Breakthrough (2)
The scene before him felt like an entirely different world from the Graveyard Valley, which lay only a short distance away. The dazzling, multicolored glow of mana-crystal ornaments glistened under the rain. The opulent streets, plastered in gold, looked as though they had never once brushed against the kind of violent chaos unfolding today. Had the weather been clearer, he might have taken a proper look around. But Nathan Maia was too busy being thrown from his mount to enjoy the sights.
He rose with his eyes burning crimson—not out of frustration at missing the tour. He was almost there. Just a few hundred meters left. Yet a group of giants wielding massive weapons refused to clear the path.
“Don’t think we’re the same as those greenhorns you met before. You’ll lose your head.”
The berserkers standing before him were clearly on another level. Their heavy armor looked like something out of a painting rather than a blacksmith’s wall, and the grotesque muscles bulging beneath their fur pelts were striking. They didn’t even need to boast. Amateurs couldn’t snap the leg of a charging mechanical horse in a single blow. The ruined mount lay on the side of the road, letting out a pitiful creeeak.
Nathan gripped the hilt of his longsword so tightly it seemed it might shatter. The only reason he hadn’t lost his grip during the fall was thanks to the desperate training that had forged his monstrous grip strength.
“Move.”
“Is that a plea, Sapiens? On the ground, do they grant every childish whim if you act cute enough?”
Pale skin visible between their beards and armor plates. The vivid, living killing intent rolling off them. These weren’t the hollow husks that flooded the streets—they were living Eleim. There had to be a reason they were blocking him, but Nathan didn’t bother thinking too deeply about it. He had a rough idea.
The Protector Lord of the North who had sniped at his companions from a collapsing building.
Nathan raised his sword toward the four berserkers.
“Maybe thinking two hands would be enough after losing two was a naïve assumption.”
But then someone appeared from the far end of the street and abruptly inserted himself into the standoff.
“Looks like you’re a little short-handed. Want me to lend you two more, tragic Sapiens?”
Nathan glanced sideways at the intruder spouting nonsense. A man with disheveled blond hair—messed up from racing through the cold wind—leaped down from a bizarre machine that looked like something out of a circus.
The mana-hating berserkers stared at the strange vehicle with open contempt. As if misunderstanding the meaning of their gazes, the Sword Saint Sect member Bin spoke with immense pride.
“This? It’s a mana-engine Segway.”
Bin dragged the Segway’s handlebars, pulling it toward a shaded spot to shield it from the sleet. The rubber wheels scraped wetly across the ground with an embarrassingly loud sound—right between warriors who looked ready to kill each other.
After carefully leaning the vehicle against the wall as if it were a sacred object, Bin quickly walked over and stood beside Nathan. Then he whispered softly.
“It’s a Galarhorn limited edition. Jealous, right?”
Nathan’s eye twitched. He’d have to know what the hell it was to feel jealous.
“By the way, I received an interesting message from the shop a little while ago. They said if I followed you, they’d waive the installment payments and insurance fees. Guess there was a reason they told me to go after you. Oh, and sorry about the prison thing.”
Only then did Nathan recognize who Bin was. The swordsman elf he had met inside the cage prison of the Floating Arena. Their brief encounter that day had been the entirety of their connection. And even that hadn’t exactly been a pleasant experience for Nathan, seeing as he had charged in with both hands missing only to be subdued.
So he couldn’t understand why the elf was talking to him like they were friends. The moment Bin placed his hand on the gilded hilt of his blade, Nathan quietly tensed, wary of some kind of trick.
The slowly drawn blade pointed toward the berserkers. For now.
“This is the Sword Saint Sect’s position: ‘We express deep regret for all the destructive acts committed by the Northern Ingr Kingdom.’ Honestly, I can’t remember if it was regret or condemnation. It hasn’t been officially announced yet, so don’t go spreading rumors. Anyway, the point is—”
Blue flames erupted along the sword. A blade wrapped in sorcery. The berserkers’ previously mocking eyes turned serious.
“As a member of the Sword Saint Sect, guardians of law and order, we cannot simply overlook the Northern Eleim exercising military force beyond their borders. By my authority, I will apprehend these illegal arms-bearers. How they will be dealt with is up to the Captain or the Conclave bishops.”
Bin then added a quiet whisper to Nathan beside him.
“When I give the signal, break through and run. Your wrists must hurt—don’t push yourself.”
He still thought Nathan had lost his hands.
“The Sword Saint Sect. Aren’t you the loyal hounds who trot after a few coins from the Center and the East?”
“You look awfully young. You should value your immortality. We killed plenty of bastards more skilled than you even during the distant Great War.”
“Our pay is so shit that we have to run around everywhere just to fill our pockets. But at least we don’t stuff our bellies through plunder like you people. And did you say Great War? Truth is, this might be the first real war in hundreds of years, so maybe you’ll actually be useful.”
Suddenly Bin stepped forward.
“I’ll gladly receive advice from veterans—through cold steel.”
One berserker glared and swung down a thick-bladed greatsword. Bin met it with his slender blade. Under normal circumstances, it would have been an incredibly foolish choice. Yet the one that was severed was the berserker’s sword. The cut surface glowed red-hot like it had been dipped in lava, revealing the crystalline structure inside the metal.
Bin smashed the pommel into the frowning berserker’s forehead, then grinned as he suddenly charged in and shoved him with his shoulder—straight toward the other berserkers.
In an instant, a gap opened between the five enemies.
The kindness of someone he barely knew. Especially when that someone was an elf. It was hard to trust. Deeply rooted prejudice was even harder to shake. But there was no other choice. A split-second of hesitation. Then action.
In the end, Nathan sprinted through the opening they had created. He slipped past grasping hands and weapons like flowing water. When he reproduced the same dazzling footwork he had shown against the orcs, Bin let out an admiring laugh from behind.
One of the rearmost berserkers charged with a growl. Nathan slammed into him with all his strength. Brutal power that pushed the limits of his frame, combined with the weight of his metal body. The berserker, who hadn’t expected a head-on collision, was sent flying—club still raised—before crashing into a wall.
Nathan rolled once, got up, and kept running without looking back. There was no time to thank this inexplicable goodwill.
Just like he had done back in the wasteland where all this madness began, Nathan prayed desperately.
He knew. No god of any race ever truly listened to humanity’s pleas. The only ones who reached out to take those extended hands were evil gods who would drag them into gaping maws. Yet even after that truth had become common sense, the old habit remained in the human race like an ancient instinct.
Prayer.
I don’t believe in any god, but anyone will do. Please, just don’t let me be too late. I ran all this way gasping for breath—please let it all be for nothing. Let Aspen grumble as she dusts herself off and tell me I’m overreacting—
But then a heartrending scream echoed from beyond the alley. A voice he could never mistake for anyone else’s. At the same time, metallic claws aimed at his head came slashing down.
Empty hopes are betrayed by the sin of having them in the first place.
Nathan barely managed to lean back and dodge. His heavy armor clattered loudly as he tumbled across the slippery road.
“We, the ‘Swords of the Winter King,’ are the spearpoints thrust forth by winter itself. We never forget our grudges.”
Robed swordsmen instantly surrounded him and closed in. Stab. Stab. The tips of their blades chased after him. Nathan gritted his teeth, stood, and retreated. The power flowing over their steel armor was ferocious. If he hadn’t been wearing anything, he would have been turned into a honeycomb.
“Sapiens. Those who met you and never returned were our superiors.”
Yet the smiling eyes beneath the robes didn’t seem particularly saddened by that fact.
“Thanks to you, we were able to rise to a rank close to the Protector Lord. So we’ll repay that gratitude by killing you.”
The enemy numbered many once again. Simply dodging while wearing heavy armor consumed an enormous amount of stamina. Nathan finally made up his mind. He would charge at least one of them, break their rhythm, and resist—even if it meant taking a stab through the gaps in their armor.
He didn’t need to.
The ‘Sword of the Winter King’ who had been grinning as he tried to stab Nathan suddenly pitched forward, coughing out the last of the air in his lungs. Embedded in his back was a palm-wide blade… a machete?
Nathan smashed the pommel into the skull of the growling elf trying to rise and finished him off. Then he stood and faced the unexpected reinforcement.
“Hey. Brother. Haven’t seen your face in a while, have I?”
The robed swordsmen’s vigilance split in two. From behind them, the lizardian Akweba Kakchlo smiled triumphantly. If he had ears, the corners of his mouth would have stretched all the way up. His yellow eyes gleamed fiercely—his vision seemed to have fully recovered.
Nathan’s gaze suddenly dropped to his legs. Mechanical prosthetics were attached to his underdeveloped limbs. Akweba shrugged.
“The weather’s already cold enough to make me sleepy, but now cold air keeps getting into my joints. Every step feels like death. I wanted to stay in bed pretending to recuperate, but I got dragged out by these guys without even a proper explanation.”
“These guys?”
Akweba took a step back from the ‘Swords of the Winter King,’ who were muttering in contemptuous tones.
The swordsmen approaching Akweba instinctively froze at the roar of an approaching engine. They had to watch not only their front and back, but their sides as well. A vehicle reinforced with steel plates on the front slammed into the swordsmen one after another. The ‘Swords of the Winter King’ screamed as they watched their comrades get flung aside.
“Aaaaaah—! This is it—! This glorious, living sensation! With this chrome collision, I shall finally abandon this cursed body and attain enlightenment—”
A blade plunged into the mouth of the driver who had been babbling in ecstasy. There was a violent crash. Only one swordsman avoided instant death. The elf who had luckily clung to the vehicle’s fender swallowed a groan and thrust his sword into the driver’s seat.
But the counterattack was utterly meaningless. The skeleton Ramkaf, whose jawbone had popped off on one side, let out a shrill scream and reversed. The swordsman who had been rolling across the steel plate and thrown off was suddenly yanked into the air by a chain wrapped around his neck.
“I rushed out after hearing the new arena master had gone missing, but why the hell are there so many random bastards on the street? Beni told me to head this way!”
Kilika, who had been strangling a swordsman with a chain atop a pile of garbage, tossed the now-motionless body at the remaining enemies and fled. The swordsmen from the opposite direction who tried to pursue him were knocked flying by another chain that flew in from a different trajectory.
Something flew toward Nathan as he looked up to find the source of the attack. A thick-bladed two-hander embedded itself in the ground at his feet like a thrown spear. On the rooftop of a small building, Hodrick Niko gave a nod.
Nathan pulled the sword free and slung it over his shoulder. Then he ran again.
Aspen.
“Father said that if he could see you disappear, he would gladly start a war. It was my mistake not to realize he was serious about unleashing the dragon’s fire.”
It wasn’t far. Just a few turns through the alleys was enough. The bastard was waiting there without any intention of running.
Nathan couldn’t stand that arrogant attitude.
“But if we don’t correct this mistake now, even more blood will flow. To minimize future conflict, your head is necessary.”
Nathan kept exhaling hot breath through the gaps in his helmet. It felt like fire would pour out instead of air. It wasn’t just from burning calories while running at full speed. Rage was boiling all the way to the top of his head.
“It would be better for everyone if we ended this quickly. That way, less meaningless blood will be shed. Of course, I know this must feel infinitely unfair to you.”
The Protector Lord of the Northern Kingdom, Morbi Ingr, rose from his seat. Behind him lay a griffin pouring blood, and beneath it the brutally crushed Andau. And Aspen, sobbing inside a cage of ice as she desperately tried to hold his hand.
Father. Please. Don’t die.
Nathan’s upper and lower molars ground against each other as if trying to shatter.
“Still, I beg you. For the sake of the Heavens, can you not show noble mercy? Just as you willingly walked into the punitive arena.”
Instead of answering, Nathan pointed the tip of his two-hander forward. The Protector Lord placed his hand on his scabbard with a somber expression.
“If you survive today, you must find Ulukabo and cut off his head. He was the one who told me how to lure you here.”