Chapter 82

Blood, fire, flesh, bone.

Things that should never fall from the sky began to descend. The sky, cerulean just moments before, turned crimson in a heartbeat, then faded into a murky gloom.

An incalculable mass of flames and corpses mingled, engulfing the battlefield in pandemonium.

“Uwaaa!”

An adrenaline-drenched dwarf warrior, wielding a hammer as large as himself, charged a mutant.

Elves forced steady breaths as they drew back their bows, and orcs swung their weapons, heedless of burning flesh or dissolving skin.

“Jenzaaang! Save meeee! My leg, my leeeeg!”

Someone’s flesh torn, limbs ripped free.

“Next! Next, where is the next one! My axe thirsts for blood! Astella has granted me power! I am born with the duty to cleave these masses of flesh!”

Someone consumed by madness, driven to the brink.

“Hooo…”

Bell Artua, pipe clenched between his teeth, watched it all from a removed distance.

“I’m ready.”

Beside him stood the saintess, Grisha, her hand finding his back.

Calloused fingers, resting there, flooded Bell with divine energy.

“A godforsaken two months.”

The stench of flesh and bone was embedded deep within Bell’s lungs. The word “death” had become too familiar, while, in contrast, he struggled to recall the meaning of “fragrance”.

Every single day a continuation of survival.

Ironically, this survival demanded he drive other soldiers to their doom.

…His left arm throbbed anew.

Screams, of unknown origin, erupted from within the ranks, mingled with the masses of flesh. Arms severed, shoulders rotting, still the soldiers swung their weapons.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

“Let’s end this, now.”

Bell Artua was well and truly seasoned to it all.

“Yes.”

*Thump!*

Upon the chaotic battlefield, a colossal impact resounds.

The hardened ground cracks, and through the fissures, mud erupts.

Soldiers, drenched in madness and adrenaline, howling near-animal cries, fall silent in an instant.

Their arms, unyielding to any shock, weapons clenched, attacks unrelenting, freeze solid.

It was not merely the Allied forces.

All the demons, including the Archlord, even the mutated creatures devoid of basic intelligence… no, even the most rudimentary perception, could not help but halt.

Every element comprising the battlefield

Falls silent for one man.

“Torn from the clock face. A line etched across the world. A frozen beast.”

Breaking that silence was none other than Bell Artus.

He had known beforehand that this man, slowly straightening from the shattered mud, would appear.

He had even deliberately positioned himself far from the battlefield’s center to prevent his own brain from momentarily seizing under the man’s overwhelming murderous aura.

“A policy of separation. The death of a girl. A slave stewing in a cauldron.”

Thanks to this, he was able to act a step ahead of the others.

“Severance.”

He completed the spell’s chant and its magical name flawlessly.

Whoosh—

The sharp wind, previously tearing across the battlefield, ceased abruptly.

A translucent barrier surged up instantaneously, blanketing the Allied lines, the no-man’s-lands, and sealing off all directions.

“…He got me.”

Maltiel, belatedly regaining his senses, was aware of the cold sweat gathering in his palm.

“Damn.”

Beside Maltiel, Mikael stared, disoriented, at the walls enclosing them on all sides.

“…What, what are *you* doing here?”

Raguel couldn’t mask the shock on his face as he beheld the man standing in the heart of the battlefield.

“M-Mikael, Maltiel! Inform the Demon Lord immediately! This mad b*stard has abandoned the North and shown up here!”

A slender blade slid from its scabbard.

Raguel retreated, screaming at the top of his lungs.

The completely unforeseen variable robbed him of the thought to use his wings – his greatest weapon – or to even consider reporting to the Demon Lord himself.

“It doesn’t reach. No, it’s not just that it doesn’t reach…it feels like the Demon Lord has vanished from his position.”

Mikael closed his eyes, concentrating his mind, but his thoughts failed to find purchase on the Northern front.

“…Is it the effect of this barrier? I can’t send word to the Demon Lord either.”

Maltiel smiled bitterly as he gazed at the transparent wall encompassing the battlefield.

“From this moment forward, the Grand General will give the allied forces ten seconds.”

The Overlords, regaining their composure belatedly, soon heard a voice resonating from the center of the battlefield.

“Those among the soldiers who are injured to the extent that combat is difficult, withdraw from the front lines.”

Among those present on this field, there was no one who did not recognize the speaker’s voice.

“Furthermore, those who lack the skill to the extent that they will be an impediment to my fight, also withdraw from the front lines.”

A slender, long blade, a thick leather coat, and immaculate white garments, without a single wrinkle. Auburn hair.

“This is an order. Reform your ranks within ten seconds.”

With a deafening roar, this man descended onto the battlefield.

The Allied Forces’ Grand General, a figure worthy of being called the hope of the continent.

A Sword Saint.

“A-All non-combat personnel, retreat to the rear through the trenches! That includes the wounded, and all those with insufficient experience, privates and below! Anyone else who feels their skills lacking, follow my voice!”

Officers, consumed by the heat of battle and adrenaline, belatedly shouted, trying to bring order to the soldiers.

Wounded men, who had been clinging to life, were helped to the back of the formation by young and inexperienced soldiers.

“…”

Not even the lesser Variants, nor the Overlords themselves, could dare to interfere as the soldiers calmly retreated from the battlefield.

Because the Sword Saint, having drawn his blade, was glaring at them.

“…Ten seconds have passed. I will take it that everyone who remains standing with me is prepared to die.”

Though the killing intent wasn’t directed at the Allied Forces, those with less experience felt their legs tremble and their breath quicken.

Yet, every single one of those still standing on the battlefield with him felt an immense honor simply to be on the same field as this man.

“So this… is the Sword Saint, seen on the battlefield.”

The white-haired boy, confronted with the miracle unfolding before his eyes, could do nothing but utter his admiration.

With the appearance of one man, the tide of the battlefield was immediately reversed.

“All troops.”

He didn’t need to swing his sword, nor shout loudly.

The one who could silence the battlefield simply by standing there was the Sword Saint.

“Advance.”

The one who could change the course of history with a single word was the Sword Saint.

“Uwaaa!”

“All forces! Charge that monster! Disregard the others, just stop that thing at all costs!”

Raguel, backpedaling, ordered a full assault from all his variant creatures, all his demons.

The grotesque mounds of flesh scattered across the battlefield congealed into one place, becoming a massive wave surging toward him.

Atop that wave, lesser demons, wings pathetically spread, charged alongside, and behind them, higher demons prepared dark magic.

“Vel, anything I should be especially wary of?”

The Sword Saint, unfazed even with the bizarre and overwhelming wave before him, asked calmly. His blade was chillingly sharp, as if freshly honed, and veins stood out on the back of his hand, throbbing with rage.

“Leave none alive.”

Vel Artua, focused on maintaining the barrier, replied without a moment’s hesitation.

Hearing Vel’s answer, the Sword Saint slowly tilted his blade forward.

The wave of flesh Raguel had created was closing in, threatening to obliterate everything in its path.

Without the slightest tremor, the Sword Saint merely spread his legs slowly, one in front of the other, and bent his knees.

The next instant, clods of mud erupted from the spot where the Sword Saint had stood.

A sudden heat haze shimmered across the battlefield. As if space itself were warping, the instantaneous compression and expansion of air created refractions of light.

A sonic boom slammed into the soldiers’ ears, and an immense gust of wind whipped around, carrying chunks of mud in all directions. Soldiers reflexively covered their ears and squeezed their eyes shut.

The powerful explosion was so intense that even the sturdy orcs felt a throbbing headache. The white-haired boy nearly lost consciousness for a moment.

Regaining their senses belatedly, the soldiers slowly opened their eyes to see what had happened before them.

There, only a lake of green blood and a man holding a slender sword remained.

His shirt and outer coat were still spotless, as if he had just changed into them.