Chapter 150
Chapter 150
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 150
Chapter Title: The Road to the Cold Hell
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Therefore, arise. Attain your glory. Conquer your foes and enjoy a prosperous kingdom.
*Excerpt from Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 11*
***
The moment he faced the empty room of the Saintess.
Natsukawa, the priest in charge of the first-year students at Lord Howe Academy, did not panic.
It was partly because she had anticipated something like this would happen someday, and partly because she had already experienced the Saintess's escape (tentative?) once before.
Of course, composure was one thing, and what had happened was another.
The moment she saw the room stripped completely bare—especially of the sacred relic—she immediately called Hoana Tulle and the principal.
"The Saintess? Haah... I'll check the airport entry and exit logs right away."
Unlike the principal's flustered response, Hoana Tulle's reaction was utterly calm.
Far more so than Natsukawa had expected.
"She held out quite a while, though."
By the time Hoana Tulle and Natsukawa had searched the entire academy, and the principal had flown out at dawn to track down records of the Saintess's getaway.
A call came in on Natsukawa's phone.
[Saintess]
Against all odds, it was the Saintess calling from an international line. Collect call, no less.
"...Saintess?"
Hoana took the phone. Just in case Natsukawa might say something irreverent to her.
In any case, the Saintess's voice on the other end of the line was as flighty as ever.
"Hoana, when I ran off to Manchuria last time, who ended up suffering for it?"
What a brazen, considerate question. Hoana gave a small smile in response.
"The guards assigned to her detail got chewed out a bit."
"Were they dishonorably discharged?"
"No, they're all still with the Knight Order, carrying on without issue."
The Saintess's father had roughed them up until her whereabouts were confirmed, but there was no need to mention such minor details.
"So if I run off somewhere else, will you get fired, Hoana?"
"...Probably. Though since I'm already retired, you don't need to worry about me."
"Sorry. I'll bring back something tasty when I return."
"Wait, Saintess. Before you hang up, just one last question. Are you... with that crow right now?"
"Corbus? Yeah, he's here with me."
"Ah, in that case, leave things here to me. Tell that guy to cover his own meals."
With that, Hoana ended the call.
Natsukawa, who had been recording from the side, asked if they shouldn't try persuading her, but Hoana's reply was curt.
"Persuade the Saintess? How exactly?"
"..."
"Don't worry. Just pray."
"Why are you so nonchalant? What are you going to write in the report to the Priest Corps? The Saintess acting on her own..."
"It's a political matter. Has nothing to do with faith."
Hoana gazed off in the direction—likely where the Chicago dimensional gate lay.
"Don't doubt it, Natsukawa. The Saintess sees farther than we do."
***
The Saintess was gazing far away.
Beyond Lake Michigan, on an artificial island, a massive dimensional gate flickered.
What Earthlings called the Chicago Dimensional Gate.
Even as hordes of trucks and people streamed through it, she stared unflinchingly into the world beyond.
More precisely, into the future about to unfold.
"...Saintess?"
An familiar dwarven voice interrupted her foresight.
Turning her head, she saw a dwarf laden with rings on his fingers, bowing cautiously toward her.
The Saintess smiled and accepted his greeting.
"Thanks for granting such a tough request. Darulma."
"...When the Saintess asks personally, how could it be difficult?"
He said that, but exhaustion was etched deeply on Darulma's face.
And rightly so. Smuggling in heavy weapons via an illegal route in mere half a day was no small feat, even for a chaebol.
"Apologies, but you'll have to ride in the truck container to cross the gate."
"No need to apologize. Thank you—for indulging my whims."
Darulma simply bowed his head, overcome with emotion.
As the Saintess headed toward the prepared container truck, the massive crow standing beside her clacked its beak.
"Saintess. You can't just go empty-handed."
"...Pardon?"
"The old holy knight might let it slide, but this dwarf will face questions. At least tell him where you're headed."
Hearing the crow, the dwarf cleared his throat awkwardly. He pretended otherwise, but seemed grateful for her consideration.
"Oh... sorry. I didn't think of that, Darulma."
With that, the Saintess paused in thought. How much should she reveal?
If she said Dreytorial, Darulma would easily piece together what was happening in the city. Maybe even the priests in the holy city and the Americans.
And they'd guess her motives, panic, or try to stop her.
She didn't want that. Fewer variables in her foresight were better.
So, she spoke a truth laced with misdirection.
"The Dwarf Mountains. I'm planning to ride a bike there first."
An unexpected answer, perhaps. Darulma looked puzzled.
"May I ask why?"
"Meeting someone... well, not a person? Anyway, going to see a friend."
A brief silence.
As the dwarf mulled over her words, a massive container truck rumbled toward them—the very one to carry her beyond the gate.
"By any chance... is it the friend I think it is?"
The truck halted right in front of them, and Darulma asked—his tone exceedingly cautious.
The crow beside her glanced at the Saintess in confusion, but she only offered a meaningful smile.
Watching her smile for a moment, the dwarf's eyes widened in realization.
"...Please tell your friend it was an honor to help. Saintess."
Leaving his greeting behind, the Saintess climbed into the container. Soon after, the truck loaded with weapons, bike, and Saintess departed amid thick exhaust fumes.
Darulma watched the truck head toward the dimensional gate, unconsciously bowing his head deeply.
***
Yeomyeong lifted his head.
The concrete room where Seti and Neti had been moments ago had transformed into a snow-covered plain.
A change that occurred less than a second after he infused mana into the visionary relic.
Entering a trance this quickly? He frowned and scanned his surroundings.
But upon closer inspection, the snowy field felt far removed from a true trance.
How to describe it—like a single frozen frame from a movie or game, visible only to the eyes?
There was none of the tactile sensation unique to trances or mental realms.
Even standing amid the swirling blizzard, he felt no cold. Proof of that.
They say every visionary relic shows things differently. Is this one of those cases?
Just as Yeomyeong pondered briefly.
Something glinted between the piled snow. Unfamiliar to him—the gleam of a scope.
Bang!
Yeomyeong ducked reflexively, and the bullet grazed his hair.
As the severed strands fluttered down, he formed an ice spike and launched it toward the shot's origin.
The ice spike embedded silently into the scope.
But no blood sprayed—the sniper had ditched the rifle and leaped away instantly.
"You fucker!"
The sniper, cursing outright, was clad head to toe in white camouflage, exuding a sharp aura like some special forces operative.
What the hell is this guy? A trial from the visionary relic?
Whatever it was, he'd fired first—no mercy.
Yeomyeong hurled another ice spike. The guy drew a pistol from his hip and shot it down.
Marksmanship hard to believe even seeing it.
Yeomyeong admired it inwardly but didn't falter. If spikes wouldn't do, he'd ram a blade in personally.
Decision made, he channeled mana into his calves and unleashed Flying Leg Art.
Snow up to his thighs clutched at his ankles, but Wave Yang Art's mana cleaved it like a snowplow, propelling him forward.
"You barbaric bastard—"
The sniper bolted the opposite way, muttering something. Yeomyeong replied with another ice spike.
Bullets intercepted each one, but none aimed directly at him.
Because of the pistol's range? No, it felt more like...
In that instant, something snagged at his toe.
A superhuman's reflexes had him leaping away at the click, but the enemy seized the opening.
One landmine blast, one hidden gunshot within.
As Yeomyeong landed in the snow evading the explosion up close, a pistol round flew straight for his brow.
Had it been pre-telekinesis Yeomyeong, it would've pierced his skull—a flawless combo.
But only pre-telekinesis.
Just before the bullet struck, telekinesis formed, snaring it by a hair's breadth.
"Hah—!"
Seeing the bullet halt midair, the sniper let out a disbelieving scoff and fled across the snow again.
Instead of charging brutishly like before, Yeomyeong rose on tiptoe and stepped lightly on the snow.
Feather Step. More precisely, compressing Feather Step's lightness to the extreme—his body glided across the surface.
"...Snow-Treading Without Trace?"
The sniper muttered something incomprehensible and spun, firing his pistol.
Not at Yeomyeong—but at the booby trap he would've stepped on.
KABOOM!!
A deafening roar, shrapnel from the bomb, the blast's heat.
Yeomyeong raised an arm to shield his head and summoned mana, but absorbing the full shockwave was impossible.
As he rolled across the snow leaving a long trail, and the sniper reloaded.
From the explosion's smoke, a razor-thin spike gleamed.
By the time the sniper spotted it and turned, the ice spike was already at his nose.
Spurt—! His military hood tore, blood spraying through.
Not fatal, unfortunately. Though his ear was gone, blood streaming along his jaw.
"Oho, seasoned, huh?"
The wounded sniper's face was utterly ordinary.
A typical Slavic man, like any in Russia.
He glared briefly at where Yeomyeong had rolled, then launched himself away.
The next instant, invisible telekinesis swept the snow where he'd stood.
He thought he'd dodged, but the target had been the snow from the start.
The telekinesis-flung powder blinded him and...
That brief moment decided the fight.
Crunch.
Yeomyeong landed before the disoriented sniper. Point-blank range—sword and gun equalized.
A sticky silence rose between their locked eyes.
The sniper toyed with his pistol; Yeomyeong had drawn his sword.
As tension peaked, Yeomyeong spoke first.
"Think the test's gone on long enough. Should I take your head too?"
The sniper burst into laughter.
Blood poured from his mangled ear with each grin, staining the snow red beneath his face, yet he kept laughing.
"More than enough—overflowing! Even Spetsnaz rarely sees superhumans like you. Morine, that doting fool... no, daughter-obsessed idiot... found the right guy."
Daughter-obsessed idiot? Yeomyeong frowned slightly, but the man pressed on nonchalantly.
"I've been waiting since Manchuria, wondering when you'd use me. Curious why you let the relic rot... but now I get it. You were biding for the perfect moment."
"...Perfect moment?"
Yeomyeong tilted his head, confused.
He'd used the relic intending to pick up skills before baiting with it... What was this guy on about?
Misreading his expression, the sniper clapped his shoulder sympathetically.
"Hah, yeah. Not just fitting—perfect. With the old Soviet legacy right underfoot beyond the gate."
"..."
Old Soviet... what? Yeomyeong frowned.
"In this land free of Yankees and Moscow's fools, the blue rat's long-held wish will finally—wait, what's with that face?"
Only then did the sniper clock Yeomyeong's expression.
Bewilderment, confusion, a subtly mismatched vibe.
After an awkward eye exchange, he asked hesitantly.
"No way... you didn't use me to find the secret armory?"
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