If one could feel Will and move with it, couldn’t one also change?
‘Yes, it’s possible.’
He had already experienced it through his body and manifested it. The milky light that flowed through his sword had been caused by transferring the condensed Will into it.
If it could be done with a sword, it could also be done with the body. He gathered the remaining Will, condensed it, and unleashed it.
Ragna swung Penna four times.
* * *
The place where Ragna swung his sword was to Encrid’s front-left.
Drmule was also separated from his two companions, so it looked as if Encrid and Drmule were one group, while Ragna and the other two were another.
Encrid had already been racking his brain, trying to come up with various strategies before Ragna stepped forward.
Luagarne-style Tactical Swordsmanship didn’t rely solely on intuition.
Relying on intuition was Encrid’s own technique.
The foundation of Tactical Swordsmanship was probability calculation.
‘The path to survival?’
Or—
‘The options to win?’
Outwardly, his expression and demeanor were calm, but his mind was running countless calculations.
This battlefield was filled with innumerable variables.
And one of those massive variables entered Encrid’s sight.
Encrid, who had been sitting on the wet dirt to conserve even the strength in his legs, saw the danger Ragna was in from where he sat.
The Three-Eyed Old Man swept his hand several times, unleashing lightning.
In front of Ragna, a mutated Scalor with horns extended its hand and used telekinesis.
The falling raindrops were woven together by the telekinesis, forming a visible shape.
Two enormous hands made of rainwater narrowed in from Ragna’s left and right. It was a telekinetic force powerful enough to trap even the downpour itself.
It was a telekinetic skill far more advanced than any Scalor he had seen thus far.
Simultaneously with the telekinesis, the mutated Scalor kept its grip on the force and raised its left hand, lunging forward and slashing down.
Its speed in closing the distance rivaled that of a Knight’s steel strike.
To Encrid’s eyes, the moment the hand came down appeared in slow motion.
The surrounding air distorted around the edge of the hand. Just when it seemed slow, its speed abruptly accelerated.
He couldn’t allocate focus to calculations anymore.
Part of it was because his attention had been momentarily seized, but it was also due to his body being in poor shape, incapable of parallel thoughts.
But above all, it was intuition.
It was a voice from within saying that moment had to be etched into his eyes, even if he didn’t know why.
Just before the light from the falling lightning pierced Ragna’s body, Encrid’s entire focus was on Ragna’s sword.
Light lingered on Ragna’s sword. Even the falling raindrops that touched it seemed to be sliced left and right.
The condensed Will had become visible light. And Ragna swung his sword.
The first sweeping slash went to the left. The lightning was drawn into the arc of Penna and shot sideways, striking the ground.
The sweeping blade was already extending forward. It was right as the mutated Scalor was bringing its hand down.
Ragna’s extended sword pierced through the hand and skewered the horned head.
Boom!
The thunderous crash of lightning striking the earth drowned out any other sound. It had all happened almost simultaneously.
That’s how fast Ragna’s slashes were. Once to the left, once forward.
It felt like two Ragnas had swung at once, with no gap between the slashes.
Ragna didn’t stop there.
He retrieved his stabbed sword and lunged at the three-eyed old man, swinging his blade.
At that moment, intangible veils, protective spells, and countless artifacts or spell-objects activated to protect the three-eyed old man’s body.
At the very last second, the eye embedded in his forehead glowed red.
But not a single one of those tricks could block the incoming sword.
The old man couldn’t even open his mouth before Ragna’s blade carved a clear line across his throat.
After those three slashes, Ragna launched himself once more.
His body had now exceeded its limits—like Encrid earlier. To a stranger, it might’ve looked like he had cast a teleportation spell.
Ragna’s final slash closed the distance without even leaving an afterimage, crashing down toward Drmule’s head.
But unfortunately, his blade couldn’t reach its final target.
Clang! Shatter-crack-crack!
A barrier.
Was it just bad luck? No, it was only natural.
‘Wizards are devious.’
Encrid recalled Esther’s teachings.
Cracks began to appear around Drmule’s body. In the empty air, something like shattered glass fell and disintegrated.
The spell that had guarded Drmule’s body for forty years had been broken.
“Astonishing.”
Drmule said as he swung his hand. His telekinesis struck Ragna’s torso.
Thud!
Ragna had no strength left after four slashes. His body flew sideways, helpless. This time, he couldn’t even stabilize mid-air and rolled across the ground.
Thunk, thud.
At this point, he probably couldn’t even handle a passing ghoul. And yet, he still clutched Penna tightly.
The fallen Ragna coughed up blood. He stabbed Penna into the ground and tried to rise. His body swayed.
His hair was matted from rolling on the muddy, rain-soaked ground, and his face was a mess.
The mud mixed with the blood he had just vomited, forming a dirty, dark red sludge that dripped from his chin.
“I’ve planted the seed of plague in your body. You don’t have to do anything. Even if you want to die, you won’t be able to.”
Ragna couldn’t speak.
Blood streamed continuously from his mouth and nose. The fact that he wasn’t unconscious was impressive. Or perhaps he was already unconscious, still holding his sword.
Even so, he stabbed the sword into the ground to keep fighting.
Encrid, watching Ragna like that, couldn’t hold back and opened his mouth.
“Did you see that? A mere swordsman did all that.”
Two of the ones you brought are dead—so what? One out of three remains.
It was a provocative remark.
“You’re all insane, without exception.”
Drmule responded. There was displeasure in his voice, but not panic.
Why? Because the two he brought didn’t matter that much.
What mattered was divinity. His own descent onto this land.
“Yeah, so come at me. I still have strength left.”
Encrid said. Seeing Ragna fight and endure like that stirred something burning in his chest.
That rotting corpse in front of him—he wanted to slice it down. Fine, let’s do it.
As he placed his hand on Three Iron, Ragna’s voice rang out.
“Come on. Come at me. I’ll—”
There was no point trying to guess the rest of the sentence. What mattered was that the will behind the words was unmistakable.
Even half-unconscious, the conviction behind those words was crystal clear.
Just as Encrid clenched his teeth.
He hadn’t even sensed the presence, his body was in such ruin.
“That’s enough. My son.”
A towering figure blocked the rain above Ragna. The one who approached him was Tempest Zaun.
He was also Ragna’s father.
He walked up and placed a hand on Ragna’s shoulder.
“That’s enough now.”
The family head’s voice carried no emotion, only truth and sincerity.
Right beside him, Lynox let out a groan, clutching his back as if in complaint.
Encrid was about to ask them why they had come so soon, wasn’t the plan to arrive tomorrow morning? But he stopped himself.
A variable he had accounted for had arrived quite late, hadn’t it?
But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
The two of them didn’t look fine either. Especially Lynox.
He had lost his left arm.
When Encrid’s eyes met his, the old swordsman who had protected Zaun chuckled and said,
“Guess I’ll have to make do with just three swords now.”
He had once wielded six swords with both arms, now he only had one left.
And yet, he still had the strength to joke in that state.
Could the severed arm be regenerated? Not unless that runaway Seiki, born of divine blood, made a deal with a god and cheated fate somehow.
“I… I…”
Ragna, unaware of the hand on his shoulder, kept repeating the same words.
Everyone had seen what he had done.
The three-eyed old man had his throat slashed, and the mutated chimera with horns had a fist-sized hole in its head.
After stabbing with Penna, Ragna had twisted his wrist and gouged it out. The edges of the hole in her skull were ragged and messy.
As if the hole had been torn open by a coarse blade.
In short, she was dead.
He killed two and tried to kill Drmule as well, but failed.
Drmule had sensed the approach of these two, but didn’t act—because he didn’t care.
“You survived. Barely. Did that wretch Hescal fail to do his job properly? Or did you simply exceed my expectations?”
Drmule was not flustered, but impressed. To have shown such strength, look at what they had done.
Everything he had prepared lay dead on the ground. He had even prepared coffins for them, but not like this. Truly unexpected.
And so, in a way, it delighted him.
This might be the last bit of fun he could enjoy before attaining divinity.
Drmule looked down on them all. His body had begun to grow, and now his head stood two higher than Encrid’s. Decayed flesh stretched over blackened bones that acted as a frame to hold his mass together.
Tense, veined flesh filled the gaps between the bones, reinforcing the skeletal frame.
“All of you shall be reborn. I will implant divinity and show you a new world.”
Anyone watching might think they had begged for such a thing.
“So it’s you.”
The head of the house didn’t care what the enemy said, he strode toward Drmule with purpose. Though Drmule’s growing size was curious, the head of the house didn’t seem to notice or care.
His body, too, bore many injuries. Though he didn’t bleed, the wounds were blackened, signs of poisoning.
Step by step, the head of the house approached and stopped. One charge and a swing of his greatsword could sever that head. He was within ten paces.
By then, a smooth, elongated neck had sprouted on Drmule’s body. He lifted his chin high and looked down.
The head of the house said, without a change in tone:
“Uglier than I imagined.”
Behind him, Lynox nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, really.”
Drmule looked over those who remained before him. More accurately, he looked down on them.
“That child survived because of you. I should’ve killed him much earlier.”
None of those present could understand Drmule’s words or actions. And Drmule didn’t expect them to.
Gods do not ask their creations for understanding.
He continued.
“Why do creations—trapped in their own limitations—resist so stubbornly?”
Even if they couldn’t understand him, shouldn’t they be told how magnificent, great, and arduous his path had been?
It wasn’t understanding. It was doctrine.
“There was a time when Death itself whispered to me. Yes, it was long ago. Back then, I created a very special potion. A drug that let me experience time differently than others. Tell me, what do you think it would be like if one of my days was twice as long as yours?”
Drmule had been born with exceptional talent, but he wanted to rise even higher.
He delved into alchemy and eventually grasped the world of spells.
In that process, he had visited the Demon Realm, traveled to the Empire, and glimpsed the secrets of the continent.
It was then that he realized what he truly desired.
He wanted to become a god. That was his wish.
“That potion was a minor gain from my research into immortality and undying flesh.”
His rotting lips twisted into a smile, and a piece of flesh dropped to the ground with a splat. It was a nauseating sight.
Now, his skin had become smooth and gem-like in texture.
But it wasn’t transparent. It resembled a gem filled with filth.
“Listen well. This is the first proof of greatness I speak of as a god.”
Drmule’s voice layered over itself. Encrid felt something akin to what he had felt when facing a demon.
A sense of alienation so extreme, it could only come from something utterly different from any intelligent being, even more so than demons.
The overwhelming pressure crushed the air. Even the sound of rain seemed to vanish. It felt like total control of the space around them.
Or perhaps it was the sheer gravity of presence that pulled all focus toward him.
After dominating the area around him, Drmule spoke the first line of his sacred scripture with a rotting tongue.
“For every day others had, I had ten. I lived a hundred such days. This is how the ordinary surpasses the extraordinary. Thus begins the tale of a man who was born human, surpassed demons, and became a god!”
The overlapping voice shook the heart. Even the air seemed to kneel before it, bowing in submission.
And in that moment, Encrid found himself muttering honestly, without thinking.
“That’s it?”
The murmur was soft, but everyone heard it.
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