Ch.1291Starlight

# Haschal

The swung scythe scattered black waves, and darkness swirled around my striking limbs.

A chain of ominous attacks that seemed like they shouldn’t connect. The battle unfolding in the Underworld was flowing more troublesomely than I had anticipated.

“Are you just going to keep dodging? Buying time won’t change anything!”

Despite Gareumelig’s fighting style changing from a mediocre approach relying on powers and numbers to hand-to-hand combat—essentially my specialty—it was still challenging.

“Then drop that scythe and come at me! Let’s fight fair with bare hands!”

While I could compensate for my decreased physical abilities by reinforcing them with divine power, unlike Gareumelig who freely formed his scythe at will, I was completely unarmed.

Even for someone like me, fighting without a weapon against such an opponent in a significantly weakened state was no easy task.

I had to dodge attacks I couldn’t block, while he merely needed to position his scythe in the path of my attacks to slice my limbs.

“I see no reason to do that. With external interference gone and the disparity between physical bodies and weapons eliminated, isn’t this moment already as fair as it gets?”

When I suggested fighting bare-handed if he was so confident, he snickered as if it were absurd and retorted that things were already fair, so I shouldn’t make unreasonable demands.

“Ugh…!”

How cowardly to counter with irrefutable logic. As expected of the leader of a cult of madmen—every word was truly vile and malicious.

Infuriating.

If I just had Durandal—no, even a decent true sword would make this manageable, but I don’t even have a stick resembling a sword. What a predicament.

Truly, I’ve never craved a solid, sharp weapon as desperately as today.

Like a childhood sweetheart who moved to America, being apart made me acutely aware of how precious that empty space was.

Of course, just as a lover who went to America never returns despite belated longing, no miracle would bring Durandal from the mortal world to the Underworld no matter how much I yearned for it now.

*Slash!*

“Ugh…!”

Thus, I had to fight at a clear disadvantage, and eventually began suffering cuts and wounds here and there.

Seeing this, Gareumelig openly mocked me.

“Your reactions have dulled. Have you realized you have no chance of winning and become disturbed?”

“The only thing disturbed here is your body.”

Of course, I’m not one to be intimidated by such mockery.

I’m already losing the fight—should I lose the war of words too? That’s unacceptable. My pride won’t allow it.

“You’re swaying your hips when you walk, you know? Why are you doing that? Showing off your femininity?”

“……”

“It’s been a few months at most. Not enough time for unconscious habits to change… Ah, perhaps you had those preferences in your previous life?”

Look at that expression of speechlessness. I chuckled with satisfaction despite blood dripping from my wounds.

“…Prattle all you want. In the end, it’s just the ramblings of the defeated. I’ll graciously listen.”

Aren’t you the defeated one?

At least I seem to be winning the war of words.

Your walking style became stiff the moment I pointed it out. Like you’re forcibly correcting your naturally swaying hips.

Isn’t that clearly the look of someone swallowing humiliation after losing a verbal battle?

“Ha, acting like you’ve already won.”

Meanwhile, I haven’t lost yet.

Clearly, the situation is somewhat unfavorable, but there’s a gap as vast as the distance between stars between being at a disadvantage and being defeated.

“Getting drunk on victory after inflicting a few minor wounds is pathetic and laughable. Unfortunately for you, my arms and legs are still moving perfectly fine. That means I haven’t lost.”

“I can see it. Your fear. The empty bravado of someone who senses defeat.”

“You’ve got glaucoma. Get surgery. It’s cheaper these days.”

I wiped away the blood trickling down my forehead and smirked.

Empty bravado? What nonsense. Maybe your eyes are so dark you can’t see properly. If you want to make me feel defeated, try taking off one of my arms first.

“No, let me do it for you! Though there won’t be anesthesia!”

I’ve caught my breath enough. Time to fight again. I charged toward him, scattering droplets of blood, reminding myself that disadvantage doesn’t mean defeat.

—-

Five minutes later.

“Haa… haa…”

“You’ve grown quite quiet. Have you finally run out of room for bravado?”

Sprawled across the ruins, breathing heavily with blood-mixed breaths, I inwardly fumed but had to reluctantly admit it.

I can’t beat this bastard without a sword.

That was the conclusion reached after a fierce 10-minute struggle.

The humiliating reason why I, in my specialty area of close combat, was being pushed back by such an opponent was what?

Was it because I was weakened without a physical body? The curse of weakness creeping in through my wounds? No, those were just secondary excuses, not the essence of the problem.

The fundamental reason I was on the defensive was the difference in attack range and lethality due to the presence or absence of weapons.

That bastard, fighting with a weapon while I had none, was strangely durable with good regeneration, so simple punches didn’t do much damage even when they connected.

If I could imbue my arms with the power of severance and strike or swing, I might be able to cut through, but doing that with my current body would likely cause my arms to burst first.

Yes. Despite everything, my essence is ultimately that of a swordsman. A warrior who defeats enemies by cutting them down with a sword.

I needed a sword.

A fang to pierce through enemies and protect myself.

However, no matter how desperately I wished for it, my sword would never come to my hand.

Of course. What power would a mere sword have to cross the barrier between worlds and enter the Underworld? Without me, it’s just a piece of metal incapable of even spatial cutting.

As long as I couldn’t escape this Underworld, there was no hope of grasping Durandal again.

Nothing is more meaningless than obsessing over such an impossibility. I gave up on Durandal.

…Actually, I begged it to come to me for the entire 10 minutes, but it didn’t. You traitor, you’ve betrayed my heart again, Durandal…!

Anyway, if I kept waiting hopelessly for my sword, I’d end up being beaten to death by this dirty, underhanded undead bastard.

“Quiet, you say… I have no choice. I need to concentrate.”

“Concentrate?”

Then I needed to change my approach.

I stretched my right arm to the side and thought about how to obtain something that doesn’t exist.

No matter how I thought about it, there was only one answer.

*Rumble…*

I stretched my right arm to the side, grasped at empty air, and focused my consciousness and divine power there.

From the spiritual core in my heart to my shoulder, arm, hand, fingertips, and beyond into the void. Extending power outside my body, compressing it with will, and forging it.

What I envisioned was the form of a sword.

Elpinel, the main god of current humanity, had proven it through the Sword of Oath. That divine power could become a material sacred object, a sword.

Then I should be able to do it too.

Even if I couldn’t create a perfect sacred object without knowing the method, I could at least create something resembling a temporary weapon.

I wasn’t certain. I just believed it. That this was the answer. That I could create a sword of divine power.

*Rumble…!*

Without a single doubt, concentrating my mind and will beyond their limits.

“What are you doing now…!”

Gareumelig, sensing the massive pulsation of divine power, stiffened his face that had been covered with leisure and mockery, and rushed toward me.

“You said this fight couldn’t be more equal? Let’s check and see. Whether it’s really that fair.”

I smiled. Recalling the basis of my absolute certainty, having shaken off disbelief and doubt.

…Honestly, there’s no way I can’t do what that bastard does.

“Then I should be able to do it too. What you’ve accomplished, and even better!”

*Whoosh…!*

The cross-shaped stigmata on my chest violently pulsated and glowed more intensely white-hot, and my entire right arm from shoulder to fingertips was dyed with the light of dawn stars.

The divine light, excessively concentrated and beginning to erode the surrounding space, rippled and spread according to my will.

Flowing as if peeling away from the surface, gathering and compressing in my hand, then extending beyond my fingertips like something pressed out in the opposite direction.

Long, strong, and sharp. The extended light was compressed and carved according to my will, forming the shape of a sword.

A cross-shaped mass of light lacking distinction between blade and tang, elaborate decorations, or even a stable form.

A sword of divine power forged with will and belief.

“See, I can do it after all.”

I gripped the sword of stars and swung it toward the scythe. The clash of stars and death.

The burst of light swept across a corner of the Underworld, shattering everything it touched into countless pieces.

“A sword… from divine power?!”

Gareumelig, thrown backward by the impact, exclaimed with bulging eyes.

“But just one sword, that won’t change—”

“A lot. It will change a lot.”

I forcibly flipped my body that was being thrown in the opposite direction, kicked off the debris of a building that touched my toes, and charged toward him.

——!

With the burning starlight grasped in my hand, emitting an indescribable roar.