Chapter 410 - Time to Sit Back and Relax
Deon Molsan—that was the name of the count.
From a young age, Deon had shown extraordinary talent.
"You have a gift for sensing magical energy."
"Your swordsmanship is remarkable for your age."
"You're sharp enough to work as an administrator in the capital."
With exceptional talent, a supporting family, and excellent mentors, Deon grew up lacking nothing. His world revolved around magic, his father, and his mother, with very few things going against his will.
For a young man gifted beyond measure, the world was an easy place to live in.
His twenties passed.
His thirties came and went.
He killed two uncles who coveted the position of head of the family.
Deon didn't use magic to accomplish this; he did it with a sword.
It wasn't a particularly difficult feat, but his father was astonished.
"You are truly exceptional, even for my son."
It was then that Deon realized how effortless it was to take a life.
By his mid-thirties, he inherited the position of family head.
From that point, his father began looking at him with eyes laced with fear.
Why?
It had started when Deon began involving himself in the family's major affairs. His father often made poor decisions about matters that required only a bit of thought. Deon corrected those mistakes behind the scenes and offered direct advice upfront. Sometimes, he even let a trace of contempt slip.
The admiration in his father's gaze slowly turned into something else.
Then came the day Deon openly opposed one of his father's decisions.
Deon knew he was right, but his father erupted.
"It's for the dignity of the nobility!"
It was a flimsy excuse. A pathetic pretense. Should he have pretended to believe it? Deon didn't.
"Disgraceful."
That emotionless remark broke his father. His father abandoned the family.
His mother? She had never been one to show affection in the first place.
Thus, Deon became the head of the family. A few years later, his parents fell into ruin due to the scheming of a neighboring territory.
His mother turned to gambling; his father to drinking.
Even matters that noble families would usually overlook were exploited by their neighbor. That noble drove Deon's father to the edge of a cliff, where he ended his own life.
His mother followed shortly after.
"Was I too indifferent?"
Still, did being parents automatically mean they deserved love? Not necessarily.
Even so, wasn't revenge necessary?
Deon decided it was.
It only took him six months.
"Forgive me."
The neighboring lord knelt, begging for his life. Deon beheaded him.
The revenge wasn't satisfying, but it was done.
That was when the previously unremarkable Molsan Countship began to grow.
Three years later, Deon noticed something: people were flocking to him.
His actions had greatly expanded the military power and influence of the countship.
That was when the question arose.
"Why should I confine myself here?"
The moment he asked, he knew the answer: there was no reason to.
A bird must leave its shell to fly.
Deon decided to widen his world. To step beyond his shell into a broader one.
"The throne."
The desire for power awoke in him. The world had always been easy for him, and he believed this would be no different.
Indeed, everything came easily—until the moment he emerged from the army of ten thousand wraiths and someone stood in his way.
"You're good."
When Deon asked "How?" Enkrid answered indifferently. His arm was trembling, but it could still move. That was enough.
"Heh."
Deon let out a sigh.
Behind Enkrid, Deon saw the others.
A barbarian soldier stood with a battle axe resting on one shoulder, watching impassively.
A swordsman, holding a broken blade, casually brushed blood from his hair with a disinterested expression.
A towering soldier beside them was fixing his twisted forearm with a gentle smile, as if the pain didn't bother him. His smiling face remained calm as he realigned the bone.
Lastly, there was the assassin who had targeted him before the summoning of the wraiths. The man gripped a short stiletto in his right hand, as if silently asking if Deon was ready to die.
Deon raised a hand to his chin, scanning the group once more.
These weren't the kind of opponents he had expected.
If everything failed, he had assumed he would die surrounded by knights—his death taking Naurilia down with him.
This was an entirely unforeseen situation.
His initial shock faded quickly, replaced by an empty sense of resignation. A bitter laugh threatened to escape.
Deon chuckled. "Shouldn't the most capable person rise to the highest place?"
Why were they blocking his path?
"That's why I'm here," Enkrid replied.
Deon had an urge to grab Enkrid's tongue and stretch it out. The man always spoke so concisely it was infuriating. What would happen if he forcibly lengthened it?
"Fine. Talking won't change anything."
Deon extended his hand.
At his gesture, black soot coalesced in the air, forming the shape of a bird that flew toward Enkrid.
It happened in an instant, though a long explanation could follow.
Had Esther been present, she would have identified it as the necromantic spell "Shaarlnerr's Life-Draining Raven." But no one here knew its name.
Instead, they reacted.
As the raven streaked toward Enkrid, a dagger flew to meet it.
Boom!
The bird exploded in midair, scattering into fragments. The thrown dagger shattered into three pieces, scattering left and right.
Deon frowned.
"An artifact?"
No. Who would inscribe such a spell on a dagger? That would be sheer insanity.
It was a scroll, wrapped around the dagger and thrown.
A peculiar technique.
The thrower, naturally, was Jaxen. He held several similar daggers in his hand.
"The throne belongs to me," Deon declared, unwavering even in the face of this adversity. Even if they broke through the wraiths, it wasn't his nature to surrender.
As he continued to summon Shaarlnerr's ravens, Deon cast another spell.
This time, a dark red mass formed in the air, taking the shape of a living sword.
The entities flew of their own accord, targeting Enkrid.
Standing in their way was a figure resembling a bear.
"Oh, wretched soul unable to even reach your master," he murmured, moving his hands and feet with astonishing agility that belied his size. Swift hand movements and nimble footwork accompanied the swing of his crimson-black blade, which burst in midair with resounding explosions.
'These things…'
The Count reversed some of his wraiths. A portion of the spectral soldiers targeting his forces collapsed to the ground and vanished, dissipating into the air like fading mist.
"Rise, Wraith General!"
The Count chanted, using a spell that fused the reverted wraiths into a single form. Before him emerged a massive figure wielding a black greatsword—bigger even than Audin.
Ragna stepped forward to face the giant.
Dragging his feet, Ragna moved without haste, his head tilted upward. Gripping a half-broken sword, he silently swung the blade.
Before the enormous enemy could even react, Ragna's sword slashed its throat, cleaved through its chest, and severed its waist in two.
Enkrid was momentarily stunned by Ragna's skill.
'What… what did I just witness?'
Ragna had swung his sword three times in a single breath, each strike extending in a different direction, yet flowing as though it were one seamless motion.
It meant he eliminated the actions of retrieval and recovery by calculating the trajectory of each swing beforehand, minimizing his movements.
The strikes consisted of an upper horizontal slash, followed by a downward vertical cut, and finally a middle-level horizontal slice.
Each contained the Will of Severance.
It was as if he painted with his sword, but his strokes were so swift and bold that defending against them would have been inconceivable.
Enkrid doubted even he could have stopped that.
After the flurry of strikes, Ragna retreated two steps and collapsed into a seated position. Though it was clearly a fall, Ragna exhaled and remarked nonchalantly, "Well, guess I've got some time to watch now."
The Count almost gaped in astonishment.
'What is this man?'
The Wraith General, a being capable of crushing most junior knights effortlessly, had perished from a single exchange.
From the Count's perspective, it looked like Ragna had only swung his sword once.
A vague sense of dread crept into the Count's chest. Though unnerved, he suppressed it with force of will.
He still had resources left to deploy.
The Count bit down on his tongue with his molars.
Crunch.
The taste of metallic blood filled his mouth as the severed tongue bled profusely. The Count opened his mouth, crimson streaks spilling down his chin.
He pulled his left hand to his chest, and the blood flowing from his mouth coalesced into a mass on his palm.
"Come forth, blood protector," he commanded, waving his staff with his right hand.
The blob of blood in his left palm began to grow, swelling until it reached human size, sprouting arms and legs.
To fill the form, the Count reversed more wraith soldiers from the battlefield.
The area grew emptier as the wraith soldiers dissipated.
This shift allowed many soldiers who had been on the brink of death to catch their breath, while others possessed by wraiths returned to normal.
The Count was so focused on summoning his creation that he abandoned any concern for maintaining the battlefield balance.
Before long, a towering Blood Golem with nothing but two hollow eye sockets stood before him.
"Ah, seems you've also been meddling with strange sorcery. Judging by these tricks, I'd wager you're in league with that lunatic who defies death," commented the barbarian warrior.
As the Count turned to look at him, the barbarian reached into his pack.
The Count observed from behind the golem, quickly piecing together what the barbarian was up to as he pulled something out and began to spin it over his head.
A sling, loaded with orb-like ammunition. The motion created a sound that rapidly gained intensity.
Whir, whir, whir… whooOOooosh!
Rem had loaded the sling with the last of the talismans he had taken from the death-defying lunatic—a spherical charm.
While not originally intended for this use, it was perfect for the situation.
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The sound grew, sending chills down the spines of everyone present, ally and enemy alike.
The Blood Golem turned its hollow gaze toward the source. It brought its hands together, preparing to unleash a torrent of blood.
But as the golem moved, Rem's arm flung the sling.
Whoooosh… thunk!
The eerie whine of the sling abruptly stopped, replaced by the detonation of the talisman.
BOOM!
The explosion erupted from the Blood Golem's head. Normally, a physical impact would have been insufficient to harm such a construct.
But this was no ordinary projectile; it was a culmination of over a decade's worth of accumulated sorcery.
The explosion eradicated the Golem's life force, taking it down with a single strike.
The Count clutched his chest, slamming his staff against the ground.
A wave of loss and emptiness washed over him, momentarily halting his heartbeat.
He knew the Golem was gone.
It was a summoning woven from his own blood and heart—a creation that shouldn't have fallen so easily.
"You… damn you all!" he bellowed in fury.
Meanwhile, Rem, having spent the last of his resources, felt his strength drain from his body.
'Am I going to die here?'
He doubted it, but the thought crossed his mind as he staggered backward and fell heavily to the ground. His collapse landed him next to Ragna.
Looking over at Ragna, Rem quipped, "Looks like it's time to sit back and watch."
Ragna nodded, their eyes meeting in mutual understanding. There was no energy left to argue or ridicule each other—this was no time for hostility.
For the first time, the two seemed to be on the same wavelength.
Audin, still struggling against the crimson-black blades, endured the agony of his restraints as he infused his body with divinity.
'Forgive me, Father,' Audin prayed silently as he summoned his holy power, not to radiate light but to fortify his body.
'My left hand is a sacred blade; my right hand is steel.'
The moment his left hand, imbued with divinity, touched one of the crimson blades,
Clang!
The blade shattered.
He then struck with his right hand.
Crash!
The warped, broken blade flew aside and embedded itself in the ground, its animating force vanishing in an instant.
One by one, Audin destroyed the blades, though the pain of his restraints coursed through him.
His limbs trembled, and his body stiffened like a log as he stood motionless.
"Tch," Rem clicked his tongue as he watched.
'Why isn't that guy collapsing?'
"Hm," Ragna frowned slightly.
The sight of the priest still standing was irritating. He should have fallen as well.
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