Ch.217Night’s God (8)

A single line horizontally.

A single line vertically, stretching long.

Light spreads along the trajectory drawn by the hand, and a sword appears in that hand.

The sword of the night sky, a cluster of stars.

A sword not drawn out of fear it might break, fear that if broken, nothing could be done.

Llewellyn gripped such a sword. Not because he was certain it wouldn’t break.

Rather, it was to prevent it from breaking.

He couldn’t keep cowering in fear when there was a man before him who had sliced the sky with just an ordinary iron sword.

If he didn’t step forward despite having better conditions and better means, he would only lose face.

So Llewellyn stared, entranced, at the sword materializing in his hand.

A sword.

Just a weapon, nothing more.

One among countless weapons, not something to be called the greatest of all arms.

Certainly, there were many weapons in the world better than swords.

Superior weapons that allowed one to overcome hardships with less effort and less labor.

This was a natural change as eras progressed.

In other words, the sword too was merely a passing weapon. Llewellyn, born and raised in the modern era, knew this well.

Yet he couldn’t say that the Sword Saint’s blade was worthless.

A weapon forged from mere metal.

Held in one hand, or both hands, swung to cut down enemies.

A weapon that wounds by thrusting with the strength of one’s waist while gripped in hand.

Neither mankind’s first weapon, nor its last.

Just a weapon that flows and passes by.

Some might ask: Then isn’t the effort one person puts into mastering such a weapon worthless?

No matter how much time is invested, no matter how high a level is reached.

Wouldn’t it be better to master the ultimate weapon that will eventually emerge?

Or they might say it would be better to master a superior weapon.

But the Sword Saint would answer:

What use is yearning for better weapons, better techniques?

In the end, it is humans who wield them, and it is humans who stand against the heavens.

The Sword Saint firmly gripped and raised high his well-forged sword, destined to become outdated.

He was a man who had reached the pinnacle with that soon-to-be-outdated weapon.

Without divinity, without magic, without even the caliber of a transcendent.

Just a man who had reached the pinnacle following his own time and path.

That man was now showing Llewellyn a possibility.

The edge of a path that a single human, a mortal who couldn’t even become a god, could reach.

“Lorian, use the Origin.”

“…Alright.”

Llewellyn stood beside such a man, feeling his body regenerate.

“Isla, I need covering fire. I’ll leave the judgment to you.”

“Okay.”

He twirled the sword using his wrist, then gripped it at an angle.

“Melody, I request your support.”

The enemy stood before them.

An enemy so vast, with no clear way to defeat it.

A transparent form holds a sword, and the night sky congeals into a blade.

Now it becomes surreal. The entire night sky was rising heavily, becoming a blade.

The moon hanging in that night sky gleamed like a sword tip, and the sun thrown to the horizon shone ominously.

Could they win?

He didn’t know. But at least he knew it was time to swing his sword.

“The corridor of eternal struggle is…”

A voice was heard. As Llewellyn’s eyes tilted sideways inside his helmet, he saw a giant who looked paler than usual.

“…overlaying my mental image of eternal struggle onto myself, not the world.”

A fact not normally revealed even when fighting together. Though he couldn’t see Llewellyn’s expression, the Sword Saint felt as if he had seen it.

“What’s important in sustaining struggle is response. My mental image changes my body. It dissolves into my body all attacks I’ve experienced, all things I’ve suffered…”

While Melody, who had quietly drawn her sword and tapped the blade with her fingertips to create a sword sound, was casting physical enhancement and all sorts of support magic on Llewellyn, the Sword Saint, Isla, and Lorian,

The Sword Saint smiled faintly, feeling the magic wrapping around his body.

“An attack I’ve broken once no longer works. That is my mental image.”

What are the criteria for breaking an attack? Llewellyn could know the answer.

The minimum was experiencing it with his body and surviving.

The maximum was deflecting it with his sword.

Not a very suitable response method for an opponent requiring the use of a unique skill.

If successful, there would certainly be a definite effect, but the price…

Llewellyn looked at the Sword Saint’s body.

A body that appeared soaked in blood. His already pale skin had turned even whiter from massive blood loss.

The cut wounds seemed to have become “ineffective” as he had said.

But it was by no means light. Even his eyes, occasionally losing focus and returning, showed this.

Yet he stands there, as if exceeding limits is natural. Llewellyn glared at the night sky undulating in the shape of a blade beside the giant.

“Origin Manifestation.”

Lorian’s voice echoed, and his entire body turned into blood, enveloping his whole form.

Lorian’s prosthetic hand gripped a beheading sword above his shoulder blades on his back and swung it magnificently, and Llewellyn exhaled, feeling power filling and rushing through his body.

He wouldn’t last long. Then it must end before that.

Even though no method was visible, it had to be done.

Escape was impossible. That much was clear from how they had been lured here, Llewellyn and the God of Dreams.

If they fled from here, it would pursue them.

It would persistently target Llewellyn and covet the God of Dreams.

Then it must be repelled here.

Since what needed to be done hadn’t changed from before, Llewellyn gripped his sword.

He stomped the ground forcefully.

His body soared. With anti-magic power and strength enhanced by Lorian’s help, he shot upward like a meteor rising against the sky with explosive leaping power.

Under the descending night sky, Llewellyn sensed the killing intent sharply honed into the form of a blade targeting him.

Could he do it? He didn’t know. But Llewellyn wrapped both hands around his sword.

The night sky approaches Llewellyn, who glows almost like a red light.

It’s pulled down toward eye level as if it had never risen high, approaching faster than a single breath can be drawn.

Too fast. It was fast even watching from behind, but facing it directly, he understood.

There’s no forearm or upper arm movement that would normally accompany a sword. Only the sword remains, only the night sky moves with killing intent.

The precursors of movement cannot be read. Without precursors, it approaches and traces the trajectory of attack with an indistinct blade.

Invisible, indefensible attack. Cold sweat runs down his spine.

Mistake, even before the fear of death.

‘Focus, Llewellyn.’

He hears the whispering voice of the God of Dreams.

The god who had been thrown into his cloak, stunned and speechless from shock.

‘I shall illuminate your path.’

With those words, divine power swells.

Like drawing constellations in dreams by tracing the stars scattered across the night sky.

A faint outline appears before Llewellyn’s eyes.

The approaching trajectory. Terrifyingly fast and strong, but.

Now he can see it. Llewellyn twisted his body and moved, stepping on a foothold created with anti-magic power beneath his feet.

The night sky is vast. The power contained in that vastness is absurd.

Normally, it cannot be faced. But.

The Sword Saint did it. Then Llewellyn too would be able to do it someday.

He draws on that possibility. Llewellyn’s heart beats violently, and divine power extending from that heart along his entire bloodstream envelops his body.

Llewellyn swung his sword, imbuing it with the power he named “Mortality.”

The sword strike spreads widely. Blue starlight and night sky collide.

Clang! The metallic sound that rang for a moment was exhilarating.

Although Llewellyn’s eardrums burst and Lorian, who enveloped his body, rippled and momentarily became unstable.

He had blocked it. The constellation carved by the God of Dreams spread along the night sky, and Llewellyn exhaled heated breath.

Divine power is the force that creates destiny. The qualification to twist fate and take it into one’s own hands.

Llewellyn took his first step.

The night sky wasn’t pushed back far. He couldn’t push it back to the far side of the sky as the Sword Saint had done.

The distance Llewellyn pushed it was a drop in the bucket compared to the Sword Saint. But the result achieved moved Llewellyn’s feet.

He connects footholds made of anti-magic power. Precise footholds perceptible only to Llewellyn’s senses.

Llewellyn saw the guillotine trying to fall on him again, and the night sky rippling with stars densely embedded in it.

The sword mark he had engraved was still there.

Even more clearly than what the Sword Saint had carved.

The power of Mortality. Llewellyn’s eyes followed the constellation carved by the God of Dreams. His legs ran across footholds made of anti-magic power.

A crimson trajectory flew like a comet. He accelerated, avoiding the night sky moving in all directions.

Getting closer. He doesn’t know where to aim. He dodges. Dodges and looks for an opportunity. A sword strike that soars with the foothold. Sword energy rising from below like a tornado.

But there is no technique. Compared to the Sword Saint’s sword, it lacks depth.

And the difference is immeasurably large.

Shallow. Llewellyn saw the sword strike aimed at him and stopped, and Lorian, reading Llewellyn’s intention, struck the foothold with his prosthetic hand and beheading sword and jumped.

His body rises as if performing a high jump, slightly pushed back, and the sword technique made of night sky passes by as if grazing him.

A fierce pressure as if an entire world is passing by. A chilling sensation that makes one shudder and want to wipe away the cold sweat running down one’s spine.

But he doesn’t hesitate. Llewellyn created another foothold in mid-air and stepped on it. Again, the night sky rushes down from above, targeting Llewellyn.

The sky dotted with stars accelerating to target him was a spectacle never to be seen again.

The sensation of all the stars in the night sky becoming shooting stars targeting a single individual was difficult to describe.

At a glance, even fear creeps in.

But Llewellyn didn’t move. With his right hand on the foothold, lowering his posture, he waited for the Sword Saint to step forward.

The Sword Saint was already slowly soaring.

Magic crafted from Melody’s melody pushed his body.

A flight magic that couldn’t be maintained for long. With no movement in any direction except up and down.

But he leisurely soared and matched his sword technique against the night sky.

—!

The night sky couldn’t surpass a human’s sword energy.

The roles were clear. The moment Llewellyn jumped off the foothold, a beam of light flew narrowly past Llewellyn’s side.

Isla’s arrow. Llewellyn naturally stepped above the arrow and jumped.

KWAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

A delayed aftershock shakes the space. The already dizzy magical terrain flips over, and accumulated soil mixes and swirls.

Amidst such dust clouds, Llewellyn gripped his sword.

He strikes. With all the power of Mortality, somehow inflicting a fatal wound.

Llewellyn’s single-minded intent dwells in his sword, and the cluster of stars blazes brightly with blue light.

As the blue starlight shot through the dust cloud was about to cut the night sky with a horizontally drawn trajectory.

Suddenly the sky went dark.

No, that’s not it.

Suddenly the dim night sky cleared and morning came.

His eyes were blinded by the sun that suddenly rose before him.

Naturally, the sword he was about to swing lost its target.

Even if one’s senses are exceptional enough to discern objects without sight, one cannot prepare for a perfectly visible field of view suddenly disappearing.

The hesitation is extremely momentary. An extremely short time that couldn’t even be called an opening.

But it’s different when darkness falls again.

Llewellyn saw the night sky suddenly forming right before his eyes.

That’s how the night sky naturally is.

Something that exists when darkness falls and the sun crosses the horizon.

The sword reflexively raised, regardless of the defense performed with such a sword, the blade that suddenly appeared.

The already swung blade connects, and Llewellyn, with no way to respond, widened his eyes at the lightning-fast memory coming to his mind.

A sight similar to this night sky, but slightly different.

Followed by intense pain, vomiting blood. Even his body about to be pushed away and fly off.

Llewellyn didn’t resist the fierce impact hitting his abdomen, deliberately curled his body and jumped backward, but.

A crimson trajectory remains in the air. He couldn’t stop his body from being pushed back.

So he felt himself plunging into the ground.

KWAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

With an explosion and blast center, Llewellyn crashes into the ground and bounces up.

Lorian, who had wrapped around his body, barely keeps him upright by manipulating blood, but his body staggers and sinks to his knees.

Beyond his burst eardrums, he could faintly hear someone calling. Yet Llewellyn didn’t get up.

Kneeling on one knee, he let out a hollow laugh.

A fragment of the night sky that had fallen off during their recent exchange of attacks had entered Llewellyn.

It was a memory of the being once called the God of Night, mixed into the night sky.

‘The Great Ascension.’

What all the gods of the world dreamed of and pursued for eternity.

The ambition of gods who tore the universe and went outside to obtain something greater.

The God of Dreams said the Great Ascension had failed, but the memory Llewellyn saw was saying it was more than just that.

‘The Great Ascension… was more than just a failure.’

The memory that flowed in when Llewellyn’s Mortality hit whispered.

All the gods of the pantheon who attempted the Great Ascension were devoured by transcendents lurking outside Netel.

The Great Ascension could be called a tragedy.

A tragedy where all the gods walked into a slaughterhouse on their own feet and were annihilated.

Llewellyn saw one of the perpetrators of that tragedy.

A giant arm descending from outside the universe, a transcendent toying with him, using the night sky as a sword.