Ch.248Three Monstrosities (6)

It was an absurdly outrageous statement. Fittingly, the space itself seemed to freeze.

The atmosphere was so tense that even breathing felt difficult. Not only the Emperor but even the Prophet was looking at Llewellyn with disapproving eyes.

Yet Llewellyn casually slipped his hands into his pockets, unfazed by those transcendent gazes.

He even slightly furrowed his brow at the Emperor’s annoyed expression, his face conveying a clear message:

‘How dare you make such a face at your big brother?’

The Emperor noticed his meaning and frowned even more displeasingly.

But there was an undeniable fact.

The Emperor was blood-related to Llewellyn and Lucilla.

Perhaps knowing this, the Emperor merely stared down at Llewellyn without saying or doing anything.

There was no need to.

“…What nonsense.”

The Prophet seemed to think differently as he spoke those words, but Llewellyn didn’t even spare him a glance.

“I don’t think that’s for you to judge.”

“If not me, then who would judge? How could…”

“Are you an idiot who only realizes he’s overstepped after getting burned?”

Though Llewellyn meant to provoke him, he was slightly taken aback when the aura of death and magical energy surrounding the Prophet began to fluctuate violently.

It worked as intended, but he hadn’t expected such an intense reaction.

Llewellyn’s eyes naturally rolled to look at the Prophet, who exhaled a long breath with an expressionless face that faintly revealed his anger.

“Aren’t you the one overstepping, blood bag?”

Following his voice, magical energy coiled intensely. It seemed ready to take form and attack at any moment.

Sensing the flow of that magic with his anti-magic ability, Llewellyn lightly clenched his fist, then released it.

“Do you truly understand who stands before you, and who you’re speaking about so casually?”

After unclenching his fist, he extended his index finger, and light gathered at its tip.

A line segment made of light. A weapon without precedent in this world.

The sword of the night sky, a line segment capable of summoning a cluster of stars.

Even reading Llewellyn’s intentions, the Prophet didn’t attack.

“Before you stands a vessel directly created by the Master and a dragon who has observed the world for His glory for ages! That noble name you so casually speak, as if calling a friend, should never be uttered by a blood bag like you…!”

“You’re noisy.”

When Llewellyn cut him off, the dragon hesitated. Looking up at the dragon, Llewellyn naturally moved his right hand.

One vertical stroke, one short horizontal stroke.

Cutting through space, a constellation formed in his hand.

FZZZZZZZ!

Space twisted, and the twisted space became a line segment of light, forming a blade, a hilt, and a cross-guard.

A legendary sword that shatters and tears apart space.

A power of transcendence that no one in history had ever possessed, taking form in his hand—a power that didn’t even exist until Llewellyn grasped it.

A great sword that made even the Prophet feel both an immense gap and a sense of crisis upon seeing it.

Llewellyn gripped the hilt made of light with his right hand.

“I understand you’re an insincere man, but trying to make others the same is a bit much.”

The sword tilted. Following the direction of the blade, the Prophet felt as if space itself was distorting, and he sensed the divinity dwelling in both the sword and the blood bag’s body.

A presence completely opposite to the “Death’s Deferment” completed by binding a necromancer’s body.

It was something like pulling down immortality and driving it into the ground. The Prophet stiffened his expression, instinctively sensing danger if he were to touch that blade.

“Do you want to stop me?”

The sword twisted while still pointing at the Prophet.

“Don’t you like what I’m saying?”

Black armor suddenly appeared on his body.

“Or do you have some other scheme that I’m interfering with?”

The already black armor was seamlessly coated with a dark liquid—sacred blood.

“Then stop muttering and come at me.”

The blood bag, now transformed into a black knight, spoke without hesitation. Sacred blood was now flowing within the blue-burning light.

The ceaselessly moving sacred blood created subtle vibrations by itself. It added weight to the blade that seemed capable of cutting anything it touched, weight that would only affect the sword strike when cutting.

This was a technique that even Llewellyn performed instinctively—recreating the “perfect weight of a sword strike” by drawing on his experience of becoming one with the Sword Saint.

He was no ordinary opponent. Not just any blood bag. That’s what his stance seemed to say.

But the Prophet couldn’t accept it. The idea of such an unqualified being ascending to heaven was a calamity he couldn’t even dream of.

Only those worthy should ascend to heaven.

At the very edge of what he could tolerate were the dregs he had no choice but to journey with—the Emperor, the Empress, the Court Count.

If he couldn’t recover his “Father,” and if his “Mother” couldn’t ascend…

He believed himself to be the most suitable for that position. He recalled the vision of the future he had seen, where dragons ruled the entire world.

He had come this far for that single future. He had come this far to escape the imminent, inevitable mortality.

The Prophet steeled his resolve. Danger, crisis.

There had been plenty. Starting with fleeing from death.

He channeled the magical energy and death aura boiling within his body, spreading it throughout. As he prepared to transform into a dragon at any moment, the Emperor stepped forward.

“The puppet…”

Just as he was about to tell him to stay out of it.

He felt some invisible pressure constricting his body.

The words about to leave his mouth stopped.

It felt like someone was choking him. Yet there were no actual hands around his throat, and he felt something he couldn’t even resist against.

He couldn’t breathe. Even though his body didn’t need to breathe, he momentarily imagined suffocation.

Death approached. Step by step, slowly.

Until it stood beside him. Only then did the Prophet recognize who stood before him.

“Mo, ther…”

The will of this planet, the sum of life that sprouted when this planet was created.

Moreover, the end that life reaches when it dies, the transcendent being who was in charge of the “end of life” even before the god of death was born.

Called, Mother Netel.

Spreading a pressure that made even Llewellyn’s body tingle, that being revealed itself through the Emperor’s body.

From behind, he heard Lorian make a choking sound. Elimul had already fainted and was collapsing.

It wasn’t out of malice. It was just like insects fleeing at the sight of a giant shadow—souls trying to escape their bodies.

Only those who had obtained equal standing, or those who held qualification, could withstand it.

Llewellyn firmly planted his feet on the ground.

[Explosive Leap]

A message flashed across his vision momentarily. His body rose, and his right foot naturally extended forward to press against the Emperor’s exposed abdomen.

[Explosive Leap]

He utilized the consecutive use of the leap he had acquired from dragon-slaying.

The leap used while floating in mid-air struck the Emperor’s body with an incomprehensible pressure, and the Emperor’s body flew back as if bounced away.

KWAAAAAAANG!

Breaking through walls and ceilings, the Emperor was flung away. Llewellyn planted both feet on the ground and used another leap to catch up.

His body soared through the broken tunnel, breaking through the surrounding piles of soil with his body to follow.

Finally, Llewellyn caught up with the Emperor, or more precisely, Netel who had taken over his body, who was now floating.

He saw the Emperor standing as if nothing had happened.

As he landed before him, he felt something.

Something like a watchful gaze.

Feeling goosebumps crawl across his skin, Llewellyn glared at the Emperor.

There wasn’t a single wound on that body.

He had the feeling that even if he swung his sword to cut, it wouldn’t cut.

It was like trying to cut the moon reflected in water—the moon doesn’t split.

Above all… Llewellyn was reluctant to cut the Emperor who had the same face as his sister.

So Llewellyn didn’t attack.

He just stared at the Emperor, waiting for what would happen next.

What would come next?

Would there be anger about the sudden attack?

Or would the Emperor ignore it and get straight to business?

Perhaps. Maybe the Emperor would read Llewellyn’s thoughts and respond, or move to negotiations.

Llewellyn anticipated all possibilities and opened his mind.

“Blood bag—!”

As the Prophet who had followed landed behind him, he listened to the voice.

It wasn’t the kind of sound that could be described in language.

First of all, Llewellyn couldn’t even perceive the words precisely. He couldn’t confirm what sound was used to make those words, or what syllables they formed.

Only the vague meaning echoed in his mind.

It was a very long statement. Though lengthy, the strange sensation that hammered into his mind all at once swept through his body.

Only when Lorian, who had surged up following the Prophet, finally touched the ground did Llewellyn understand the “language” that had echoed in his mind.

He still couldn’t comprehend it, but only its meaning remained in his mind.

“…You.”

It was welcoming Llewellyn.

It was thanking him for coming of his own accord, for finding her in this overwhelming loneliness and emptiness.

Llewellyn felt something strange about those words.

Because the only one being welcomed was Llewellyn.

Hearing such words would normally lead to misunderstandings.

That only Llewellyn was welcome, and the rest were not.

That the rest were being ignored or avoided.

But that wasn’t it.

Llewellyn could understand the words spreading in his mind precisely, without the slightest distortion.

It wasn’t just a feeling that only Llewellyn was welcome and the rest were intruders.

“The other people here… you don’t even… sense that they exist?”

Mother Netel couldn’t even perceive other beings.

Like how humans cannot see bacteria crawling on their skin.

Like not even noticing an insect sitting on one’s coat.

To Netel, all beings except Llewellyn were no different from insects or bacteria.

Due to the immense difference in status, she couldn’t even recognize anything except Llewellyn.

Even the Emperor wasn’t directly possessed or spoken through by her.

Just as a chair has armrests and a bed has a place to lie down, it was merely a “comfortable spot” for her.

“What does that mean?” asked the Prophet. With a distorted face of disbelief, he glared at the Emperor.

“Netel, Great Mother! I am here! Look upon me, who has assisted you all this time!”

Words of arrogance, whether command or demand.

But Netel, borrowing the Emperor’s body, didn’t even react.

She simply, quietly, fixed her distant gaze on Llewellyn.

She opened her mouth.

Though the Emperor’s mouth remained closed and eyes shut.

Once again, words echoed only in Llewellyn’s mind.

In a “meaning” that only Llewellyn could understand.

She said:

Let’s talk about the future.