Chapter 870: The Opening

Ping—

It wasn’t a sound that was actually heard. It was only that the shape of the sound caught by instinct took that form. Elma narrowed her eyes.

'If you try to look, you’ll be too late.'

Holding the grip of her sword, she focused every bit of her nerves.

The southern orders of knights had originally been five, hence they were called the Five-Color Orders, but as time passed, their number was reduced to three. Only three of the five colors remained. Among them, Amethyst was the weakest—that was the evaluation within the south. Elma’s goal was to overturn that evaluation. Every fight was undertaken for one’s own reasons.

Some for loyalty, some for fame.

For Elma, the purpose was to prove her skill. Since the age of twelve, she had hardened her sides with an iron hammer, fought against gnolls, satyrs, and lycanthropes. And she entered the order of knights. The training there was even harsher.

The imperial knight Valmung had spoken of knightly cultivation, and Enkrid too had opened his own path toward knighthood. Would the south have none of that?

It began with distinguishing poisons by smell alone, then preparing for ambushes even in sleep.

Next came fighting not one or two monsters but entire colonies. For three days she was hunted and had to destroy a lycanthrope colony; she even fought named satyrs. A satyr was a monster whose lower body resembled a goat’s but overall form resembled a human’s.

They weren’t creatures that relied on brute strength alone; they used technique. And there were more than one or two of them—many, far too many.

She had struggled within that and survived. Proving her skill, she became one of the top new talents in the Amethyst Order.

'Build your strength with your life as the stake.'

That was the southern creed. Elma was the genius who had completed all that training with excellent results.

Her sword was a two-handed blade as long as her own body. Since childhood she had fought monsters wielding blades larger than herself, so she was used to this size.

The blade was jagged like teeth. It had been her sword since childhood, and she had overlaid steel on it, preserving the shape to make it an engraved weapon.

The engraved weapon’s name was Mane.

Her pupils contracted. The narrowed pupils’ depth of focus extended, catching the shape of what she’d missed before.

'A rock?'

More precisely, it was a stone polished smooth like a glass sphere. A projectile that Rem called a bullet.

Elma swung her greatsword. A straight line drawn from top to bottom—the blade exactly facing the direction from which the projectile flew. The muscles of both arms bulged in an instant, adding force.

Kiiiii-kangg!

The iron split, and a metallic roar burst out. A shockwave spread from her center, and wind blew. The divided projectile struck the ground with twin thuds. Even that alone sent earth bursting up to a man’s height.

“Hoo, cut it.”

Elma spoke, a light breath accompanying it. Was it difficult? Considerably. It must have been the opponent’s full-force strike.

“He threw because he isn’t confident in close combat.”

Galluto’s analysis followed. Elma nodded. The first one she’d missed, causing some soldiers to fall into panic, but the second she had cut.

“......Wooaaah, Amethyst!”

“Elma!”

“Violet Elma!”

Violet Elma—that was the name they called her by. The soldiers cheered. And toward those cheering soldiers approached the owner of that projectile and his group.

“Blocked, huh.”

“They won’t all be duds either.”

“Southern knights, huh. Let’s see how good they are?”

“If you die, I’ll see your remains collected. Should I scatter them somewhere in a wasteland?”

“Who’s dying? I’ll start by killing you first.”

The one in the lead had gray hair. Swinging the arm that held an axe back and forth loosely, he approached.

Right beside him was a beastman with yellow pupils like a predator’s eyes, and behind them two human men. The ones talking were the two behind. They didn’t know it, but those two were Pell and Rophod.

They came forward without even silencing their footsteps, revealing their composure.

'Bluff?'

Galluto gauged the enemy.

'No.'

Neither arrogance nor conceit.

'Familiarity.'

That was how it looked. For a knight, being used to battle was natural—but even so, they were too natural.

'They look like they’ve been through this kind of fight dozens of times.'

Galluto’s eye was sharp. Rem, Dunbakel, Rophod, and Pell had fought countless times before. They’d nearly had their necks cut off sparring with one another more than once. The fact that the enemy were knights didn’t make their shoulders stiffen.

'They look like they’ve fought knights dozens of times?'

The same could be said for this side. Southern knights don’t shy from combat. Battles with monsters from the Demon-lands aren’t something one can avoid, so they too had fought on and on, half willingly, half by force.

Gellik narrowed his brow, grasping a pair of short swords—one in each hand. Elma alternately opened and clenched the hand that held her blade.

Elma was a master of high-speed slashes based on the heavy-sword style; her engraved weapon cut flesh with a mere graze, and ordinary weapons would have their edges eaten away. Its name was Mane, its nickname the Grinder’s Blade.

Gellik’s instantaneous acceleration was unmatched even within the order. The twin blades he held were the fangs of a serpent coated in poison—an engraved weapon forged after killing a famous monster.

'A poison with no antidote.'

That was Gellik’s hidden secret art. He had fused his Will with the monster’s venom. Had he not done so, he would never have survived in the Amethyst Order—he’d have died back then, bitten by the monster Lamia, whose upper body was human and lower half a serpent.

Each time Gellik prepared his internally-produced synthetic poison, he furrowed his brow—not from intent or pain, but because it simply happened that way. He only knew that some anomaly had taken root in his body during the time he endured that poison.

“That one’s mine.”

The beastman stretched a finger straight out, pointing at Gellik.

“Fine, I’ll be the one to kill you first.”

Gellik took the words in stride. It wasn’t Cypress, and they were all unfamiliar faces. That didn’t mean he let down his guard.

Moments ago, Simlak had died overhead, and from that single missed bullet earlier, over ten soldiers had been killed or lost limbs. Even now, groans echoed here and there. Some were holding on wrapped in layers of bandages, others had already lost too much blood and awaited death. This was no time for carelessness.

“Archers!”

Galluto called the prepared unit. The archery squad that had been ready pulled their strings taut.

Kkigigigik!

It was a modified anti-personnel ballista, operated by three soldiers per bow. Two drew, and one set the arrow on the string. The bow itself was as large as a man’s torso, fixed upright in the ground.

“Fire!”

No sooner had Galluto spoken than a rapid thud-thud-thud-thud resounded. The arrows were several times faster, thicker, and heavier than ordinary ones.

Boom!

Rophod and Pell swatted away all four of the massive arrows. The impact numbed their arms. They would recover quickly, but that was no reason to leave the enemy alone. Rophod knew he had to strike.

“We need to deal with the soldiers.”

Saying so, he told Pell and then charged at the enemy knight who had called for the archers.

“......This crazy bastard?”

Behind him came Pell’s high praise. Fine—if they had to handle the soldiers, then that knight was his. Rophod spoke through action.

Pell didn’t insist otherwise. This was a battlefield, not a playground. Being skilled and experienced didn’t mean doing something stupid.

“Coyote bastard, I’ll remember that for later.”

In the wilds, sheep ignore most wolves, but among the beasts that persistently hunt sheep are the coyotes that dwell in the wastes. They’re a pack that even hunts monsters. In short, coyote bastard was the highest compliment Pell could give.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Rophod gave a casual reply and stood before Galluto.

“Hold out. If you last, I’ll kill them and join you.”

Galluto shouted without caring who stood before him. The southern commander clenched his molars. Now it was time to face calamity.

Calamity had brown hair and long arms. He strode forward, the arms hanging loose like pendulums swinging front to back. The three southern knights knew a massacre was about to unfold but did not interfere. Galluto could feel the discipline of the troops behind him wavering—but there was no helping it.

'Buy time with the army.'

That way, one knight wouldn’t have to face two at once. If even one of the three won, the tide would turn.

How strong were those who came instead of the Red Cloak Order? Should he pull back the troops even now? Was there another solution?

“Hoo.”

With one exhale, Galluto blew away the needless thoughts. Too many distractions before a fight.

“Tired of waiting. I was going to just cut you down but held back—if you apologize, I’ll accept it.”

“......What?”

Rophod needled his opponent’s temper just as he did Pell’s. This was, so to speak, a standard technique of the Mad Order of Knights.

He provoked the opponent. From afar, Rem, hearing it, snickered.

“Kid talks well.”

All those years of training in fine insults and fine beatings had paid off. Satisfying.

“Don’t act so smug, ash-headed bastard.”

Elma spoke. Rem turned his body lightly and raised his axe. Holding the blade in both hands, its edge slanted toward the opponent, Elma looked past the blade at him and inwardly refuted Galluto’s earlier words.

'He attacked with a projectile because he lacked confidence in close combat?'

Nonsense. The hand holding the axe kept catching in her vision—the blue veins bulging on the back of the hand gripping the handle, the vambrace that seemed to twitch as if alive. The muscles inside it were swelling, filling the metal guard completely.

'One strike.'

Elma didn’t intend to draw the fight out. In a single exchange, victory and defeat would be decided. One would live, and one would die.

'At full power.'

She steadied her mind and focused. Veins rose on both her hands.

Sssst.

She raised the sword above, shifting into the best stance for a downward cut. Her arms formed a triangle, narrowing her vision. It was fine. A knight doesn’t see with eyes alone.

The opponent, expressionless, raised the axe gripped in his right hand. Elma connected her thoughts through high-speed cognition.

'After letting him perceive that the match will end in a single blow—'

She’d realized it when, as a child, she had rushed to cut down beasts larger than herself.

'There are too many foes you can’t cut down in one strike.'

From then, she’d revised her tactics. If one stroke didn’t work, she’d cut twice; if twice didn’t, she’d cut thrice.

'Into the world of breathless stillness.'

She stopped breathing and slashed. The pressure formed by the blade crushed down on Rem’s head first. In the opponent’s eyes, the gleam stretched long.

'Descending from above—'

A blade that constricted the entire body. The power in that single strike was no less than Pell’s.

'Still, she thought, not as good as that lazy swordsman.'

Rem swung the axe upward. If he released the strength in his wrists, it would snap instantly. So he kept the wrist straight and twisted his body around his right foot as a pivot. It was the Flowing Sword style—deflecting rather than blocking. A technique that had ripened further after his recent fight with Temares.

Kang!

The engraved weapon and forged blade met, sparks flying. The thick greatsword slid to one side. As if she’d expected it, Elma pulled the gliding sword back and slashed crosswise again.

Rem struck it aside with his axe once more, letting it flow upward.

Takang!

Both weapons missed their mark, slicing empty air.

'Three strikes.'

Elma, to swing just slightly faster than her opponent, held her breath and drew the sword down.

Rem caught that attack with the throwing axe from his right hip.

Kwang! Udeuk!

The axe he swung now was dwarven work as well, but it couldn’t compare to an engraved weapon.

Elma’s Mane crushed the throwing axe. The blade shattered, fragments scattering; the handle of oak that had been oiled for ten days and dried in shade splintered apart, shards flying.

Ppeok.

The sound that followed was small in comparison. Compared to the breaking of steel and bursting of air, it was nothing—but it was a sound laced with death.

Elma’s vision went red. She tried to open her mouth, but couldn’t. Even so, her ears were open, and she heard the opponent’s words.

“You’re a bit unlucky. I spend all day playing with a bastard who swings a greatsword like a madman.”

Rem had often quarreled and fought with Ragna. Compared to that lazy swordsman, this opponent was easier.

Rem shrugged. With his left hand he pulled out another throwing axe, while with the right he brought down the axe in hand upon her head and stepped back. He hadn’t blocked with his engraved weapon; he’d poured all his spell power into his right arm and smashed down.

That blow contained all the techniques Rem had experienced so far, including Jaxon’s stealth.

There was no need to name it. He had simply swung the axe toward the opponent’s opening.

Didn’t expect to use it here, he thought—but then, this wasn’t an opponent to take lightly anyway.

***

Pell, regardless of whether Rem won or not, stood before the army, drawing a line on the ground with his sword. It was something he’d seen Enkrid do once and had always wanted to try.

“I don’t want to kill uselessly. Don’t cross the line. If you don’t cross, you won’t die. Simple. Anyone not [N O V E L I G H T] understand?”

Silence.

A fine quiet. Pell was inwardly satisfied. After a brief silence, some of the enemy archers, four to a group, drew their strings.

Kkigigik! Thud-thud!

Three arrows flew at him. Pell twisted and moved reflexively, dodging them all.

Ppeobeobeok!

The arrows struck the ground. A violent attack.

“......Didn’t I tell you not to cross?”

Pell straightened his posture, glaring fiercely. In twisting his body to evade, his stance had become awkward.

“We only crossed the arrows, not the men!”

The enemy commander shouted. A ridiculous excuse.

“Hm, what?”

Pell doubted his ears. What the hell were they saying?

“Since no man crossed.”

The commander spoke, his face pale blue. He’d be dead soon—their opponent was a calamity.

“You kidding me?”

Pell frowned as he spoke.

“Are you the one breaking my word? A knight, of all people?”

The southern commander was no ordinary man. He’d found a loophole in what his opponent had said and, with full courage, had pressed that opening.

Pell could have ignored it. He could have charged right in, cut them down, and silenced their mouths. But then he’d have broken his own word. It wasn’t an oath or vow of knighthood, but still something he himself had spoken. Should he break it?

“Fine. Let’s see.”

Pell spoke. So long as no one crossed, he wouldn’t kill them. That was his decision.

Crang, watching, burst into a loud laugh.

“Under a crazy captain, only madmen gather.”

At those words, the royal guards involuntarily nodded—and at the same time felt that their king’s laughter was one of pure satisfaction. He didn’t wish for a one-sided slaughter, even if the ones dying were enemies.