Ch.157Miracle (4)

The ensuing battle was nothing short of an execution.

Llewellyn charged forward, while the Mourner, though unable to run, caught those who hadn’t yet escaped.

Along the path the two Mourners advanced, luminous arrows rained down in succession, piercing backs, necks, and the backs of heads.

Then there was Lorian. Lorian advanced, cutting down enemies and repeatedly hardening their blood into spear-like projectiles to launch.

“Llewellyn!”

At one point, after finishing his mourning and kneeling on one knee, he even used his Origin to assist Llewellyn.

The soldiers who briefly thought they had an opportunity were no match for Llewellyn, who was armored by Lorian and harmoniously wielding three arms.

So the retreat resumed, and finally, after countless sacrifices, they managed to perform spatial movement.

They barely escaped. But the thick blanket of death and corpses throughout the forest proved that their escape was far from complete.

When they retraced their steps back to where they had pursued, what they saw was a life-or-death struggle between a middle-aged man who had lost an arm and an elf who appeared to be his daughter.

And that fight, like the chase earlier, was rightfully called an execution.

Faber, the founder of Imperial Combat Techniques and considered the first and greatest Magistrate of the Empire.

He couldn’t gain the upper hand against Eshatherna, who still had both arms.

From the beginning, his ability to capture Eshatherna was due to his more mature and superior defensive abilities, well-matched equipment, and experience—not because he was a superior individual.

Rather, it was the opposite. To borrow Llewellyn’s words, he was a being worthy of being called a “hard counter.”

It’s like how people who only played the first game might mock how someone like Faber could capture Eshatherna, but after having him as a temporary companion in the second game, they would come to understand.

Faber’s technical mastery was at that level. According to those who had extracted game files and tested using cheats, he was “capable of blocking almost every attack in the game.”

Above all, Faber’s physical abilities were inferior to Eshatherna’s. Whether it was agility, health, strength—he didn’t excel in any area.

That’s why he could withstand Eshatherna’s mental imagery implementation, which had killed countless powerful beings.

In Eshatherna’s mental imagery, Faber only became stronger, never weaker.

So withstanding hundreds of exchanges against the attacks of the assassin hailed as the continent’s greatest martial artist was a praiseworthy achievement.

In the end, he simply couldn’t maintain it after losing an arm.

As if targeting an opening, Eshatherna’s long leg extended quickly.

When that leg struck his chest, his chest armor crumpled, and then a dagger sliced off his fingers, causing the sword breaker to fall.

The dagger thrust again. Trying to block it with his bare hand, his wrist was cut, his forearm sliced, and the dagger advanced along the grain of his muscles.

Despite what must have been excruciating pain, Faber didn’t open his mouth. Instead, he maintained his composure and took a step forward. They were about to grapple.

He must have been trying to use martial arts with his remaining arm.

“By my lord’s command.”

Crack!

Eshatherna, in a strange way that Llewellyn couldn’t comprehend, wrapped her legs around Faber’s neck and broke it.

It resembled a snake constricting its prey, but because it was a human body, it became a bizarre death.

Faber died with blood streaming from both eyes, and Eshatherna, after dropping his lifeless body to the ground, stomped on his neck to confirm the kill.

For Faber, who had dedicated his life to the Empire, it was an inglorious death.

He had captured hundreds of criminals in his lifetime. Llewellyn looked down at him with mixed emotions.

It was bitter that such a righteous person had to die because he served the wrong master.

He would have made a good ally, Llewellyn thought.

Eshatherna kicked up the sword breaker that had fallen to the ground, gripped it, and brought it to Llewellyn.

“Little lord, is your sword broken?”

“Yes. It broke against that.”

“Would you like to have this then?”

Eshatherna tilted her head, perking up her long ears.

Llewellyn considered the sword breaker that Eshatherna was subtly offering, but…

“No. I have Screamer and North Wind. Two swords are enough. You use it.”

He had enough weapons. As he gently pushed it away, Eshatherna smiled softly.

“Yay. Thank you.”

Could one express gratitude so flatly? Llewellyn wondered as he surveyed the surroundings.

The attack, perhaps an extension of the subjugation they had experienced before.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Fatigue filled his entire body. Whether it was due to consuming divine power instead of mana, or mental exhaustion.

Llewellyn could barely walk, managing only because of Lorian wrapped around his body.

By the time he returned to his people, he released his Origin and sat down.

“Sejin!”

Lucilla and Yoon Se-ah came running. They stopped midway and felt their bodies.

Her body still contained intense heat. Heat so intense that embracing someone could be fatal.

Even for someone with a robust physique like Llewellyn. It’s like how in media, even the mightiest beings struggle to withstand a nuclear blast.

Yoon Se-ah’s anomaly was a unique ability that faithfully reproduced the flames of such a nuclear blast.

A truly lethal skill. Lucilla managed to extinguish the flames that couldn’t harm her, then rushed to her brother who was looking at her in bewilderment.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? How’s your body? Hmm?”

She touched all over his body, hugged him, and even placed her ear on his chest as if worried his heart might have stopped.

Llewellyn couldn’t help but smile at Lucilla’s behavior.

He remembered a time when he got badly scraped playing soccer. The image of her with tears in her eyes, rambling about going to the hospital even after everything had been treated, came to mind.

Llewellyn wrapped his arms around his sister’s back, almost cradling her.

“Ugh.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m a homunculus.”

Had she forgotten even that? Lucilla trembled slightly before letting out an “Ah” of realization.

So Llewellyn didn’t see.

Lorian and Isla watching with blank expressions.

Melody touching her sword hilt with a bitter smile.

He just closed his eyes peacefully, with his arm around his sister’s back, thinking about how nice it was to be embraced by her after so long, or had they hugged recently?

Suddenly, he opened his eyes wide at the strong anti-demonic power he felt.

Naturally, he couldn’t miss that walking storm.

As Melody, who had quietly approached, drew her sword right in front of them, a giant over 2 meters tall descended to the ground.

A strong wind blew, and everyone else turned their heads in tension.

In this battle, Valterok had not shown himself at all.

If one were to prepare for the worst, it was possible to assume that Valterok had come with the intention of betrayal from the beginning.

Although the practical likelihood was small, one must prepare for the worst to respond when a major crisis occurs.

As everyone raised their weapons, Valterok sat down on the ground and let down the woman who had been sitting on his forearm.

Most of those present didn’t recognize the woman, but Lucilla, who had already released Llewellyn and whose whites of eyes had turned black, did.

“…Finance Minister?”

Though Lucilla’s bulging eyes made her look threatening, the woman, who had lived as a Finance Minister and veteran merchant for a long time, had both grit and bravado.

She smiled and greeted them, knowing full well that the “Star’s Flame” could fly at her and roast her at any moment.

“It’s been a while, Guardian Duke.”

Imperial First Sword, Finance Minister, the continent’s most successful merchant.

Lie Hezedia confirmed the correctness of her decision by the corpses strewn behind them.

*

“Huff, gasp, huff…”

He was out of breath. But he had to run. Despite having almost no mana left in his body and having lost both arms, leaving only incantation as a means to use magic.

Despite being unable to cast recovery or vitality spells on himself, Azdan had to keep running.

He had failed. While it wasn’t a complete failure, it was still a failure.

The subjugation had not been achieved. Llewellyn, the pretender, had become much stronger than before.

Not only that, he had lost countless talented individuals and almost all the troops he had brought.

What remained was just a handful compared to before.

Yet he couldn’t subjugate not only the pretender but also the Guardian Duke, the fallen Blood Knight, and even the Golden Nightingale.

So while it wasn’t a complete annihilation and thus not a perfect failure, it was almost perfect as failures go.

Azdan felt a burning sensation in his stomach and the blood welling up inside as he ran and then rolled on the ground.

Without arms, it took him a long time to get up. The soldiers couldn’t come to help him. They too were extremely tired and depleted, and when they tried to help him up, they just sat down nearby.

He had lost everything. With a miserable feeling, Azdan flipped his body and barely stood up.

And despite the effort it took to stand, he leaned against a tree and sat down, calling out to a nearby soldier while panting.

The soldier didn’t respond. Irritation welled up. Only after Azdan irritably drew up his mana did the soldier collapse with a thud.

He was dead. Upon closer inspection, there was an arrow in his back.

That wasn’t all. As he scanned the surroundings with his mana, countless soldiers were injured or dying.

A sigh escaped him. Nevertheless, Azdan knew what he had to do.

Groaning, he managed to turn his pocket inside out, a process that took another 30 minutes.

What he finally extracted was a communication magic tool. When he infused it with mana, it trembled and connected to the distant imperial palace.

Azdan prostrated himself and bit his lip.

“May eternal glory be with Your Majesty. This is Azdan, the one responsible for the subjugation.”

There was no response. Was it because he used an abbreviated form? But Azdan was anxious, not knowing when pursuers might arrive.

After a moment’s hesitation, he spoke.

“Your Majesty, the subjugation has failed. The pretender was much stronger than anticipated, and most of the available troops are unable to continue fighting. The Imperial First Sword, the Magistrate, and all knights under the General’s command—”

The report continued disjointedly. How many had died, and how many had disappeared. There were losses of troops that couldn’t be confirmed, but he reported them as dead. There was no way they could have survived in that situation.

So Azdan continued his report with a miserable heart.

“This incompetent one is also unable to continue the battle, so Your Majesty…”

It was then. A massive presence was suddenly felt through the communication magic tool.

The distance was considerable. Between the old continent and the new continent, between the imperial palace and the remote regions of the new continent.

But Azdan trembled at the strong presence he felt.

A presence completely different from the Emperor he knew.

Rather than the Emperor who felt like a plant or an inanimate object, this was a fierce and energetic quality. As Azdan stared blankly at the communication magic tool.

A voice was heard.

“Well done.”

It was a voice that couldn’t be identified as male or female, old or young.

The image of the Emperor that Azdan knew blurred.

Azdan pondered the words he had just heard.

It wasn’t meant to praise and comfort a subordinate who had done his best, nor was it sarcastic.

Rather, Azdan had the feeling that:

From the beginning, this was what was desired and expected.

As if satisfied that the desired outcome had been achieved.

And as if confirming such expectations, the Emperor, who had regained his will after a thousand years, cut off the communication.

What remained was a pile of discarded tools.

Though winter was receding and spring was gradually arriving under the falling sunlight.

Azdan still felt it was winter.

He closed his eyes, shivering in the cold.