Chapter 87

The barrier dissolved. A colossal wall, a trap netting encompassing all four Grand Dukes within its tens of kilometers radius, vanished as if it had never existed.

“Ha! A grand success!”

Malthael swiftly scanned his surroundings, rapidly grasped the situation, and wore a smile. Michael, the originator of the explosion, also wore an expression of satisfaction, as his life-risking gamble had paid off.

Without hesitation, the two Grand Dukes stretched their wings wide and began to flee Valerand.

Michael, the one who created the explosion, had his skin scraped by the spears and swords wielded by the soldiers who belatedly rushed to protect Bell, but he did not sustain any serious injuries.

Malthael, too, had magic and arrows flying at him in interception, but he paid them no mind.

“…Damn it.”

The boy could only utter a curse, staring with a vacant expression at the two Grand Dukes who had begun their hasty retreat.

As a result, two Grand Dukes escaped from Valerand.

Michael to the west, Malthael to the east.

“Bell…?”

While the two Grand Dukes fled the scene, the voice of the saintess, filled with despair, silenced the battlefield.

Bell Artua, the mage, had lost an arm and a leg, bled dozens of liters of blood, and was covered in severe burns across his body.

“…Ah, I missed.”

Bell leaned his body against Grisha, a hollow laugh escaping his lips.

He felt pain somewhere in his body, but he couldn’t tell where it was originating from.

Something within his body was terribly wrong, but he had no leisure to pinpoint it. Perhaps it was from the hasty unraveling of the spatial magic; it felt as though some part of his brain had been irrevocably damaged.

“Hey, Bell.”

His limbs felt ragged, torn apart.

His brain belatedly registered the pain.

Breath, he needed to breathe, but his lungs were only expelling air, refusing to draw it in.

His consciousness flickered, fading in and out.

Once, he felt an intensely bright light engulfing his entire body, and another time, pitch-black darkness consuming him whole.

Bell Artua had lost an arm and a leg and now lay prostrate, alone on the border between life and death.

“…Why… why did you do it?”

The Saintess Grisha, cradling Bell Artua’s tattered body in her arms, asked the question. Her voice trembled, and her eyes were bloodshot.

“What?”

Bell Artua replied with his eyes closed. The constant shifting between light and darkness tormented his vision, making it impossible to keep them open.

“Why did you shield me?”

Grisha squeezed the edges of Bell Artua’s dissolving clothes in her fist, her voice tight.

“…Huh? Ah.”

The moment the explosion erupted from Michael’s finger. Bell Artua’s mind was preoccupied with dismantling the spatial barrier that had enveloped Valerand, drawing every available nerve to concentrate on that task. Even the conscious effort to command his body to duck or cower from the blast was nonexistent in that instant for Bell.

“Don’t know, myself.”

Nevertheless, at the instant of the explosion, Bell’s body moved.

Bell shielding Grisha from the explosion was not a deliberate act of thought. It would be more accurate to say that ‘his body moved on its own.’

“…Well, I figured if you were alive, you’d somehow keep me alive, too.”

So Bell answered with whatever words came to mind.

Truth was, there was no real reason.

Her body had simply moved on its own… But confessing that would only invite Grisha’s relentless questioning.

She was too weary, too drowsy. She had no desire to engage in a verbal sparring match. Better to offer a flimsy excuse and simply rest.

“Consider my position, at least!”

Grisha’s voice, cracking, shrieked.

The soldiers, hearing the despair in her voice, were lost. They couldn’t bring themselves to approach her.

The pillar of the battlefield, who always offered a benevolent smile and worked miracles, the blade of the battlefield, who always issued commands with unwavering composure, had crumbled in an instant.

“…Position? Ah, yes. Position. Of course, there is a position.”

Bell, teetering on the boundary between life and death, heard Grisha’s voice and babbled like a madman.

Grisha hastily withdrew the barrier that had been swirling around her and began to offer a healing prayer.

It was the most fervent prayer she had ever uttered in her life.

A green light began to embrace Bell’s skin, which was burning bright red. The sensation of being ablaze gradually faded, replaced by a warm, comforting sensation that enveloped her entire body. The pain lessened, and the chaos that had consumed her mind from dispelling the spatial magic began to recede.

“…Grisha.”

“Silence.”

Grisha had no intention of letting Bell rest.

“Right. I haven’t earned the right to rest yet.”

Bell, watching Grisha offer a desperate prayer to save her, murmured to herself.

“When Sword Saint Raguel returns after dealing with… those things… tell him to track the scent. The wind has picked up, so the scent will dissipate quickly. He must move fast.”

Bell Artois, shaking off the helplessness and exhaustion that threatened to engulf her, began to speak.

“Assemble a strike force. Excluding Bean, gather at least twenty lieutenants. With the Archons falling, there’s no need for so many skilled soldiers on this battlefield.”

His war was not yet over.

“…That’s enough. Just focus on surviving.”

Grisha, having finished one prayer, spoke with a choked voice before launching into the next.

“Michael is strong against mages, so send a Sword Saint after him. Maltiel will be pursued by the strike force. Emphasize that they must avoid combat as much as possible, acting only to buy time until the Sword Saint arrives.”

Bell appeared determined to ignore everything she said.

Eventually, tears burst forth. Grisha, unable to bear the sight of Bell ranting on without a thought for her own condition, could say nothing more.

She could only offer a prayer for this poor soul.

“…I can’t rest, Grisha. I promised, to my men. That I would gift them victory, no matter what. This half-baked, pathetic excuse… the dead won’t be satisfied.”

In Bell’s exposed eyes, a fierce anger smoldered, alongside a profound guilt.

If things continued this way, Bell would never truly rest, even in the grave.

Even in death, he would chase the shadows of Maltiel and Michael, a vengeful spirit forever cursing those two monsters, and he would gladly embrace that fate.

“…”

The guidance of Astella, or the peace of the afterlife.

Bell Artua had no need for such things.

All he needed was proof that this war, which had driven so many of his men to their deaths, had been worth it.

“Make sure the strike force includes mages. And have them fire loud, visible spells high into the sky at regular intervals. Avoid engagement if possible, but if Maltiel attacks first…”

Bell continued to ramble on about the detailed execution of the plan, the methods of pursuit, and the rules of engagement, to Grisha, who was reciting her prayers.

“Hoo, in that case…”

Then finally, his tongue began to freeze.

A chill, like a shard of ice, pierced his chest, jabbing at his heart. The all-encompassing agony that had blanketed him began to recede, little by little.

“……”

Bel felt, with a visceral certainty, that the next words he uttered might be the last of his life.

And then, the countless calculations and strategies that had crowded his mind vanished, leaving it utterly blank.

In the whiteness, only a single phrase remained.

“Thank you, Grisha.”

* * *

The two Archdukes revealed themselves at the very rear of the Allied forces’ formation.

Thanks to their plan, squeezed dry of all wisdom, Bel and Grisha were left exposed to a surprise attack. The result: Bel Artua lay gravely wounded.

Furthermore, the barrier that had enveloped them crumbled away, and Maltiel and Mikael fled the battlefield.

The Sword Saint was aware of it all, yet he did not rush to the rear to provide support. His blade only sought Raguel, who stood before him.

“They’re running! Look, Maltiel and Mikael are escaping, you b*stard!”

Raguel shrieked, trying to evade the Sword Saint’s deadly point.

“Aren’t you worried about your comrades?! And you’re going to let them run away like this?! You should be rushing to salvage the situation…”

*Thwick!*

Raguel’s neck, having flitted through the sky at hundreds of kilometers per hour, chattering incessantly, was severed cleanly. The severed head instantly decayed, turning to dust and disappearing. A new head sprouted from the torso in its place.

“You crazy son of a b*tch, what did I ever do to you that makes you fixate on me like this!”

The Sword Saint was quite clear on the distinction between what he could do, and what he could not.

The situation on the battlefield had undeniably shifted. The Archdukes, once trapped like rats, had inflicted significant damage and were now desperately seeking escape.

Bel’s plan, conceived amidst the stench of blood and sleepless nights, had crumbled. And one of the few Ninth-Circle mages on the continent lay gravely injured.

Even so, the Swordsman diligently continued what he had to do amidst this chaotic battlefield.

“At this rate, we’ll lose both Grand Dukes! Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to sacrifice me, and go after those two right now?! It’s not too late yet, you could kill them both! Killing two is far more advantageous than killing one…!”

*Thwik-*

The Swordsman plunged his blade into Raguel’s left breast, as the Duke frantically flapped his wings to escape. The blade slipped through skin and muscle as smoothly as slicing tofu.

As Raguel twisted his body in desperation, the Swordsman twisted the blade, wrenching it free. The speed at which he twisted and pulled was so great, that a miniature whirlwind formed around the Swordsman’s blade.

Raguel’s bone and flesh were pulverized by the tiny vortex created by the Swordsman’s thin blade, leaving a gaping hole in his left breast. Within the hole created by the Swordsman, a pitch-black sphere, the size of a walnut, revealed itself.

“Wait…! You son of a b*tch. The situation has cha…”

*Thwack!*

The Swordsman’s blade pierced Raguel’s chest once more, as he desperately tried to cover his weakness with flesh and bone.

This time, the sound of tearing flesh and bone was accompanied by the shattering of a glass marble.

“Worry not.”

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in the Swordsman’s actions.

Raguel’s body, its core destroyed, instantly began to rot and decay. Noxious blood evaporated, and the filthy flesh shriveled like dried squid.

“A man named Bel Artue doesn’t make empty promises, even on the verge of death.”

The Swordsman withdrew his sword from Raguel’s body as it turned to dust.

Sunlight shone brightly on the silver blade. Despite having ground through tens of tons of rotten flesh and bone, not a speck of grime clung to his blade, and the edge was chillingly sharp, as if freshly forged from the smithy.

“And he said that four Grand Dukes would die today.”

Three minutes and ten seconds since the Swordsman arrived in Vallerand.

“Four Grand Dukes will die today. It is already decided.”

The second Grand Duke had lost his life.