Chapter 97

Chapter 97: Chapter 97

Faith. Faith in God. Faith in humanity. And faith in oneself. Whatever form it took, human beings were ultimately creatures who lived by faith.

And faith was always bound to be tested and shaken.

Having undergone what was practically indoctrination from the moment he was born, Ice found it extremely difficult to break free from those chain-like restraints.

What was true faith, and what was false faith? Anxiety and doubt seemed to infest his mind like parasites.

They had met at the Academy and initially felt awkward around each other. Then, at some point, they began entrusting their backs to one another in battle and sharing peaceful days together. Four years had already passed since then.

Until only recently, they had overcome adversity and hardship together, easing each other’s sorrow and sharing in each other’s joy.

The tips of the swords Boribori and Ice pointed at each other trembled like aspen leaves. Were they truly going to stab each other? Could they kill each other? Was this what they had honed their swords for?

It was an agonizing moment.

Just then, the Order’s priest spoke.

"To you, what we do must seem horrific and cruel. But do you know where it all came from? Every bit of it was practiced by that old monster, Count Palatine Kelbron."

"That’s a lie."

Marie denied it. She did not like her maternal great-great-great-grandfather, but she had no intention of falsely accusing him.

"He’s over a hundred years old. He was doing all manner of things long before any of you were born. The only reason he stopped midway was because it was inefficient. It cost too much money and produced fewer results than expected. He hardly even cared when we took the techniques from him. He is brutally indifferent to anything he has discarded. Avenging the late Emperor? That is merely a pretext."

His words were remarkably cunning. Even if they were true, bringing them up now was clearly intended to sow doubt and division. Befitting an expert in indoctrination, it was as though a demon were unfurling its tongue.

Fortunately, neither Boribori nor Marie was the sort to be swayed by such words. Loyalty had never brought them here in the first place. They had merely come to do a job.

Even amid all this, Boribori and Ice continued facing each other. Gritting his teeth, Boribori attacked first, wielding the one-handed Phantom Sword.

He shifted his weight onto his left foot and unleashed his distinctive stroke, slashing sharply from left to right. Ice stepped back and evaded it, but Boribori pursued him and drew the next stroke.

Clang!

Black and white Mana intertwined, mixing like splattered paint.

Should he continue the stroke or write a new character? As though he had seized the initiative, Boribori pressed forward boldly.

Just as brushstrokes could be gentle or forceful depending on the calligraphic style, Boribori’s attacks flowed from gentleness into ferocity, then from ferocity back into gentleness. Those subtleties did not exist separately but blended seamlessly together. It was truly the work of a master.

But was such swordsmanship equally effective on the defensive?

Ice moved with extreme precision, as though every motion had been measured with a ruler.

At times he retreated and evaded; at others, he launched sharp counterattacks. Then, at a certain moment, he slipped uncannily through an opening created by Boribori’s adherence to strokes and dots.

Clang!

When Boribori staggered back, Ice pressed his offensive even harder, swinging his sword with deadly force.

Clang! Claang! Scrape! Ching!

The lightning-fast attacks were almost dazzling. Black and white afterimages painted the air as though creating a picture upon a canvas.

They were perfectly matched. Yet even as Marie watched with her heart in her throat, she realized that neither of them was aiming for the other’s vital points.

It resembled a spar that was not truly a spar, fought with sharpened blades. Their feelings reached Marie , and tears began to flow from her eyes.

But no one understood that fact better than Boribori and Ice themselves.

Did they truly have to wield killing swords against each other? Truly? Why did they have to do this? Why did it have to be them?

Life and death. The desire to kill and the hope that the other would live. Standing at the boundary between the two, Boribori cried out.

"Snap out of it!"

Craang—!

Ice’s sword was severed and sent flying. The broken blade fell to the floor with a clang.

Black Mana, resembling the depths of the cosmos, surged around Boribori’s blade.

Tragically, it was at this very moment that he blossomed into a Sword Master.

His defeat now undeniable, Ice released the broken sword and closed his eyes.

He had lost.

Yes. It was over now.

Thank goodness he had lost.

"Huff, huff, huff, huff..."

Only the final blow seemed to remain, but Boribori could not bring himself to harm him.

"Please, just snap out of it... Please..."

Becoming a Sword Master brought him no joy whatsoever. His face merely crumpled as tears streamed down it.

Then Rickart, whom they had believed to be asleep, spoke.

"What are you two doing?"

Everyone present hurriedly turned toward him.

Using a sword he had taken from an enemy as a cane, Rickart barely managed to rise. He staggered over to Ice, placed the sword in his hand, and said with a smile,

"I told you that even if you abandoned me, I wouldn’t abandon you, didn’t I? Is this the third time I’ve said it now? You choose. Choose God, or choose me. I won’t resent you either way. Oh, and killing yourself isn’t an option. That would be running away. You know that, right?"

In this tragic moment, Rickart was the only one smiling. Looking at his face made Ice feel as though his heart were collapsing.

Breaking free from indoctrination was tremendously difficult. No one who had never experienced it could understand.

Escaping indoctrination brought pain akin to cutting off one’s own limbs.

It meant throwing everything one had believed with absolute conviction onto the ground and trampling it underfoot.

Ice squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, gripping the sword so tightly that his entire body trembled.

Yes. If the choice is between killing Ricky and cutting off my own limbs, then I’ll cut them off as many times as it takes.

Even if he had to punish himself with eternal suffering, he could not kill Ricky.

Once he had resolved himself, Ice opened his eyes and swung the sword with all his might.

Marie and Boribori, who had been watching anxiously, flinched in surprise. The Order’s priest jerked—and then his head slowly slid off to the side.

By then, a snow-white energy resembling snowflakes was also shining around Ice’s sword.

Beautiful afterimages drifted through the air like falling snow.

"I told you, if he’s really a god, he’ll repay you for everything you’ve suffered."

When Rickart repeated the joke he had made before, Ice began to laugh despite the tears streaming down his face.

Rickart was overwhelmed by drowsiness, the wound in his side had yet to heal completely, and his lungs were in poor condition. Standing was difficult.

He could barely remain upright even while holding Ice’s shoulder, so Marie and Boribori approached and supported him from both sides.

"I’m in terrible shape, but let’s go now. We’re going to finish this. If we stop to sleep, that god or whatever it is might resurrect in the meantime."

They began walking down the majestic corridor. Daisy, who had been watching anxiously from a corner the entire time, spoke.

"You’ll die if you go..."

Rickart stopped for a moment and looked back. Daisy spoke through her sobs.

"I don’t care if you don’t love me. But I don’t want you to die, Ricky... You all care about Ricky, don’t you? Then you have to keep him alive..."

Rickart thought for a moment before answering sincerely.

"If something is destined to happen, what good would avoiding it do? That isn’t who we are, Daisy."

The four of them continued onward together.

For the first time, Daisy prayed to God. She begged for forgiveness—for forgiveness for never having believed before. In return, she pleaded for God to spare Ricky, if no one else.

Then, perhaps wishing to share their final moments, she staggered after them.

Light shone at the end of the majestic corridor, like a gateway leading to heaven.

When they finally reached it, however, the reality could not have been further from heaven.

The sky was clear, and the sunlight blazed brilliantly. Atop a tall, pyramid-shaped structure stood a dark, grimy sword. Hatred and bitter resentment clung thickly to it like tree bark.

Around it were shriveled, hardened figures shaped like human beings.

No—were they not sculptures at all, but actual people who had dried up and died?

They had wondered where all the Order’s believers had gone. Now they saw them prostrating themselves toward the altar.

"Close your eyes. Close your eyes."

They repeated the phrase over and over.

The Sisters of Prophecy, wearing white veils, were singing an aria composed of a single sustained note. Their voices were so beautiful that simply listening to them seemed to fill one with a sense of holiness.

And yet, a grotesque and horrifying spectacle was unfolding at the same time.

Hellauman and the adventurers following him had already arrived. They roamed among the worshippers with weapons in hand, stabbing those who bowed toward the altar again and again.

Even as people died right beside them, the believers did nothing but continue bowing toward the altar.

What in the world were they doing?

Rickart pulled his arms free from those supporting him and approached Hellauman. When Hellauman saw Rickart’s party, his eyes widened.

"Oh? You made it here remarkably quickly. Or should I say, just as expected?"

"Your Excellency, I don’t think this is right."

"Hmm? What do you mean? Wasn’t the operation one of total extermination from the very beginning?"

Rickart could find nothing to say.

Hellauman was right. Rickart had already known that when he agreed to participate in the operation.

He understood. They all had to die.

But he still found it difficult to accept.

"There are even children here who haven’t learned to speak yet."

"Listen, Young Master Rickart. That kind of complacent thinking is exactly how matters came to this. If we dither, these cockroaches will lay more eggs. Then we may have to kill even more of them later. What we need now is not compassion, but resolve."

"But you’re the one who caused all this!"

Marie suddenly stepped forward and shouted. Her face was flushed bright red, and something seemed to be boiling inside her.

Hellauman glanced at his descendant of five generations. The moment their eyes met, Marie began trembling like an aspen leaf. But she still had to say what needed to be said.

"You abducted people and experimented on them. You manipulated them from the shadows, and when things didn’t turn out the way you wanted, you discarded them and pretended they had nothing to do with you. That’s how this happened. You brought this upon yourself. You did the same thing to me!"

"...So?"

Hellauman spoke with an emotionless expression. Marie might have been less shocked if he had scolded her instead. She was left speechless.

"I finished the calculations long ago. To produce a single Sword Master, you must gather and train a thousand talented children. Out of those thousand, perhaps ten will be geniuses. Gather another thousand geniuses like them, and you might produce a single Sword Master—if you are fortunate. Do you believe that is realistically possible? Is it not only natural to search for a more efficient method? If you gather children of mediocre talent and castrate their emotions, they can at least produce light from their blades. I simply did not know they would become so broken. Once they did, they were no longer useful. So I disposed of them. The Mad Hound Steiner was probably the last. Young Master Rickart, thank you for dealing with him. He had become quite troublesome."

His way of thinking was so utterly different that it was impossible to guess where—or when—his common sense had first gone astray.

He was a monster who created monsters.

Hellauman looked at Marie again.

"I secure greater military power in greater numbers to defend the Empire. And in doing so, I also defend our family. Does that seem evil to you? Enough whining. Though I have no need of you at present, you must still become an obedient dog, Martellia."

Marie stared in despair at the man who embodied terror itself to her, the existence that had oppressed her entire life.

Then she realized something.

As long as this man remained alive, she would never be free.

And so, she drew her sword.

"Sorry, Ricky."

When she drew her sword, Boribori and Ice drew theirs with a shared resolve.

Violet, black, and white light burst forth.

Surprisingly, Hellauman raised his eyebrows as though intrigued, then broke into a broad, childlike smile.

"It is regrettable, but a dog that bites its master must be put down. I have never broken that rule."

Rickart, however, did not have a sword.

All he had was a single dagger.

He was confident in hand-to-hand combat, but he could not use it against that old man. Rickart understood perfectly well that he would die before he even got close.

Moreover, his body was in no condition to fight. Drowsiness overwhelmed him, the wound in his side was still far from healed, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for his damaged lungs to draw breath.

Meanwhile, Hellauman drew his sword with a cruel smile. A dense stream of blue light extended along the blade.

Without the slightest hesitation, he attacked first.

He was taking on no fewer than three Sword Masters by himself.

Craang! Clang! Ching!

Rickart possessed a better eye for combat than anyone else, and he immediately knew that they could not win this fight.

Boribori, Ice, and Marie tried everything they could to coordinate their attacks, but instead, they were driven back.

The best they could do was interfere whenever one of their friends was about to be injured or killed.

It was difficult to believe that a human being could be so powerful.

A battle with sharpened blades could be decided at any moment. A neck could be severed or a limb cut off in the blink of an eye—and these were Sword Masters.

Rickart searched the ground for a discarded weapon, but naturally, there was nothing of the sort. He might have borrowed one from the other adventurers, but they were merely watching from a safe distance.

So, in his desperation, he began climbing the altar.

He had to do something.

His body was battered beyond recognition, and it took every last ounce of strength merely to drag himself upward.

The malevolent energy that had accumulated around the sword over countless years descended upon Rickart from every direction, crushing him.

It was not simply difficult to breathe.

Breathing was impossible.

It felt as though he had plunged into thick, viscous water.

The closer he came to the sword, the more it felt as though his skin were being sliced open.

And blood truly did begin flowing from his flesh.

Despite that, Rickart reached out and grasped the hilt.

At that moment, a circular shadow began descending over the sun.

When Daisy saw it, she froze in utter shock.

No.

Surely not!

Startled by Rickart’s sudden action, the adventurers turned toward him. Even the believers stopped bowing for a moment and looked up at Rickart from where they knelt.

The shadow continued creeping across the sun.

Then, the instant more than half of it had been obscured, the world abruptly darkened.

Only then did Hellauman and the three others cease fighting and look up at the altar.

Rickart stood at the very heart of the intersection between friendship and friendship, love and love, resentment and resentment.

Time seemed to stop.

Within that frozen moment, Rickart felt every sound in the world vanish.

He could not even hear his own breathing or the beating of his heart.

In that lightless silence, someone spoke to him.

It was the voice of the boy who had once tended sheep in the fields of Heiden.

The purest version of himself.

’I’ve been waiting a long time, Ricky.’

’For me?’

’Yeah. Are we going to have fun cutting people down again?’

’Have fun cutting people down?’

’Why? You loved it. Killing people.’

’...That can’t be true.’

’Have you forgotten? How could you possibly have displayed such talent if you didn’t enjoy it? You’re a born killer.’

’People define and judge you however they please, then use that as an excuse. But you’re no different, Ricky.’

’What do you mean?’

’Hatred and anger. They were really just excuses, weren’t they?’

At last, the truth buried in the deepest abyss of Rickart’s heart—a truth even he had never known—was exposed.

He had merely wanted a reason that would permit him to kill people.

Whether that reason was hatred or anything else had never truly mattered.

He was ashamed.

Devastated, even.

But he could neither turn away from the truth before him nor flee from it.

’Not anymore...’

’Why?’

’I’ve learned things I didn’t understand back then.’

Rickart recalled his memories.

His childhood. His family’s love. The Nameless Man’s salvation. The vampire’s penance. His friends’ friendship. His lover.

The people he had met.

There was no need to explain. Everything was conveyed as it was.

’I see... You met a lot of good people. I’m jealous. But you’ll still kill sometimes, right?’

’If there’s a reason I must fight.’

’Good. That’s enough. There will be plenty of battles ahead anyway.’

The Ricky from his purest days answered with a radiant smile.

Rickart closed his eyes.

A tear flowed down his face.

Perhaps it was repentance, or perhaps it was merely sorrow.

Like white mourning clothes instead of black, like the morning sun rising after a dawn filled with anguish, a single silent tear fell like a prayer.

At last, his previous life and his present life ceased to be two separate things and became one.

A wind blew through his body.

It was not some current flowing through his veins.

It was simply wind.

It gently swept the poison from his lungs and blew away his drowsiness without a trace.

At last, the sun was entirely obscured.

Though it was midday, the world had become night.

Rickart was cloaked completely in black shadow, while a ring of brilliant light flashed behind his head like a halo.

The bark-like grudges clinging to the sword began to crack.

Crack. Crack.

Golden flames blossomed through the fissures.

They burned fiercely in the heart of the darkness created by the eclipse, like a solitary star shining in the depths of space.

Rickart slowly drew the sword that had remained embedded there for a hundred years.

The husks crumbled away in a shower.

He slowly opened his eyes.

Golden flames blazed within them as well.

He turned his head and looked down from the altar. All manner of people were staring up at him with the same vacant expressions.

Daisy trembled so violently from the overwhelming shock that she could barely remain standing.

My God.

All I had to do was accept the prophecy exactly as it was!

All I had to do was believe in God!

All I had to do was obey!

A sacred realization that tore her heart apart struck Daisy.

Even though I beheld the prophecy, I saw nothing.

She finally understood.

She had always been destined never to be chosen.

Even after everything had been shown to her, she had refused to see.

Hellauman shuddered with exhilaration.

At last, he was witnessing once more the ultimate sword he had pursued throughout his life of more than a hundred years.

Behold.

Behold the one who races across the infinite horizon.

Only now did he understand the source of the strange familiarity he had always felt whenever he looked at Rickart.

How such a thing was possible did not matter.

He could finally cross swords with him.

As though possessed, Hellauman began ascending the altar toward Rickart.

And yet, even the man hailed as the mightiest in the Empire looked like nothing more than a firefly beneath the sun.

He faced Rickart for a moment before thrusting out a fatal strike containing the entirety of the power he had cultivated throughout his life.

Rickart’s movement, however, was neither slow nor fast.

It was as though he were swimming through frozen time.

Only the result came like a lightning bolt.

Dooong—!

An alien sound—like the tolling of a bell or a hammer striking an anvil—reverberated through the darkness of the eclipse.

Before the sound could arrive, a straight line of golden light passed through Hellauman.

His sword shattered, and his body split in two like a log of firewood.

An enormous quantity of blood and entrails spilled across the altar.

The spectators felt as though their breathing had stopped at the overwhelming sight.

It was enough to make them understand why someone might worship a mere human as a god.

Rickart slowly turned his head.

It was not over yet.

The time had come to break this cycle of evil.

And the time had come for these people to face the truth.

The god they desired had never existed.

Or perhaps—though not in the form they desired—the time had come for true judgment to descend upon them.

Those who met Rickart’s blazing eyes felt as though the sight alone might make them lose consciousness.

Whether what they felt was absolute terror or rapture, however, none could say.

If one could cut down another person out of anger and hatred, could one also cut them down out of compassion?

Perhaps that truly was a state of mind resembling that of a god.

This was not a realm one could reach through training.

It was a single masterpiece forged by two destinies over the course of two lives.

No one knew by what standard Rickart chose them, but almost no one survived inside the sanctuary.

And thus, every prophecy was fulfilled.

They had looked, but they had failed to see.

The sun, which had seemed to be keeping its eye closed, slowly began to open it once more.

Its sacred gaze shone down upon the sanctuary, now drenched in blood.

Chapter 19 – The Brightest Star. End.