End of the White Night - 3
Draconian Pheshe felt his heart plummet with a heavy thud at the sight unfolding before his eyes. His comrade—his brother—was dying with his head severed. An unreal scene. The scales that were the pride of their kind, the tough hide beneath them... they were splitting open, unable to withstand that utterly ordinary iron sword. The blade's edge should have chipped away first, yet Pheshe couldn't comprehend why it was his brother's scales cracking instead.
Thud.
His brother's head hit the ground and rolled toward him, its face frozen in furious rage, as if it hadn't yet grasped its own death.
Creak, creak.
Pheshe's gaze lifted. At the end of it stood the monster who had done this to his brother. A human. One of the short-lived kind. A robe pulled low over his face revealed pale skin and shadowed, sunken eyes. They seemed listless at first glance. But peering deeper, one could sense a savagely ferocious aura rippling within.
Pheshe recognized the human's identity at once. It would have been stranger if he hadn't. The ashen divine power blanketing the entire space. And overlaying it, incomprehensible golden rules etched in script. The coercive force emanating from those rules. It was unlike magic. Unlike sorcery. Unlike mysticism.
How could he not know? The blessing carved into his dragon blood made it clear in an instant.
...Apostle power.
And he knew what that signified.
Apostle.
The gods' closest kin. The most glorified seekers. Semi-divine beings who had upheld the Holy Kingdom—a nation forged from a mere ten thousand souls—for over a millennium.
An Apostle had descended upon this place.
That single fact allowed Pheshe to grasp many things. The Saint was here. The Apostle had come to greet her. Their leader had been right.
Then, a thought lodged in his mind like an undeniable truth.
We're going to die.
He and all his brothers here would die without exception. It wasn't a conclusion born of reason. It was instinct.
His body trembled. His breath grew ragged. His vision shook.
Stumble—
His feet instinctively backpedaled. Pheshe clenched his teeth, trying to control himself, but even that was no easy task.
Thoughts of vengeance for his brother, of their kind's long-cherished wish—they faded from his mind. His thoughts converged on a single point, consumed by one emotion.
Terror.
From the moment he encountered the Apostle, from the instant those ferocious eyes met his, fear crushed his entire body.
Even forcing reason to the fore and gauging their power changed nothing. His flesh brimmed with more strength than ever, so vibrant it made him doubt if this body was truly his. No doubt a phenomenon wrought by those rules etched in the sky.
Yet it promised no victory. His body might be stronger, but he had no magic. No spells to block that sword stroke or pierce the Apostle's heart.
Pheshe knew it well. Draconians were called a superior race only because of the ancient dragon's blessing flowing through their veins. Without it, no matter their strength, they were mere beasts.
Then a desperate measure surfaced: flight. But that, too, was impossible. Surely they were faster. His body overflowed with vitality, distance still separated them, but even if he chose to flee now, he was certain a sword would fly at his back.
The Apostle's leisure proved it.
The conclusions reason drew only deepened the fear crushing Pheshe's heart into despair.
His teeth ground together again. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Pheshe's gaze turned to his still-living brothers. Their eyes shook with unease. Through them, he realized every brother here had reached the same conclusion.
The air grew taut with tension. Then, the Apostle's mouth opened.
"Not coming?"
It sounded like a beast's howl. That was Pheshe's first thought upon hearing the Apostle's voice. Trembling at the sound, he looked and saw the Apostle grinning wickedly. Deep within, fury boiled up.
Their long-cherished wish stood before him. Behind that Apostle lay salvation to glorify their kind. Yet here they were, reduced to this.
Fury gave way to shame, then self-loathing.
"...Brothers."
His voice trembled more than ever—even more than when he first glimpsed the shadow of their ancient dragon parent.
His brothers' gazes turned to him. Meeting them, Pheshe forced out a shout with all his might.
"For our cherished wish!!!"
Thud!
Pheshe stamped forward. His brothers followed suit.
A deeper smile curled the Apostle's lips. Seeing it stoked fresh despair in Pheshe, but he shook off his emotions and reached for the Apostle's throat.
A flailing desperation. A pitiful struggle. And ultimately, a futile one.
The Apostle raised his sword. Only as Pheshe's hand neared his throat did he lift it. That belated blade sliced through Pheshe's wrist.
Schwick—
Not a sound in his ears, but one resounding in his mind—that was the apt description.
His vision stretched infinitely. The sounds around him dragged out.
Pheshe watched his wrist severed before him, eyes widening to tear, mouth agape. An eternity seemed to pass in that instant.
Finally snapping back to reality, the sensation that hit Pheshe was pain like his whole body aflame.
"Gaaahhhh!!!"
*
His heart pounded fiercely. His senses sharpened to a razor's edge. Electricity crackled endlessly in his mind.
Vera's lips twisted into a grin that threatened to split his face—a sensation he hadn't felt in ages.
A claw aimed at his left chest. Jaws snapping at his ankle. Vera deflected them with minimal motion, then swung his sword long and low, severing the neck of the Draconian crawling on the ground.
The feel of flesh parting and bone cleaving traveled up his arm to his spine. From there, it crawled into his brain, stirring ecstasy anew.
Schwick.
A chilling sound rang out, and a fountain of blood sprayed from the cleanly severed neck.
"Kyaaahhh!!!"
The scream followed. From the Draconian who had just targeted his heart.
Vera turned at the sound, spotting the creature's face twisted in rage and despair. For some reason, the sight amused him. His voice dripped with mirth.
"Don't take it too hard. I'll send you after them soon enough."
Murky yellow pupils fixed on him, blazing with fury.
The Draconian lunged again. This time, Vera didn't dodge.
He tensed his muscles. Leaned back his torso. Gripped the sword two-handed.
As the Draconian closed in, Vera swung with all his might.
Crack!
The clash of blade and bone. The sword arced from fingertips through arm, shoulder, chest, waist, and back into empty air. The Draconian plummeted, bisected.
Splat.
Meat slapped against the dirt, pierced by the sound of footfalls closing in—a rear ambush.
Sensing it, Vera spun wide, sword whipping around to graze the ambusher's neck precisely.
Schwick—
The sound echoed as the Draconian's head spun away in Vera's vision.
Gazing at the falling head, Vera thought:
...Now.
One remained.
A long breath hissed from Vera's lips. His eyes fixed on the last living Draconian.
In one corner of the clearing crawled a wretched figure, wrist severed, dragging itself along. Its ragged gasps and scrabbling were clearly an attempt to flee.
Vera let out a dry chuckle and advanced slowly.
"Is that any way to be? Your brothers all fought to the death—running alone lacks brotherhood, don't you think?"
His tone dripped with mockery. At his words, the Draconian shuddered and slowly turned its head toward him.
"Guh... guh-huh...."
Tears welled in its murky yellow eyes. They streaked down its dirt-smeared face in crooked trails.
A face stained with terror.
The moment he saw it—
Halt.
Vera's body froze. Déjà vu surged.
His feverishly burning mind cooled in an instant.
Those eyes, that expression drenched in fear—they were too familiar.
The gazes of those who had looked upon him in his previous life.
He was reflected in those pupils, the man from that time.
Reason returned late, stealing away the ecstasy. A question rose in his mind.
...What am I doing?
A question hurled at himself. At the self who thrilled at bloodshed and swung his blade like a beast once more.
His empty left hand brushed his face, sticky with blood.
"S-spare...!"
The plea amid the pain. Vera swung again, severing the Draconian's neck.
Schwick—
The blade parted flesh as before, but this time brought no pleasure.
Vera's gaze swept the surroundings. Mangled flesh strewn everywhere. Puddles of blood pooling. And him, standing amid it all.
In that moment, he felt as if he'd regressed to his previous life.
Not even a little...
He hadn't changed a bit. He realized his own inadequacy. He was preparing to change now. So he consoled himself that way. Yet when battle came, he drowned in the blade as in his old life.
His eyes fell to his left hand. Blood caked the red-stained palm, radiating searing heat.
Feeling it, Vera continued his thought.
The sword I swung...
Was it truly for protection?
Clench.
His fist balled.
...Wrong.
That last swing had been to kill. Solely to tear the foe apart. To feed the rising ecstasy.
Suddenly, Rene's face flashed in his mind. He recalled his joy at those few steps of progress.
...Insufficient.
He was woefully lacking. Utterly unfit to stand beside her, to protect her.
He'd been deluded. Thinking that standing at her side meant he'd grown that much.
Suddenly, a stone sank in his gut. Vera grimaced, expelling breath like vomit at the gut-wrenching sensation.
...Still.
He swung a beast's blade.
Only with sword in hand, foe before him, did Vera realize it.