Chapter 8

A burning forest. Exploding azure lightning. A battlefield saturated with blood and screams. The keen ring of steel.

All of it fell silent in an instant.

With the arrival of one man, every element of the battlefield froze.

A sharp longsword at his waist and countless daggers concealed within his coat indirectly spoke of this man’s profession.

However, despite being a warrior entering a battlefield, the man wore no armor whatsoever. Yet, no one on that battlefield dared worry for this man who appeared, his white robes billowing.

Sword Saint.

Those two rigid, trite words materialized on the battlefield.

“That’s enough.”

With the Sword Saint’s terse pronouncement, the Archduke’s arm, which had been clutching the boy’s throat, was severed. Black blood, laced with potent poison, gushed forth like a fountain.

The Sword Saint, who had certainly been standing in the middle of the forest path, somehow now wielded a sword gleaming in the moonlight, and somehow again was cradling the falling boy, landing gently on the side of the road.

“…You arrived sooner than I expected. Barely a minute and twenty seconds have passed, wouldn’t you say?”

“I had a task nearby. Bad luck for you.”

The Archduke contorted his face as if annoyed, and flapped his wings. The area burned by the boy’s electricity had long since regenerated with new skin.

“Where are the others, and you come alone, whelp…!”

The Archduke, seemingly acquainted with the Sword Saint, inquired about his companions with a savage expression.

“They’re such slowpokes, you see. I came ahead. Why, did you wish to exchange greetings after so long?”

Setting the boy down on the roadside, the Sword Saint twisted in the air, aiming his silver longsword at the Archduke’s neck.

“After I relieve you of your head, I’ll grant everyone the opportunity to formally greet you. So don’t feel too left out.”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the Sword Saint kicked off the air and charged forward.

Archduke Maltiel grimaced as if enduring something tedious, twisting his wings to alter his trajectory mid-air.

*Boom!*

Maltiel’s wings tore and the Sword Saint landed on the ground. A crater formed around where he planted his feet, as if a meteor had struck.

“Tch…”

The Archduke glanced between the boy, who was by now surrounded by soldiers, and the Sword Saint, slowly rising to his feet on the ground. He clicked his tongue in regret before soaring higher into the sky.

‘A one-on-one fight with the Sword Saint is a battle I cannot win. Moreover, there is the potential that the white-haired 7th Circle mage will regain consciousness and join the fray.’

It was certainly a shame to leave the mage, who was destined to become a great monster, alive.

‘…I must admit it. My only option left is to flee.’

But Maltiel, indulging in some foolhardy bravado here, would accomplish not the demise of the white-haired boy, but instead, losing his own life to the humans without inflicting any real harm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Of course, the Swordsman would never simply watch the Grand Warlord flee.

A keen dagger found purchase on Maltiel’s wings, floating high above in air so thin it stung the lungs.

The throwing dagger, hidden beneath the Swordsman’s leather coat, carved a perfect straight line through the heavens, and pierced its mark.

Maltiel faltered in the air for a moment, and the Swordsman seized the opportunity, launching himself from the ground.

Upon the crater he’d already created, another, even more massive, was instantly born.

The ground quaked beneath their feet as the Swordsman took flight.

Trees screamed as they toppled, their enormous roots ripped bare from the earth. Archer-mutants, perched amongst the ancient branches drawing their bows, were shaken loose by the sudden tremor, falling listlessly from the boughs like overripe acorns.

*Thwack-*

With a sharp sound, the Grand Warlord’s head was severed from his body.

“…Unpleasant.”

Even with his neck cleanly severed, the Grand Warlord did not die. From the severed head, spinal bone rapidly sprouted, flesh swelled and bloomed, and soon, a complete, new body had formed.

The Grand Warlord tore his gaze away from the Swordsman, who twisted in the air to strike him again, and stared down at the ground below.

At the end of the Grand Warlord’s gaze lay the white-haired mage, collapsed and listless, seemingly having exhausted all of his strength, and the soldiers, arranged in formation and fighting against the mutants to protect him.

“Arise!”

With the Grand Warlord’s urgent cry, cracks spiderwebbed across the ground.

Enormous tentacles, hidden beneath the surface, burst forth from the earth.

A colossal mutant, a fusion of ancient tree and Orc, appeared on the battlefield.

The mutant wielded its enormous tentacles like whips, lashing out against the tightly packed soldiers.

“……Engaging in such base acts.”

“He’s clever, you witless whelp.”

The Archdemon, with a displeased chuckle, vigorously moved his newly sprouted wings and began his escape.

The Sword Saint alternated his gaze between the rapidly receding Archdemon and the army, on the brink of annihilation by the gargantuan Mutants.

Malthiel, the Archdemon, had revealed himself after three long years.

If the Archdemon were to be slain, countless demons would fall into a state of dysfunction. The number of people harmed by Malthiel’s demons alone would easily exceed hundreds of thousands.

Therefore, capturing the Archdemon was akin to saving the lives of hundreds of thousands who would otherwise be sacrificed.

Though it was regrettable that those below were losing their lives, from a broader perspective, pursuing the Archdemon who had appeared after three years took precedence over saving their immediate lives.

The Sword Saint knew this fact better than anyone.

Knew it better than anyone, yet…

*Shhht-*

A colossal tentacle is cleaved in two with a chilling sound.

“……Everyone, behind me.”

He was not so rational, so reasonable, that he could abandon those dying now for the sake of the countless people who might die tomorrow.

“All forces, rise, fight, and die.”

As if echoing the words of the Archdemon who had already vanished beyond sight, cracks began to appear across the ground beneath the Sword Saint’s feet.

Countless ancient trees toppled, and between their roots, Mutants of all sizes revealed themselves.

“The wounded focus solely on healing. I will eliminate all threats.”

“……But the Archdemon!”

Rex, an Orc who had lost one arm, cried out as he gazed at the heavens, already obscured by the stars.

The soldiers here, every single one, would gladly offer their own lives if it meant severing the Archdemon’s head.

They had witnessed neighbors torn apart by the Changed, wives twisted into monstrous forms in the hands of the demonic.

“Silence. I know it well enough.”

The Sword Saint’s expression soured, as if he, too, disliked the choice he’d made, his response sharp.

For it was the Sword Saint himself who was most tormented by this foolish decision.

“Just…quietly recover your strength.”

With those words, the Sword Saint slowly raised the sword in his hand.

* * *

I slowly opened my eyes, overwhelmed by the faint rays of the dawning sun.

My waist screamed in protest, feeling as though it was being ripped apart, my temples throbbed. My arms and legs were bound in splints, crudely applied, and the pressure around my head suggested bandages.

I couldn’t quite recall at what point I had lost consciousness.

Meeting the Archdemon… being pushed to the very brink of death. I remember hearing the Sword Saint’s voice…

But what happened after that?

I waited for my blurry vision to return, carefully lifting my upper body to survey my surroundings.

“…Madness.”

A spectacle unfolded around me, one that involuntarily drew a curse from my lips.

The world was entirely painted with vibrant, sickening hues of blood.

Ancient trees, drenched in ichor that held both fire and poison, lay fallen, charred black. Upon the fallen giants were piled chunks of flesh, their original purpose utterly unknowable.

A spine as large as a house stood erect in the center of the path, as if it were a macabre standard, and colossal hammers and blades, whose wielders were unimaginable, were scattered everywhere.

“Awake, are you?”

I stared, numb, at the ruined forest. Then, a familiar voice drifted to my ears.

Turning, I saw the Sword Saint standing there.

The only character in the entire game to boast a three-digit level, a hero of the Allied Forces seen only in the very late-game Demon Lord raids. The strongest human in this world, no less.

“I’ve heard of your exploits. Tremendous talent, even at your young age. To face the Archduke as an equal…”

“As an equal? No, sir, not at all. It was merely good fortune.”

I corrected the Sword Saint’s misapprehension with the utmost politeness. I had simply been stalling for time, fleeing, adding a bit of bravado to the mix.

*As an equal?* Who in the world was spouting such nonsense?

“Rex has told me everything. Humility is a virtue, but not when it requires distorting the truth.”

…Rex is the one distorting things, not me. Why are you doing this too, sir?

“The Archduke ambushed this place, targeting you and only you, I hear. Is Rex’s account accurate?”

“…Yes. It is.”

“And you faced such an Archduke, one-on-one, and yet stand here alive, with all your limbs intact.”

“…Yes. That is also correct.”

“Rex also mentioned you are a high-ranking 7th Circle mage. Is that, too, the truth?”

“That, at least, is not the truth. I possess, at best, the magical power of a 4th Circle mage.”

After dozens of tests beyond the computer screen, I learned a character with a magic stat of 20 was rated as a 4th Circle mage the moment they were created.

That seemed to be the source of his misunderstanding.

“I never entered a magic tower, nor have I formally studied magic. I am a vagrant by birth, and I do not know how to cultivate the magic within me, nor how to wield it with precision.”

“…What?”

The Sword Saint’s expression twisted in disbelief at my unwavering reply. His face turned serious, and he began to circle me, stroking his chin.

“Pity, wouldn’t you say? A mage who’s attained the 7th Circle at this age? That’s practically a national-level talent.”

Apparently, Rex had overheard their conversation with the Archduke and reported his misunderstanding directly to the Sword Saint.

It’s unfortunate, but I’m just a freshly hatched mage, barely four days old.

And with a build that’s…peculiar, to say the least.

I am not the entity you believe me to be, so I wish you would cease bothering me.

I need to reach the Mage Tower quickly and hone my skills, grow strong enough to at least protect my own skin.

“You will accompany me to the Imperial Palace at dawn.”

“Pardon?”

Huh?

“Limitless potential, truly. A mere 4th Circle mage managing to contend with the Archduke on equal footing…and without proper training, no less? I know not from whence such a monstrosity as yourself emerged, but this must be reported to His Imperial Majesty and the kings of the three allied nations.”

“…Pardon?!”

What? The Emperor? Allied kings?

“Are you versed in basic etiquette? Slip-ups before His Majesty and the kings can become troublesome. I shall impart at least the rudiments now, with haste.”

…What in blazes is this cretin babbling about?