Ch.277The Mourner (6)

The original Nerilmaeus wouldn’t die from mere beheading.

All necromancers are like that. They had to transcend the boundary between life and death due to their curse-like physical traits, and because of this, they could regenerate if the damage to their body wasn’t excessive.

Having one’s head crushed, neck severed, or body bisected was considered within acceptable limits. After all, they were beings who strictly transcended ordinary species.

But the beheaded Nerilmaeus knew this case was different.

Was it because she had been struck directly by the death of a star and suffered countless wounds before being beheaded?

No, that wasn’t it. Yet Nerilmaeus knew her body would neither regenerate nor move properly.

The transcendence wrapped around her body was dispersing. The thick shroud of death was crumbling into fine pieces and scattering.

She was dying. Despite knowing this, Nerilmaeus moved her body.

The fake who merely bore Nerilmaeus’s name moved. She twisted her body and swung her fist. Swoosh! The fist shot through the air with a sound of cutting wind. Llewellyn deflected the approaching fist with his crumbling sword.

CLANG!

An unexpected turn of events when everyone thought it was over. Only Llewellyn responded.

Nerilmaeus’s body tilted, and Llewellyn lowered his stance, gripping his sword.

Crunch—the sound of a clenched fist and sword hilt. Amid the noise created by two bodies moving simultaneously.

Sparks filled the space, blending with the metallic clash and chaotic thunder.

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

The fierce, consecutive punches glanced off the blade. A chunk of the sword broke off, but Llewellyn nonchalantly tossed aside the broken star fragments and clenched his fist.

He had subdued Nerilmaeus. All that remained was the transcendence left in this body.

The shroud of death had been lifted, leaving only physical abilities from mourning and the dragon’s inherent vitality.

Llewellyn thrust his knee forward, closing the distance.

He lowered his stance to avoid a punch shooting toward his head from the right.

Swoosh—the sound of air being torn. A gap not even half a beat long. Not missing that gap, he drove in and thrust out his elbow.

CRACK!

Breaking ribs and bursting the heart, the body dripping with blood raised a leg toward Llewellyn.

A front kick followed, as if leaving scorch marks in space.

Though he twisted his body to avoid it in time, the shockwave still made him stagger. Llewellyn closed the distance further, wrapped his arms around Nerilmaeus’s waist, and swept away the foot planted on the ground.

She was falling. Nerilmaeus’s tilting body used her tail as an axis to strike the ground and stand up, sending bits of earth flying in all directions. An attack that obscured vision and more. But Llewellyn didn’t give up any distance.

He didn’t know what might happen. He had cut off the transcendence. This wouldn’t have been possible if he hadn’t discovered the essence of “mourning” through the mourning left by Uncle Ulrich.

So he couldn’t miss this chance. For Ulrich’s sake, too.

Llewellyn stepped half a step closer and clenched his fist.

Fists entangled as they swung.

CRASH!

Both fists shattered simultaneously upon impact. Flesh and bone fragments scattered chaotically, and faster than the surge of intense pain, the stumps of their fists shot toward each other.

Another thunderous sound. In the midst of the reverberating roar, the two monsters bared their teeth, aiming for each other’s throats.

A foot sweeping across the ground. Llewellyn’s ankle was caught. Though he should have fallen, Llewellyn lowered his stance completely and planted his foot firmly on the ground to stabilize himself.

And then.

[Explosive Leap]

A message appeared in the corner of Llewellyn’s vision as his right foot surged upward. The knee that had risen from the low kick carved into Nerilmaeus’s chest, lifting her off the ground.

Floating in the air, Nerilmaeus saw many things with eyes that shouldn’t have been able to see.

Information transmitted by her senses. She was now in the middle of a hunting ground.

Predator, superior species, transcendent being.

Such expressions no longer applied in this place. Despite her father choosing her as his species to command, there existed an insurmountable gap.

How was this possible?

Nerilmaeus’s body descended. As the slowly descending body approached, Llewellyn unclenched his fist and shaped his hand like claws.

She had to resist. Nerilmaeus thought so. As she touched the ground, she staggered and crossed her arms, but—

CRUNCH!

With a grotesque sound of tearing flesh, her arms flew off. Between the torn arms came the claws.

A fighting technique created by one closest to dragons to kill dragons. Dragon slaying.

It was now directed at a replica of one who had transcended dragons and approached closer to the father among necromancers than anyone.

CRACK!

It pierced through the chest and reached for the heart.

Regeneration was slow. The head hadn’t regenerated. It still lay cold on the ground, growing colder.

Consciousness usually resides in the head, but not this time.

Nerilmaeus knew her consciousness was connected to her heart. She could vividly feel the claws touching that heart.

These were claws made to tear dragon scales. Her hand trembled slightly as it reached between the split scales and reverse scales.

When Nerilmaeus’s hand grabbed the forearm, Llewellyn ruthlessly pulled it out.

Again, the sound of flesh tearing. The heart clutched in that hand. Nerilmaeus’s body collapsed onto Llewellyn’s shoulder as if pushed. The sound of heavy breathing was loud.

The layered mourning bestowed tremendous fatigue even on Llewellyn, a homunculus mourner.

Barely able to stand. Llewellyn was relieved he could finish before completely collapsing, and felt it had to be done this way.

Perhaps he had twisted her fate with divinity. After all, divinity was the power to pioneer and define fate.

When Llewellyn beheaded her to sever the mourning, the concept he breathed into Nerilmaeus’s fake was deeply imbued with such power.

Simply put, Llewellyn had made her a homunculus.

Being a homunculus, she would die when beheaded. That’s how he defined it.

He imposed a symbolic death to materialize death. That’s why he could kill her.

It would have been impossible without Ulrich’s sacrifice and his own ingenuity. Knowing this, Llewellyn exhaled roughly and said:

“When you return to your father, tell him this.”

The headless body of Nerilmaeus trembled slightly. Normally she shouldn’t be able to hear, but Llewellyn knew she was listening.

“He no longer needs things like you, so get lost.”

The body he gently pushed staggered. Nerilmaeus stood unsteadily. Llewellyn raised his leg high toward her and—

“And never set foot on this land again.”

He bared his teeth in anger, almost growling. A downward kick naturally followed the anger.

CRUNCH!

Nerilmaeus split in two. Bisected by the downward kick that had the quality of a blade, she scattered.

The corpse, split in two and fallen, no longer moved. Llewellyn stared at the corpse for a long time before lowering his guard.

There was no sign of revival or movement. So he should rest, but—

Llewellyn dragged his exhausted body somewhere.

Despite people’s gazes converging and someone following behind—

Llewellyn walked to a corpse lying in the middle of the battlefield.

The nameless mourner, peacefully closing his eyes.

A man whose name even Llewellyn wouldn’t have known without his ability, whose name couldn’t be written on a grave.

A person who came from the far north, lost his family, wandered the continent in mourning, and eventually came to the pantheon, tired of endless slaughter.

Llewellyn’s friend.

Despite their age difference, Llewellyn considered him a friend.

And he mourned that someone who had fled from battlefields and slaughter ultimately had to die in the midst of it.

A mourning arose gently within Llewellyn, not forced by the transcendent being above the sky, nor to gain power.

Mourning that belonged only to Llewellyn. Ignoring the status window that appeared in the corner of his vision, he knelt on one knee before the body.

The torn chest was hideous. It was not a sight that should be shown to others.

What about the clothes soaked in blood and the pool of blood on the ground? Llewellyn quietly reached out and placed his hand on Ulrich’s upper body.

He used what little divinity he had left.

Sealing wounds, returning blood, bleaching clothes clean.

Though it wasn’t an appropriate place to use divinity, Llewellyn felt he could do that much for him.

In the silence of people quietly approaching, Llewellyn realized what he had lost in this battle.

And what he had to do.

*

“…It’s impossible to resurrect a human who is already dead.”

The God of Dreams said. Although Llewellyn already knew, he had to ask, and upon hearing the answer, his expression turned sorrowful.

Before him was a coffin. The only funeral method Llewellyn knew. A method unfamiliar to the people of Netel, but perhaps something that would become unique to the pantheon.

On either side were five empty coffins. They couldn’t even find the bodies.

They were for the three clan members, the heresy inquisitor, and the mourner who died in this battle. Llewellyn looked at the coffins as if recalling their faces.

Inside the coffin was a corpse so clean it was hard to believe it was dead. The corpse of the mourner Ulrich.

At first, it was in no condition to be placed in a coffin.

The chest was torn open, the side was carved out, and every bone was dismembered—not a sight that could be shown to anyone.

So the transformation clan, masters of the flesh, and the blood clan, masters of blood, had to work together to make the corpse presentable.

They restored the missing heart, reconnected all the bones, and infused the body with more blood than before death.

Yet they couldn’t resurrect him. Because there was no soul.

Even if they made the heart beat again and instilled brainwaves in the brain—

Such a body wouldn’t move without a soul. Llewellyn realized why Nerilmaeus’s fake could appear.

It was like this mourner’s body now. A newly forged soul had been placed within.

Just as Nerilmaeus was a fake, an Ulrich resurrected that way wouldn’t be Ulrich. But Llewellyn asked the God of Dreams, clutching at straws.

“Extending a living human’s lifespan, killing them, making them immortal—these are easy tasks. For you now, they would be. But… resurrecting someone who is already dead is impossible.”

The God of Dreams answered with a gloomy expression. Llewellyn knew this well, so he didn’t respond.

He had to ask even though he knew the answer. If life could return so easily, the Steward wouldn’t have ascended.

Perhaps he needed it to strengthen his resolve. Llewellyn stared at the coffin, reflecting on this fact.

What he had to do as a god and as the master of the pantheon.

What must be done.

At the very least, he realized they couldn’t continue this indefinite defensive battle, waiting for Netel to close off the world.

Llewellyn stroked Ulrich’s coffin once more, then turned away.

It was time to go on the offensive.