Chapter 88

“Bell’s condition?”

The Swordmaster’s voice, abrupt, from the rear of the formation. He materialized there, bringing with him a light gust of wind.

Riding the Swordmaster’s wind, the acrid scent of burning flesh brushed past the nose. Gooseflesh bloomed on the spine in an instant.

“…The worst has passed, for now. Pulse, breath – both are stable.”

“When will she awaken?”

“That, I cannot say. She might wake tomorrow, or never at all.”

Grisha, as if having exhausted all possible remedies, spoke softly, smoothing down Bell’s ink-dark hair.

“Spatial magic is a perilous art, capable of melting a mage’s mind simply by sustaining it… She dispelled that magic in a heartbeat, and took the Overlord’s explosion head-on. Even if she wakes, there may be permanent brain damage.”

Grisha gently stroked Bell’s arms and legs, a look of profound grief upon her face. Most of the wounds, ripped open by the explosion, had healed, but severed limbs do not simply grow back.

Even if Bell opens her eyes, her missing arm and leg will have to be replaced with dwarven prosthetics.

She may spend the majority of her remaining years in a chair, in a bed, and her days as a general on the field are likely over.

There are cases, rare as they may be, like Rex, who returned to the battlefield with a prosthetic arm, but these are stories reserved for warriors and archers who have trained their bodies to the absolute limit.

“What miracle is there in this, then?”

Grisha spoke, jaw clenched, as if disgusted by her own helplessness. Her clothes were soaked scarlet with blood, her face cast in a black shadow of despair.

The Saintess, who always wore a kind smile, was nowhere to be found; upon the hill stood only a woman, heartbroken at the loss of someone more precious than a comrade.

“…Damn it.”

The Saintess, finally, uttered the curse with her soft, delicate voice.

The tongue and lips that should be reciting benevolent prayers were stained with profane words, but no one on that battlefield could bring themselves to stop her.

Grisha bit her lip. Blood trickled down her chin.

Drop.

And again.

Drop.

A few beads of blood fell onto Bel Artua’s cheek.

Despair weighed on her shoulders, sorrow dragging her ankles down, down into the depths.

“There are instructions Bel left. Gather all personnel fit for combat. The most capable among us.”

Grisha swallowed all the emotion that swirled around her and rose to her feet.

Her legs trembling as she stood, Grisha’s eyes held an indescribable, immense rage and obsession.

It was frightening.

Perhaps everyone on this battlefield, not just I, felt terror looking into her eyes.

The benevolent Saintess was no longer standing atop that hill.

It was a general consumed by fury.

“Squad Leaders and above, assemble!”

In accordance with the Saintess’s request, the Sword Saint shouted from the hilltop in a booming voice. Soldiers, mesmerized by Grisha’s unprecedented appearance, belatedly began to rush up the hill.

Caught in the line of soldiers, I too ascended the hill.

“From this moment forward, we commence the operation to hunt down and eliminate the Archduke.”

Up close, Grisha’s eyes burned with a resolve bordering on madness.

“First, General, you are to track Mikael. Bel said you should be able to locate him through scent… You can do that, correct?”

“The Archduke’s unique, sickening odor of the dead permeates the air. I can pinpoint the approximate location of both Archdukes.”

Scent?

“Smell, you say?”

That Sword Saint…was he some kind of hound? He claimed to pinpoint the location of two monsters that had flown off at hundreds of kilometers per hour just by their scent.

His senses were so developed, it was beyond my comprehension.

If his five senses were that acute, I half-expected him to overhear even the soldier ants gossiping about their queen. Absurd, I know.

“While Generalissimo handles Michael, we’ll form a strike team to pursue Maltiel. Only soldiers who believe they’re still useful in a fight against a Great Overlord…gather around Bin-nim.”

Grisha hesitated just a moment before saying my name, then finished the order with grim resolve.

Following Grisha’s command, soldiers who were still intact, limb-wise, and possessed of some skill, began to flock to me.

“Wasn’t Bin-nim just supposed to be bait?”

My mentor, with his snow-white beard, questioned Grisha.

“Bin-nim has done more than his share. He’s a genius, yes, but still unripened. Even General Grisha must know it’s premature to pit him against a Great Overlord.”

Alter seemed uneasy about throwing someone as inexperienced as me into a full-scale battle with a Great Overlord.

“If Bin-nim dies in this fight, how will you handle the fallout? The war isn’t over yet. Bin-nim would be better off staying here and dealing with the mutants and demons that the two Great Overlords abandoned in their flight.”

“You’re saying we should fight a Great Overlord without a general? The strike team wouldn’t last a minute before being wiped out. Is that what you want?”

Grisha seized Alter by the collar with a bloodied arm and shouted.

Her violent, overbearing behavior was so unlike her usual self that the soldiers couldn’t believe the woman before them was truly Grisha.

“I’m not asking you to cut off Maltiel’s head! Just buy time until the Sword Saint arrives at Maltiel’s location! It won’t take more than five minutes. Surely you can manage that!”

Grisha’s voice was desperate, almost pleading. Tears threatened to spill from her bloodshot eyes, and the arm gripping Alter’s collar trembled like an aspen leaf.

“Bel promised the dying that he would kill all four Great Overlords. I…I…”

She lowered her head, still gripping Alter’s collar.

“Oh, what the hell, let’s do it then.”

I blurted out, half-impulsively, to Grisha, who was choked with emotion and unable to continue his story.

“…Lord Veen?”

Alter stared at me, incredulous.

“Why are you looking at me like that? I am a soldier of the Allied Forces, am I not?”

I knew perfectly well that I was far from being a match for the Grand Duke.

The correct answer here was to say I would stay.

There were any number of ways to flee the battlefield, if it came to that.

I could even spout some ridiculous nonsense like, ‘My death is tantamount to the death of the continent’s future. I will not risk it.’ and those present would likely nod in agreement.

Furthermore, I was not skilled enough to restrain a Grand Duke on my own, as some of the other generals could.

My experience was lacking, my training was insufficient, my capabilities were inadequate.

Everyone knew this.

“Let’s prepare quickly. How exactly do we track him? There is a method, yes?”

Despite all of that, I stubbornly chose the wrong answer.

Why did I do it?

…I don’t know.

A soldier’s sense of duty? No, that’s certainly not it.

Concern for the soldiers who would die at the hands of Maltiel? Well… I do feel some pity, but that’s not the whole answer either.

I haven’t the slightest idea what emotion drove me to this impetuous act.

‘…Do I really need to find a reason?’

The time I ran away from home to pursue music, the battle against the demons in the tutorial city of Stradus, the absurd declaration I made before the kings of the four races, claiming I would live as a genius.

Most of the important events in my life have unfolded because I couldn’t resist some absurd impulse.

It’s the same now.

I just felt like it.

So what? It’s my life; I’ll wager it where I please.

“It’s not a hopeless endeavor, so please don’t worry too much, Alter.”

I know that.

I’m just a fledgling, barely grasping the basics of magic. The artifact compensated for my weaknesses, but objectively and subjectively, my skills were far too lacking to face a Grand Overlord one-on-one.

One-on-one, that is.

But among those who will stand with me are Alter, and Rex, who, having absorbed the artifact, is immeasurably stronger than before. And, though I don’t like it, I can borrow, at least a little, the power of ‘Dajin,’ the lightning spirit.

I’m not fighting alone…

Wouldn’t five minutes be manageable?

“Exactly five minutes. I’ll give you five minutes, so secure Michael and rejoin us, quickly.”

“Enough.”

The Sword Saint answered while stretching his calf and ankle muscles. Even for a Sword Saint, it seemed necessary to loosen the muscles in his lower body beforehand in order to pursue a Grand Overlord who had already flown hundreds of kilometers away.

“The Great General aside, how are we in the strike team supposed to chase Maltiel? We can’t pick up any scent, and we don’t have the ability to keep up with the Grand Overlord’s speed at full throttle….”

*Thap.*

Grisha answered by folding her hands in prayer. With each tremble of her lips, a large spherical shield began to form around the strike team clustered around me.

“Uh, why the shield all of a sudden…?”

I didn’t understand, so I asked Grisha.

I’d expected a buff like ‘Grace of Acceleration,’ but instead, a solid spherical barrier was enveloping us.

“Tss…! Hooo.”

While I was still puzzling over the situation, unable to grasp it, I caught sight of the Sword Saint in the corner of my vision. He was taking deep breaths, his arms and legs spread perhaps a little too wide.

The posture he struck while inhaling deeply reminded me of the free-kick stance of a player once hailed as the best in the world.

A certain Portuguese fellow now spending his twilight years in the Middle East…

“Oh, crap, hold on!”

A bad premonition flashed through my mind.

A spherical barrier, two Archdukes a long distance away, the Sword Saint preparing a free kick.

…This really feels like something has gone horribly wrong.

Tap! Tap!

“Woah, wa-wait, hey!”

The Sword Saint started bounding forward with light steps.

If any football scout had seen his stance, they’d probably make him every offer they could to snatch up this madman immediately.

His left arm began to draw a wide circle, his upper body leaned forward slightly, and his steps were neither too fast nor too slow.

The Sword Saint’s planted foot took root in the perfect spot, and then, his right instep struck the bottom of the ball (containing nearly thirty soldiers) with precision.

Heh, quite the perfect impact.

The ball carrying me (most of the thirty-odd occupants armed with massive swords or axes) shot off eastward at several hundred kilometers per hour.

“Uwaaa!”

“What in the world is this!”

“Hey, swords! Swords are flying everywhere! Watch your damn weapons, you b*stards!”

…It goes without saying that things inside became utterly chaotic.

Ha…

Should’ve just stayed with the wounded.