Chapter 26

Chapter 26
Delman, who held the title of Caliban’s Master Knight and was ranked third among the five Great Swords, felt particularly pleased with himself. His recent campaign had resulted in the death of Khlkan, a chieftain counted among the eight chiefs and reputed to be one of their most powerful. Naturally, the means by which Delman had slain Khlkan were such that neither Caliban nor the barbarians would ever recognize them as legitimate. He had issued a challenge for single combat, but when Khlkan emerged alone, Delman employed concealed troops, an array of traps, and poison to ensure his victory.

Though Caliban and the barbarians were locked in a war, a certain respect for martial honor had always been observed between them, making Delman’s actions a profound betrayal of that code. Yet, instead of remorse for his treachery, Delman smiled at the thought that he would not have to surrender his third rank to Deus, one of the newly ascended five swords. Comforted by this, he then ordered the slaughter of every barbarian witness on the field, leaving no one alive.

Such a feat would have been beyond him alone, but the many soldiers he had positioned at a distance, so they would not see the duel, made it possible. Delman had secured his glory, and now his only remaining task was to return and deliver his report. As he traveled back toward one of Caliban’s forward bases, something ahead made him halt.

He saw it.

A man with hair as red as the element of fire stood with a grim expression. He and his company of Red Flame knights were staring at the base—or what remained of it. The site had been transformed into a desolate ruin. The gray soil was streaked with crimson, rubble was strewn everywhere, and thousands of corpses lay scattered like discarded refuse. Yet, what captured their focus was not the devastation itself, but the figure standing calmly at its heart.

Clad in the distinctive leather garb of the barbarians, he stood with an air of authority amidst the wreckage. As Delman looked at him, the man turned his gaze toward Delman and began to walk in his direction. On the surface, it seemed like a suicidal move, for Delman commanded not only a hundred knights but also a host of soldiers. No barbarian chieftain, however powerful, could possibly withstand such a force alone.

Yet, despite recognizing his numerical advantage, Delman’s face was tight with strain. The first reason was the utter destruction of the base; the second was the aura.

Though Delman had acted without honor, he was still a sword master, a warrior capable of shearing a mountain peak with one stroke and ending dozens of barbarian lives in a single blow. As such, he could clearly perceive the extraordinary power radiating from this man.

And then…

“Are you Delman?”

The man’s voice resonated—a sound not entirely human—and for an instant, just hearing it shook Delman to his core. Delman quickly steadied himself and instinctively raised his aura-infused blade as he answered:

“Who are you?”

“Then answer me, Delman. Why did you defile the sacred and honorable duel?”

“What?”

“Answer me. Why did you stain the great and holy contest, the honorable struggle between two warriors?”

“……”

“Speak.”

Hearing the barbarian’s words, Delman realized the man was referring to his duel with Khlkan, and he replied:

“Ha, this is a battlefield. Is it not foolish to put faith in a duel here?”

The barbarian stared back, unmoved, and spoke again:

“How dare you speak of the great duel in such a way.”

His tone was thick with unmistakable displeasure.

“I told you, this is a battlefield.”

“This is your final chance, human, a warrior of some strength. Face me in a duel. Should you win, I will let you live.”

Faced with this offer of a last opportunity, Delman did not reply—he simply…

“Everyone, prepare for battle,” he commanded his knights.

The moment the order left his lips, the knights and soldiers moved as one, their weapons drawn in flawless synchronization.

The Red Flame knights, who had fought alongside Delman in countless northern battles and led him to victory again and again, all wore determined expressions as they unsheathed their swords and unleashed their auras.

Witnessing this, the barbarian muttered, with a mix of sorrow and scorn,

“Do knights truly hold no honor?”

With that utterance,

Creak~ Creak~

the surrounding corpses began to stir and rise.

“W-what is this!”

The knights were startled by the sudden change, but the phenomenon continued, indifferent to their shock.

A knight with his skull cleft in two.

A soldier missing half his torso.

A rider cut clean through at the waist.

They all slowly began to awaken.

And then—

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts!”

“Kill me, kill me, I beg you, please…”

The screams of the dead began to fill the gray earth.

“You mortals, who lack even the honor of your name, have no place in this world.”

That presence disappeared.

“!?”

Even Delman, who had transcended into the realm of the superhuman, could not track his speed.

But then…

“However—”

Delman turned his head toward the source of the voice that had suddenly spoken, and he saw the barbarian already slamming his palm into the ground.

Boom!

The earth erupted instantly, sending shards of rock and debris flying into the air, and at the same time, every soldier and knight who had stood ready was thrown skyward.

Then, with a single sweep of the barbarian’s foot through the air—

Crack!

The soldiers and knights tumbling through the sky were struck by the hurtling debris, their bodies bursting into mere lumps of flesh.

Without even time to cry out, their remains splattered across the ground, blooming into countless red flowers of blood.

“!”

As Delman finally tried to swing his sword, he realized in that moment…

His arm was gone.

“Aaaargh!”

Delman’s scream echoed, and the soldiers who had not yet comprehended the situation finally understood what had occurred.

In a mere instant, the Master Knight and the majority of his knightly order had been wiped out.

Panic spread like a disease among the remaining soldiers, shattering their will.

“Ah, aahhh!”

Terror, taking root in their hearts, spread swiftly, leaving them frozen.

Amid the chaos of the massacre, Delman, now missing an arm, stared at the barbarian in disbelief.

“Who… who are you?”

The barbarian, no—the god of all barbarians and the father of duels, Ultultus, crushed Delman’s internal organs with his coarse hand, completing his task.

He stared down at Delman, who now lay beneath his palm.

A moment later—

“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts!”

Though his organs were completely destroyed, Delman rose again, vomiting blood across the gray snowfield and shrieking in agony like all the others.

Satisfied, Ultultus grinned as he declared:

“All you gathered barbarians,”

He turned his gaze to the surviving soldiers, who were petrified with fear.

“Prove yourselves through a duel.”

And then,

“Prove that you are not savages.”

He offered them a duel,

“If you do, I shall grant you an honorable death.”

Upon the blood-soaked colosseum formed from the dead…

***

Master Knight and disciple of the Fourth Sword, Vilan, could not comprehend what was happening.

His reason for coming here today had been straightforward: to assist his friend Carmine, who was also a valuable supplier, by dealing with a certain noble from the Kingdom of Asteria.

Of course, since the six kingdoms were united under the Union Kingdom, under normal circumstances, even a noble from another land should have been shown a degree of courtesy.

A misstep could easily escalate into an international incident.

However, Vilan had accepted Carmine’s request without hesitation, not only because of the item Carmine had promised, but because, after weighing the circumstances, he believed there was no risk of the situation worsening.

Three reasons informed his judgment.

First, among the six kingdoms of the Union, Caliban, which continually repelled the northern barbarians, held the greatest influence.

Second, rumors about Count Palatio had not resurfaced, meaning he was still seen as a reckless noble who had gained his title by chance and had no connections within Caliban.

Third, even if things went awry, Vilan trusted that his master, Fiola, who stood at the pinnacle of Caliban’s power, would intervene and resolve the matter.

Though not as prodigiously gifted as Deus, Vilan was skilled with a sword and had always enjoyed his master’s protection.

With these three factors in mind, Vilan saw no personal risk in handling Count Palatio, and, in truth, his assessment was not incorrect.

However, there was one thing Vilan did not know.

And that was—

Crack!

“Ugh!”

Count Palatio was, in fact, a benefactor to Deus Macallian, a Master Knight currently celebrated as a hero in Caliban.

“Guh…!”

Deus had earned the epithet “The Swordless” after defeating Kurga of the Snowfields, one of the eight chieftains, in single combat.

“Aagh!”

Vilan, who was hurled against a tree, groaned with a look of fear and defiance as he tried to speak—

“W-wait! Lord Deus—!”

—but he was unable to finish.

Deus’s foot drove into his stomach before Vilan could get the words out.

The knights of Yuzon, who had just been paying their respects, instinctively moved to draw their swords at the sight, but—

“The moment you draw your swords, I leave the rest to your imagination.”

“…!”

With just that glance and those words, the knights fell silent, swallowing their breaths, and then the one-sided beating commenced.

Watching this, Alon stood with a face that showed no outward emotion as Deus relentlessly struck Vilan, but inwardly, he felt a profound and satisfied smile.

“You’ve grown up so well…!”

Alon watched Deus as a father might gaze upon a son who had matured splendidly.

…Not that any father would feel pride watching his son brutally assault another, but in that moment, Alon felt something like paternal pride.

In truth, it was more than that—he even felt a peculiar sense of gratitude.

All the way to Caliban, Alon had believed that Deus would not think highly of him.

Perhaps Deus would tolerate him, but Alon had assumed it would end there, never expecting any deeper sentiment.

After all, Alon had never spoken personally with Deus, and, more significantly, Deus had never written him a single letter.

So, when Deus had earlier referred to him as his benefactor, Alon felt as if all the effort he had invested in raising Deus had finally been acknowledged, and a contented smile spread across his face.

“He hits well.”

“Indeed.”

Watching Deus dismantle Vilan in real time, Alon maintained a calm smile, and after about three minutes, he felt as if a burden had been lifted from his heart.

Alon was deeply thankful to Deus for going to such lengths.

But five minutes later.

“Count.”

“What?”

“Isn’t he going to die?”

Alon, sensing something was amiss, watched as Deus continued to pummel Vilan, who was now pathetically clutching at his legs, weeping and pleading for mercy.

“No way. Would he?”

Even so, Alon kept thinking, “Surely he wouldn’t kill him?” as he observed the beating for another five minutes.

After confirming that Vilan’s face was now so disfigured it no longer resembled the cunning expression it had borne just ten minutes earlier, Alon broke into a cold sweat and suddenly remembered.

The Deus standing before him—

‘Oh…?’

—was one of the Five Great Sins.

Of course, that didn’t mean his feeling of gratitude had vanished.

It hadn’t vanished, but—

‘It’s nice that he went this far for me, but…’

Alon watched as Deus, leaving the now half-crippled Vilan behind, walked toward him.

“I’m at your service.”

Bowing his head as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Alon noticed the soldiers and knights murmuring at the scene.

“Uh,” Alon thought, glancing at the blood-drenched Vilan.

‘Isn’t this a bit… excessive?’