Chapter 30: The Warrior of Destruction

The saint who heeds the words of the ordinary.  

The hero who answers the goddess’ call.  

The one who cuts down stars.  

The warrior who slaughters all demons.  

The incarnation of destruction, closer to the heavens than anyone on earth.  

All these titles refer to the same being—truly, it was a blessed encounter.  

A great stride forward.  

—An Eastern Sage Who Witnessed the Hero of Destruction  

Children often break things.  

Whether it’s toys or furniture, they don’t yet understand their own strength.  

They can’t control their bodies as they wish.  

They move recklessly, causing chaos and accidents.  

In a way, it’s only natural.  

No one is skilled from the very beginning.  

I, too, had such a time.  

A time when the title of “hero,” the duty to protect the world, and the sudden bestowal of divine power made the hand gripping the holy sword move on its own.  

When I tried to cut just the tip of a demon for interrogation, I ended up slicing it clean in half.  

Sometimes, instead of a single tree, I’d cut down an entire section of the forest.  

The usually reserved elf prince threw a fit back then.  

“It’s not just about failing to control your strength—if you can’t distinguish what should and shouldn’t be cut, how are you any different from a demonic sword?”  

After much contemplation over the goddess’ unusually wise words, I decided not to wield the holy sword unless absolutely necessary.  

Of course, I still drew it when needed—but until I could fully control its power, I refrained from using it carelessly.  

I trained with an ordinary sword.  

I practiced controlling my enhanced body.  

As a hero, I walked through countless battlefields.  

I cut down demonic beasts.  

I slaughtered demons.  

I executed evil.  

After countless trials, the sword finally became an extension of my arm, and the flow of energy felt natural.  

Drawing the holy sword was no longer a burden.  

But by the time I reached that level, there were fewer occasions to even need the holy sword.  

I was still more accustomed to an ordinary blade.  

Not that I disliked the holy sword.  

In fact, every time I drew it, an overwhelming sense of omnipotence surged through me.  

It felt too good.  

And that was the problem.  

“Holy Sword—Yurseus.”  

A blinding white radiance erupted from the blade, burning away the surrounding darkness.  

Yurseus, the Sword of Order and Balance.  

A blade of divine smiting, forged by the goddess herself from a polished star.  

Its wielder cannot be harmed by any evil, and no demon can survive its edge.  

But no mortal can wield it.  

It is a fragment of divine power, a piece of a star—no ephemeral being can control it.  

Except for me, who had spent decades mastering it.  

Ziiiiing—!  

The dark mages—neither demons nor their lesser kin—were nothing before its light.  

The reason I drew this sword against them was simple:  

There are no “what ifs” for me.  

I crush them—utterly, overwhelmingly.  

I kill everyone who deserves death.  

I save everyone who can be saved.  

After decades as a hero, I finally learned to wield both the sword that kills and the sword that saves.  

“May the blessings of the gods be with you.”  

And so, I unleashed it.  

“Holy Sword—Release.”  

A single step forward.  

The holy sword swung in a perfect arc, its light tracing the fates of every dark mage on the stage.  

It distinguished between the prisoners trapped behind the curtains and the demons restraining them—then executed the latter.  

To seal off all escape routes, I cut down everything.  

A radiant halo of white light expanded, filling the space according to my will.  

This was the first strike—Condensation.  

SCREEEEEECH—!!!  

The very fabric of space twisted from a single swing.  

BOOM…!  

CRASH…!  

For a moment, I wondered if there was something wrong with the facility.  

How poorly maintained was this place for it to collapse like this?  

I should file a complaint after the auction.  

Such thoughts crossed my mind because—  

In the blink of an eye—  

The auctioneer on stage, along with the guards prepared for any emergency, collapsed in a spray of blood.  

Limbs and heads flew apart in a spectacle so surreal that it felt disconnected from the normal auction that had been proceeding just moments ago.  

***

“…Is this even possible?”  

Snapping out of her daze, the Face Collector quickly regained her composure.  

The white flash that had originated from the stage began spreading throughout the abandoned factory.  

In a panic, she invoked the deepest reserves of the dark magic she had cultivated over a lifetime—fed by the lives and faces of handsome men she had killed and consumed.  

“Sacrificial Offering—Maximum Magic Deployment.”  

As the spell activated, the flayed faces of beautiful men unfolded in midair, releasing the mana they had possessed in life.  

A swordsman who had boasted of reaching mastery.  

A mage who had grown arrogant from being praised as a genius.  

A desert spirit caller who had barely escaped the African demonic realm, screaming in terror.  

Even a spoiled young master who had relied solely on elixirs, his actual skills worthless.  

“Converge.”  

She focused all their power into a single point, maximizing its destructive potential.  

Thorns sprouted from the faces, twisting into branches that formed a massive tree.  

A shield to protect the caster—and simultaneously, a weapon to impale the enemy.  

“Thornbush.”  

The Face Collector’s infamous forbidden magic.  

Even hastily cast, its completion reassured her.  

“Unless the spell is interrupted mid-casting, a fully prepared mage never loses to a swordsman.”  

True to her confidence, the white light did not cut through the thornbush or her.  

It simply passed by.  

But as the Flames of Judgment—meant to annihilate demons—  

Without her even realizing, the Face Collector was not cut—but burned to death.  

***

Second Strike—Ignar.  

The flash of light transformed into flames, swelling in size as it incinerated the dark mages on the right side of the stage.  

It asked no questions.  

It simply burned according to the weight of one’s sins.  

The sprawling thornbush and the Face Collector turned to ash in an instant.  

The fire demon, licking its lips, grew larger with every evil soul it consumed.  

Embers danced through the abandoned factory’s air.  

Amidst this hellfire, the slaves who had been auctioned off as merchandise clutched their heads in terror before staring blankly at their surroundings.  

The fire demon discerned whom to spare—burning only those who deserved it.  

A startling sight, but—  

***

“How dare you spout such nonsense before me.”  

As if finding the whole spectacle laughable, the dark knight Vermouth smirked and drew her sword.  

Black armor and an obsidian greatsword—the trademarks of the infamous villainess, Vermouth the Black Knight.  

Even in the face of this sudden massacre, she felt no fear.  

A mere factory like this?  

Top-tier hunters—high-rankers—could easily cleave through it.  

She was no exception.  

Her greatsword pulsed with eerie dark mana, carrying the force to slice through anything in its path.  

She had no intention of discriminating—this was a sword of pure annihilation.  

But for Vermouth, one of the most notorious dark knights in the world, this was enough.  

She needed no reason to kill—only strength.  

Just as she swung her sword—  

SCREEEECH—!  

The white flash reached her first.  

Her blade split clean in half mid-air, and her obsidian armor failed to stop the strike—cleaving her in two as well.  

“…Ah.”  

She crumbled into nothingness.  

Without even a chance to unleash her full power, every villain in the factory was bisected at the speed of light.  

***

“What… is this carnage?”  

Mane, the strategic advisor of the Demonic Cult, was touring the continent when the sudden disaster struck. Struck speechless, she abruptly focused her senses in one direction.  

She immediately prepared a spell—not for defense, but to send a single, desperate message:  

“An outsider… on the peninsula—!”  

SCHLICK!  

A last-ditch transmission.  

Though cast in desperation, this spell would relay through dozens of branches to reach the cult’s leader.  

WHOOSH…!  

Or so she thought—before even the threads of her mana were consumed by the holy sword’s flames, turning to ash.  

***

There were no exceptions.  

Those who placed lifeforce vessels outside for resurrection.  

Those who called for reinforcements or relied on powerful backers.  

None of their bodies or mana could escape the factory.  

Not until every last one of them was dead.  

Midnight fell.  

Like the pitch-black darkness of night, the abandoned factory burned in an all-consuming inferno.  

Those who had brought the darkness met their end.  

Meanwhile, the survivors stared dumbfounded at the light emanating from the stage.  

A radiant white glow.  

A halo of sacred, destructive light erupting from the holy sword and the human wielding it—driving away all shadows.  

The survivors gasped, clasped their hands, and revered him in awe.  

Grateful yet terrified to be alive.  

A familiar sight in that world.  

Still, I saved everyone I intended to save.  

“Okay, hero mode—off.”  

With that, I happily sheathed the holy sword.  

[The goddess nods proudly.]  

It seemed she approved.  

Next Chapter.

***

Translator’s Note: I got chills reading this chapter. Enjoy!