The Master Blacksmith (5)

I dispelled my transformation and unleashed an art ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the same breath.

Flames like a raging torrent swallowed the defenseless Count. Out of the pillar of scarlet fire burst the Count himself, thoroughly seared.

"I'll tear you limb from limb!"

With his whole body still wreathed in flame, he latched onto me and poured out a barrage of furious strikes, both fists brimming with fist-qi.

But his fist missed me by half a span. Having a sword or not clearly made quite the difference. In that gap, I completed a second Blazing Fire Celestial Phenomenon.

KWAAAAAAAH—!

Serpentine flames turned the room into a crucible. The Count tanked this one too on sheer toughness — his Impenetrable Carapace was meaningfully canceling out the spell damage.

Just as Ruka had warned. It wasn't that my arts had no effect at all, but if I wanted to land a blow that mattered, I would have to bring the Avenger's Sword into play.

"Die!"

The Count rampaged with a single obsession: beating me to death. Every punch carried the force to crumble a mountain.

I shaved past his attacks by a hair each time with Shifting Form, Exchanging Positions. Even as I did, my third art reached completion.

A dazzling thunderbolt tore across the air. The Count's body was so wreathed in flashing lightning he all but vanished from sight.

Yet again, the attack felt shallow. The carapace had offset the spell's damage this time too. The stench of searing flesh rolled out in waves and black smoke billowed above the Count's head — but he had withstood it all the same.

GYAHAHAHAHA!

The Count burst into frenzied laughter and clenched both fists. The lightning's power was torn apart by his energy and scattered to the four winds.

"Is that all you've got, hmm?" the Count shouted, oozing arrogance.

Of course that wasn't everything. The real problem was finding the moment to draw the Avenger's Sword — and for that, I figured I first had to make him see red.

"Save that talk for when you've at least brushed my collar."

"You bet — I'll pound you into mush!"

The Count began raining down attacks anew. For a while I devoted myself purely to evasion, trading dozens of razor-thin exchanges where he nearly caught me and never quite did.

"How long do you intend to keep running?"

"Why? I find your flailing rather entertaining."

The Count's face mottled red and blue.

"If only I had my sword, I'd have diced the likes of you long ago."

"Even with a sword. Your glacial slowness is the fundamental problem here."

I provoked him with a wide grin.

"Zagnak!" he bellowed toward the door.

"You called, Master?" The goblin steward came scrambling into the room.

"Bring me a sword — now!"

"Yes? Wh-which sword might you mean...?"

"Any of them, and be quick about it, you dim-witted creature!"

Hooked. That was the very line I'd been waiting for.

"I keep telling you, it's no use. Drawing stripes on a pumpkin doesn't make it a watermelon."

I crackled lightning off my fingertips. Without loosening his guard, he shouted once more.

"Zagnak!"

"Yes, right here!"

Zagnak came running with a longsword in hand, bright radiance pouring off the blade.

The Count, eyes locked on me, stretched out a hand toward Zagnak. He had not the slightest doubt that the sword would end up in his grip.

But what happened next was far beyond anything the Count had imagined. Zagnak seemed to hand the sword over meekly — then abruptly reversed the blade and drove it into the Count's chest.

Shk.

The sword carried not even a trace of the usual sword-qi. And yet it pierced the Count's carapace as easily as tofu.

"Kgh."

The Count spewed a mouthful of fresh blood. His eyes brimmed with questions.

"You must find it strange — why your loyal servant would suddenly take up the sword backwards."

I snapped my fingers with a sharp crack, and Zagnak's body scattered like dead leaves, becoming a single talisman.

"It was... an illusion?" the Count asked, his face gone hollow.

"That's right."

Zagnak had been a phantom conjured from a talisman. The sword in his hand, however, had been real. The Avenger's Sword, exactly as Ruka had guaranteed, rendered the Count's carapace utterly useless.

Provoking the Count had been groundwork all along — a way to fill his head with nothing but if only I had my sword.

"...Who are you?" the Count asked, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"Iden Esterji."

"You were sent by Drek after all—"

"Wrong."

I drew the Avenger's Sword from his chest.

"I came to this place as the son of Ophelia Rain."

I swung the blade and took his head off clean. The headless body crashed to the floor with a heavy thud.

The Count's head had carried more than just the Rain family's vengeance.

The countless souls who had perished, nameless, on the northern front. My childhood, spent learning to live with a father's absence. None of it could be undone — but at the very least, justice had been done.

"Whew." Only then did I finally let out a breath.

Had I failed to strip him of his sword, he would have been a far trickier opponent. And had he known anything about my arts, the outcome would have been anyone's guess.

This was no time to dawdle. I set about erasing the evidence.

First I retrieved the Avenger's Sword, still skewering the Count's heart. The blade, soaked deep with blood, was radiating an ominous aura.

I stored the sword in the bag along with the Count's corpse. Anything under five hundred kilograms could go in, and even after all this I still had room to spare.

So I pocketed a few golden candlesticks as well. The moment the pure gold went in, the capacity slammed into its ceiling.

With everything worth taking taken, it was time to work out my exit strategy.

I drew talismans from Sanpedla's Travel Bag and scattered them with a rustle. A moment later, the room was packed full of the Count's doubles.

Hard on their heels, the vampire knight order known as Grim Red came swarming in.

"My lord?"

"Wh-what in the world is...?"

Beholding their liege in the plural, the knights lost their tongues. The Count's doubles jabbed fingers at one another and screamed.

"An assassin has appeared!"

"This one is the assassin!"

"No, THIS one is the assassin!"

Pointing fingers wasn't enough ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for the Count's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠doubles; they soon seized one another by the collar and started brawling. The knights stood at a complete loss. Slipping through the chaos, I made a calm exit from the room wearing Zagnak's shape.

This wouldn't hold the knights for long — my head wasn't quite that full of flower beds. The Count's fresh blood was soaking the floor, and vampires happen to be the race with the sharpest nose for blood in the world.

"The Count has been assassinated!"

"The culprit is a mental-type Awoken!"

"He's trying to goad us into infighting. Move with caution!"

See? Didn't even last that long.

I returned to the reception room first. I had laid the barrier in advance, so for a little while, this place would serve as my shelter.

But I couldn't stay long. I couldn't remain in the Demon Realm forever — the longer I dragged this out, the more the odds tilted against me.

The hardest part of this plan was getting out of a palace packed with the Count's elite unscathed.

So — what form should I take to slip past every suspicious eye?

A bird?

Too slow. And a bird circling the Demon Realm drew far too much attention on top of that.

A monster?

Their noses were far too keen for that. In a situation like this, "I just reek of the slaves I've been around" wasn't going to cut it.

If neither bird nor monster, only one answer remained.

I made my decision and cast the transformation art. Moments later the barrier lost its power, and three vampire knights came crashing into the reception room.

They stared me down in silence, blood-red eyes catching the chandelier's glow and gleaming like glass marbles.

My heart thudded hard. If the transformation had taken as intended, this very situation should work in my favor.

"Have you seen anyone suspicious?"

"I have not."

"Were you not the one who opened the door for the visitor?"

"I merely carried out the duty assigned to me."

"...Do not push your luck. We will have need of your testimony."

The knights turned on their heels and left. Once they were safely out of earshot, I studied my reflection in the mirror.

In the mirror stood a human knight.

I had taken the form of the traitor who kept watch before the main gate. That was the only way to move about reeking of human without drawing suspicion.

I opened a window and slipped quietly out of the palace. Outside was bedlam, like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a kicked beehive — word of the Count's death was spreading on wings.

"Vengeance in blood!"

"Exterminate the human race!"

"March on Stormrock!"

Excited orcs banded into mobs. Werewolves, ogres, kobolds and the rest worked themselves up alongside them. Monster crowds by the hundreds were springing up like mushrooms after rain.

Meanwhile, across the way, the goblin merchants were busy sweeping up their fortunes by the armful.

"This domain is finished. The Shield of the North will come pouring in any day now!"

"We grab every last coin and get out while we can."

"Hey, someone go round up all the slaves!"

Judgment worthy of admiration, truly.

From here on was the real problem. The traitor's face kept me above suspicion even while reeking of human — but on this identity alone, I could never leave the settlement.

And so I... made a slave of myself.

I conjured a goblin master out of a talisman, then fastened the collar around my own neck. My outer robe I balled up and tossed onto the road.

"Move it, slave!"

Something about this felt deeply wrong. Who knew I'd live long enough to take orders from a talisman.

In any case, the slave act proved highly effective. Not a single soul looked at me twice.

Ah — one goblin did come sidling up to me. He rubbed his two palms together like a fly and, eyes glittering with greed, asked:

"How much for that one?"

"Not for sale."

"I've taken quite a shine to him. I'll pay whatever you ask, eh?"

"I said he's not for sale! Would I have fed him this well if I meant to sell him?" my goblin master snapped, sharp-tongued.

Honestly, selling him would have been fine. Whoever I followed, all that mattered was getting outside. My refusal was purely for the sake of my own mental health.

Following the evacuee procession, I reached the settlement's exit. Security there had been tightened a notch further; burly orc warriors had formed an airtight square.

"Hey, runt." An orc warrior strode up to my goblin master.

"No one leaves right now. Get back to your place."

I lifted my head toward the front of the procession. The ones ahead of us were slipping out of the settlement without a hitch.

The problem was cash. The orcs holding the gate weren't nearly as naive as the ones deeper in. They were none the wiser about the Count's death, and seemed intent on skimming whatever they could off the chaos.

In short, they were this domain's corrupt toll-keepers — and if I didn't press something into their palms, the whole plan would founder right here, after coming all this way.

So I decided to give him something to hold.

"Hard at work, I see. Hot day like this — why not wet your whistle with this?"

My goblin master drew a yellowish rod from the bag. One of the golden candlesticks carried out of the Count's chamber.

"Oh my, you really shouldn't have... Heh heh."

His manner changed on the spot.

"Boys! What are you standing around for? Pay your respects to the honored gentleman!"

At his bellow, orcs came pouring out of the formation and abruptly bowed their heads.

"Safe travels, sir!"

"Let's go, slave!"

The talisman fellow never once broke character to the very end. Thanks to him, I slipped past every trace of suspicion.

The orcs did not straighten their backs until I had passed clean through the barricade.