Ch.154Miracle (1)

It was a crisis. I felt a chill as if a blade was right before my eyes.

My skin was cold, but my body burned too hot inside. Perhaps from repeated regeneration and tumbling down the slope, I was a mess of hot and cold sensations.

Amid all this, my awareness expanded outward. I could sense everything.

From the tiny movements of frozen insects rolling on the ground to the fierce gusts of wind stirred by the magic and flames that had been unleashed upon me.

Within this chaos, I faced the arrows raining down toward me.

These weren’t ordinary arrows being fired.

The arrows themselves were extraordinary. The arrowheads were inscribed with pulsing blue magical formulas.

The arrowheads were masterpieces crafted from superior metal, and from fletching to shaft, they burned with magical energy I couldn’t identify.

The arrows cut through the air like lightning.

Dozens of blue trajectories etched themselves across the night sky. They suddenly appeared, making popping sounds as they struck my armor, transforming into pressure that crumpled the metal.

My body began to tilt. I gritted my teeth and dug in my legs to resist the force. With a boom, the dust radiating from around me scattered the melted arrows into the air.

Meanwhile, a mage pointed his outstretched finger at me. Magic gathered at his fingertips.

The cliff was high. Even I couldn’t reach it without using an explosive leap, and they wouldn’t simply let me jump up unhindered.

My extended senses revealed those waiting behind the soldiers, aiming crossbows. They intended to shoot me down the moment I leaped.

Soldiers who had somehow descended to the bottom of the cliff were closing in with spears.

Enemies surrounded me from all directions.

They knew me well and had blocked all my escape routes.

So there was only one way to win.

I exhaled and gripped my sword properly. The trajectory of my swing left a crimson afterimage burning in my retina, and the arrows caught in its path all flew up at once and exploded.

KWAAAANG!

I blocked with my hand axe, but the pressure pushed my body back. As I rolled across the ground and exhaled heated breath, I saw spears flying toward me beyond the ceased barrage.

Countless spears aimed directly at me.

I felt like a hunted beast. The corners of my mouth rose involuntarily.

As a soldier thrust his spear at my neck, I grabbed the shaft and pulled. The soldier released the spear and drew his sword.

[Explosive Leap]

Using my back foot as a pivot, I jumped and extended my leg, easily folding the soldier at the waist before grabbing his collar and throwing him away.

KWAAAAAAANG!

The soldiers continued to explode. Whenever I killed one, they would detonate as if they had been waiting for it, determined to serve their purpose until the very end.

It was disgusting.

The way they desecrated the dead, casually using them as tools.

The fact that this posed a serious threat to my life.

And that I was too weak to do anything about it.

All of it was nauseating to the point of making me sick.

So I needed my unique skill.

The one means to turn this battlefield around and bring me victory.

The ultimate ability available only to characters who have reached level 20.

I had to use it.

KAGAGAGAGAGAGANG!

As I leaped up, crossbow bolts flew toward me.

The moment I twisted my body to dodge, a javelin shot up from below.

I deflected everything with my hand axe, then threw it—only for the mage to deflect it with a barrier before firing a scorching beam of heat like a burning sun.

I took a direct hit from the heat ray and rolled across the ground.

I couldn’t easily defeat enemies who had come with such thorough preparation. Some things just can’t be forced.

But using that skill required magic. I knew this better than anyone.

It required more than half of one’s maximum magic power. And after using it, barely enough magic remained to cast even a single skill.

That’s why Isla couldn’t use her unique skill despite reportedly being at a level capable of obtaining one. She was a half-transformed race who couldn’t produce her own magic.

But was that still true?

I had seen her use skills.

Shadow Pierce, a core hunter skill that consumed so much magic that it couldn’t be used easily.

Isla was using it with a necklace made by Selma.

Not just that—Lorian had openly used Origin Manifestation. He had used it to help me.

Even the three races known to have no magic could use Origin.

If so, then I should be able to as well.

I gritted my teeth and stood on trembling legs.

“Do you think you have a chance?” the mage said from atop the cliff. Though it sounded like he had let his guard down, that wasn’t the case at all.

Dense magical energy still swirled around him. I could sense it because I still had anti-magic.

Magic that could become a barrier, an attack, or a counterattack.

Azdan, the dean of the War School. He was an archmage.

His level had to be at least 20. Despite this, as a dean, he rarely engaged in external activities and never entered combat directly.

So I had to assume he had an unknown unique skill.

I wasn’t sure if he was saving it or if it was something he couldn’t use freely, like my sister’s.

What I needed to use had to be something that could overwhelm even that.

So I stood up with trembling legs and an increasingly fatigued body.

“I can tell you have something in mind. I can see it. But… in this situation, I don’t see how you have any means to turn things around.”

That was true. Mourners and homunculi shouldn’t possess magic, which meant I shouldn’t be able to use skills.

So I would catch him off guard. I glared at my enemy with burning eyes.

The soldiers approached one step at a time with caution. Though they had self-destruct abilities they could use without hesitation, they might have approached more aggressively.

They were cautious. Such opponents were troublesome.

But on the other hand…

I was grateful they were giving me time to find a solution.

I exhaled.

In that deep exhalation, I felt something mixing in. Magic. Something that felt like particles floating around, repelled by anti-magic.

It didn’t enter my body. My flesh had no way to accept magic.

No, that wasn’t all.

The Mourner, this inexplicable class created by the being known as Father, felt as though it was filled with something other than magic.

Only then could I examine my body—the body of this monster called Ruwellin—in detail.

It was strange.

I couldn’t accept magic. Yet I could use the transcendent power of mourning.

It was a power too strong to be granted merely because a human mourned for another human.

Considering that the power granted by ordinary transcendents to their contractors required magic as payment, it was all the more peculiar.

My accelerated thought process made my brain burn hot. I felt my head growing warmer as I recalled, pondered, and considered many things.

Power bestowed by a being who was once a god and became a transcendent.

Yet that transcendent seemed sinister, disguising itself as something good to deceive.

But was that really true?

At least the power of the Mourner—power that emerged simply from people mourning for other people—seemed genuine.

Only then did something catch my eye. In my bird’s-eye view, I saw the old Mourner fighting desperately to help people escape, with spears and arrows piercing his back and chest.

He had become a Mourner through mourning.

He gained that power by being angry and sorrowful over his lost family and the death of his community.

Was there truly evil intent behind that?

Was the Mourner’s mourning really a power that came at the cost of life?

What if, in fact, it wasn’t?

Magic dispersed with my exhaled breath. The approaching enemies seemed to move slowly.

The mage’s hand signs slowed, and naturally, the movements of the soldiers watching with bows beside him became sluggish.

Everything slowed down. The effect of extremely accelerated perception.

Within this state, I observed my body.

The divinity floating within me, the anti-magic enveloping that body, and beyond that, the magic drifting through the world.

And beyond the magic and anti-magic, two types of divinity that continued to pay attention to me and take interest.

Mother and Father.

Two names that seemed like they should be paired.

They had been interested in me from the beginning.

They cared enough to revive me twice after I died, and they used a vast empire at their whim because they wanted me.

Though I didn’t know why, they used me because they deeply cherished me.

But as I would later learn, they were wicked.

They were not worthy of their high positions.

So I distanced myself. I freely used the power they gave me, but I had no intention of accepting them.

That remains true now.

No matter what beings they were in the past, or what positive influence they had on this land.

They were clearly evil beings. Both Father, who disguised himself to lure people, and Mother, who openly refused to understand humans.

I had no intention of getting close to either of them.

But looking at the power they gave me, I began to think:

Cherishing human death, not considering human death proper.

Considering that they readily granted great power simply because a person mourned another person’s death.

Perhaps they once had good aspects.

Maybe, even now, there are still good parts within them.

Perhaps that’s why they still bestow their divinity upon humans.

Perhaps the Mourner’s lifespan being shortened is the price for wielding divinity that doesn’t suit the body.

My intuition affirmed this. The divinity permeating my brain whispered that all of it was correct.

The Mourner was a warrior who wielded divinity.

All that remained was to take one step forward.

I exhaled the breath I had deeply inhaled.

Thump.

My heartbeat radiated outward.

This time, it wasn’t just visible to me.

The soldiers froze. Even the mage, confused by the inexplicable phenomenon, unconsciously raised a barrier, and those approaching me with spears hesitated and stiffened.

My sister, who had just been beheading enemies and tearing out hearts, paused, as did Eshatherna, who had been holding two daggers in reverse grip.

The old Mourner, who was fighting desperately to protect people with spears and arrows lodged in his back and chest, flinched, and Melody, who was helping him by wielding an estoc, turned her head.

Isla, who had been shooting arrows while leaping between trees, looked in my direction from atop a tree.

The gray pulsation that spread out enveloped everything.

A momentary silence fell over the battlefield. Everyone paused their swords and anger, staring blankly at the cliff where I stood.

Even though they couldn’t see me or sense me.

Instinctively, they raised their heads to look at me.

I felt all those countless gazes.

I rose, bearing all those gazes on my back.

At the festival, I had also felt everyone looking at me.

It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. I stood straight on legs that no longer trembled.

“…What did you just do? Nothing…”

“Image, Ideal, Origin.”

The mage flinched. I wasn’t looking at him. Instead, I gazed far away, at the sky above.

A shadow loomed over it.

There was once a dull man who feared human death and the inevitable end of all things, and tried to change everything.

He was called Father.

Though he fell and lost his will and ideals.

He still created Mourners. Because that was his nature.

I carried his nature, which hadn’t been forgotten despite his fall and corruption. Feeling this, I spoke.

“Image doesn’t suit me. I haven’t lived long enough, nor have I distilled my life into techniques.”

The mage’s expression became inscrutable, but I paid no attention.

“I have no ideal. I simply lived as life flowed, and lived because I didn’t want to die.”

I unclenched my fist. The hand axe fell to the ground, and I gripped the longsword with both hands.

“I don’t know my origin. My flesh is new, and my spirit doesn’t know its roots.”

“What are you trying to say?”

The mage’s magic boiled up. I could feel him preparing.

Unique skill, Ideal.

Manifesting the scenery that all magic users envision as their ideal.

I should block it. I should fear it.

But for some reason…

I thought I wasn’t afraid. I simply gripped my sword tightly and looked at the night sky.

The wind blew. My cloak fluttered in the breeze, and my injured, bleeding body felt weary.

It was a warm wind. A wind that reminded me of my days at the pantheon. I found myself smiling without realizing it.

It seemed I really did like people.

“I want to be happy.”

The night sky dispersed. The sun slowly rose.

As dawn suddenly began to break, shadows receded, darkness retreated, and light gradually spread.

Light always creates shadows, and the winter sun isn’t warm.

Yet I felt comfort.

“Not just my own happiness, but I wanted everyone I touched to be happy.”

The mage’s face contorted with confusion.

“I wished they wouldn’t face inevitable partings, and that they would be happy forever.”

“What are you suddenly saying…”

“But I know that’s childish. I know it won’t happen that way. Everything… has a beginning and an end.”

Father couldn’t let go of his childishness. That’s why he made the wrong choice and became ‘Father.’

I will not follow his path.

What I wish for is simple.

“I want my precious people to someday meet a happy and regretless end.”

It’s a difficult thing. Even the Earth I lived on couldn’t achieve that.

Because people are weak and die so fleetingly.

A happy and regretless end is just an unrealistic fantasy, I know.

But.

That was my goal.

My image, my ideal, my origin.

Thump!

My heartbeat radiated outward. Wind followed the path where the gray pulsation had spread. A warm and gentle wind.

At its center, I lowered my eyes and slightly raised the longsword I had been gripping.

It’s an impossible task.

It cannot be achieved with just memories and history held in a human heart.

It’s beyond reach even for dreams dreamed by people. It’s too lofty.

Nor can it be reached through layers of accumulated history.

Image, Ideal, Origin.

All are woefully inadequate to reach it.

Therefore, that’s not the name I need.

I raised my sword.

“Miracle—”

As people touched by the blowing wind unconsciously raised their heads, blinking eyes shaded by eyelashes to meet my gaze.

I knew its name.

“—Manifestation.”

It was a strange stance.

The sword was held centrally, with the blade and point facing the enemy.

In this position, I couldn’t cut. Even thrusting would be clumsy.

But the history embedded within it proved otherwise.

This was a technique imbued with one human’s life and history.

The mage’s face naturally stiffened.

His lips parted slightly, and words flowed out.

“Finance Minister…?”

The Empire’s Greatest Swordsman, Finance Minister Rie Hejedia.

Her swordsmanship, her life.

Holding that, I smiled slightly.