly demonstrated his prowess and earned great merit, then passed his sword to Jason with these words.
A wall is a wall only because you think it blocks your path.
But if you climb atop it and issue commands, would it still be a wall?
"Yes, that's what you meant!"
Now, they followed him.
Though not of the golden generation, these great demigods had inherited divine blood through communion with the heavenly gods.
Jason, lacking divine blood himself, could not summon winds or wield sorcery like them.
Yet because he could unite and lead them, even Heracles heeded his counsel, and all had inscribed his name in the golden registry as a hero of stature.
Numerous demigods, numerous minor heroes.
Through tireless effort, Jason had become their representative hero.
Yet despite this, the masses still doubted and mocked Jason, who bore no god's blood and displayed no miracles.
Among them were the usurper of Iolcos's throne, his conflicted retainers and officials torn between him and Jason.
"Hmph!"
To Jason, who harbored resentment toward them, Dianes whispered once more.
The vulgar masses of the world are like grass in the fields—rooted in place, merely swaying.
Sometimes a great tree sprouts among them from a green shoot, but that's all.
It is the wind sweeping the skies that shakes, wets, and uproots those grasses.
'Are you grass rooted to the earth? Or wind that scatters of its own will?'
If he were grass, swaying from the same position as other grass made it a shared fate, and he couldn't blame them for bowing to the immediate gust.
If he were wind, it mattered not if the grasses now bowing elsewhere had once bent to him.
The difference between nature's harmony and human affairs.
Humans can choose for themselves.
What would you become?
Thus, he answered that he wished to be the wind—rushing forward, sweeping all in the direction he desired.
Only then did those pitch-black eyes gleam with satisfaction, and he began teaching the sword.
As a result, Jason gained sword aura surpassing even the demigods he had inwardly envied and resented.
-Shaaa...!
"Yes, that's it."
Jason nodded to the wind whispering around his sword.
At some point, the sword and wind had begun guiding him.
Dianes had said the breath of Stoma Pneuma whispered of enemies approaching.
"Uwaaak!"
"S-Sir! The general! The general is...!!"
"Ka-Karkis! Our shield is...!"
Glancing at the screams in his ears, he saw the collapsed command post and the messengers from the savages who had recently stabbed them in the back, staring blankly at Karkis's severed head lying before it.
"Athena said mercy and ruthlessness each have their proper time."
These were the barbaric mercenaries who had recently plotted to strike their backs, and the fortress was filled with filthy things who hadn't hidden their vile intentions toward their comrades and sworn kin.
-Shaaaaak!
Not comparable to the Tartarus authority Dianes had unleashed against Poseidon's giants not long ago.
But the sword he had personally taught Jason already whipped up a single gust that ravaged all directions.
Yet this wind belonged neither to the Anemoi's divine arts nor Hermes's steps.
It was the wind of Sañjīva, the deepest hellish mountain realm.
What it carried was the sharpness and murderous intent of the sword forest gale.
"Today, you will cleanse this defiled king's valley with your blood."
The soldiers saw it.
In the midst of the utterly collapsed command post, a man in pitch-black garb raising his sword.
But the man vanished in an instant, and an unbearable chill enveloped them.
-Shaaaak!
And that sound.
Their vision tilted at the shrill, scream-like wind.
-Thud!
A jolt shook their heads.
'...Huh?'
Before they could even marvel at what was happening, familiar torsos reflected in their fallen eyes.
Their own limbs, their own bodies.
And necks spurting blood like fountains.
Before they could be shocked, shadowy tendrils gently covered their eyes.
Thus began the rite to the new god who would wash Wolf King's Valley in blood.
That lofty forebear, the sage of the Shakya clan, declared:
The defilements and afflictions—like the turbid sewage of the red dust world and the foul waters of the infernal paths—plunge humans into torment and turn the mortal realm into hell.
The five senses and six consciousnesses of man are the root of suffering.
Only by transcending the flesh's limits and entering nirvana, severing all delusions, can one truly escape pain.
In response, the Heavenly Demon King, sovereign of the Sixth Heaven, retorted:
The joys of the mortal world and the agonies of the six realms are the very source of power spanning heaven and earth, enlivening the world all the more vividly.
Human defilements and passions are what must truly be cherished.
To grasp their essence, revel in the fleshly heart, and love them—this is true enlightenment.
The Buddhist monks claim Shakya's awakening and miracles humbled even Taihō Zai-saichin.
But that is merely human tales.
If Shakya's enlightenment truly bowed the demon king of the six realms, why does the world remain chaotic, humans burn with desire and conflict, piling up history day by day?
Their discourses and debates continue unending; the Shakya heirs and the Desire Realm king still sit face-to-face, debating and conversing.
And the forum for those conversations is none other than the turbulent mortal world.
We who love power, extol beauty, and affirm desire—we of the Demonic Path Divine Cult—are the true pilgrims who have awakened to the human path, are we not?
We shall advance.
As history has, as humanity has.
Loving and clashing, coveting and sharing.
We shall advance endlessly.
Embracing the mortal world, yielding to its flow, evolving and evolving further.
"And that flow shall begin from my hand, from this land's oldest world."
The first breach lay below.
From a capable and learned man, yet powerless and spiritless, who had crumbled by his own hand.
A man bound to a fate of downfall.
Gazing upon the sword demon blessed with a great journey foretold to be arduous, fraught with trials, the demon who reached the heavens paid willing homage.
That was pure humanity.
He alone was the true demonic path.
As gods sanctify heroes, so the demon bestowed teachings upon his sword demon follower.
"In time to come, you shall be the demon wielding the sword; mortals will remember and revere you as the Sword Demon."
The name his master bore, the origin of the swordsmanship he mastered.
The title of one who reached the pinnacle of the blade was bestowed upon the frailest, most delicate hero, doomed to self-destruction.