The air itself carries killing intent. Not as a metaphor, but as a physically verifiable phenomenon in this pre-modern fantasy world.
Even ordinary people, even child soldiers, cannot hide their killing intent the moment before pulling a trigger. When that subtle killing intent is detected by the enhanced neural responses of a superhuman, it becomes the technique known as Line-of-Fire Detection.
Furthermore, for superhumans, well-honed killing intent can physically harm civilians. At that point, killing intent clearly begins to exert physical influence, as the magical power mixed within it starts to affect the world.
So, in this world where all types of offensive actions contain traces of killing intent...
Enrique, renowned as history's most exceptional thief and assassin, created a special training regimen for her disciples.
The refinement of killing intent. Controlling all emotions to an extreme degree, becoming so utterly silent that there is no trace of presence before taking direct action.
Therefore.
When such condensed, fiercely trained, and thoroughly suppressed killing intent loses control and flows out...
The magical lamp burst with a crackling sound, plunging the conference room into darkness. The elves present were all long-lived lords of the academy, and they immediately began to respond, but...
Even they couldn't suppress the basic instincts of mortal beings.
Outside the barred windows of the conference room, the midday sunlight still streamed in. The bright blue sky of the Idranhill Inner Sea in springtime shone through.
And as that light passed through the bars and fell into the conference room, it lost its color and faded.
"Gulp."
Unfortunately, since it was a round table, one council member sitting close to Ivan painfully swallowed his saliva.
He remained stiffly frozen, sweating coldly, not daring to even turn his head. Like a frog mimicking stillness before a predator. Vulgarly clinging to life.
Killing intent swirled violently. Magical power ran wild. Everyone present was skilled enough to see magical power with the naked eye, so they could directly witness the dark torrent.
It was as if black smoke filled the conference room. Each flow was dense enough with killing intent to burst a civilian's heart.
Amid it all, eerily glowing blue eyes, fortunately not directed at them at the moment.
They remained silent like sheep before a lion.
"Most of the promises I've made until now, I couldn't keep."
Ivan's voice was deeply cracked, like scraping against an iron plate.
"Live. Survive. I will surely protect you... Among those worthless promises, I've fulfilled only a handful. I am such an incompetent human being."
The Annihilation Squad that followed him.
The Great King and the Royal Guard.
The excellent knights of Tilles, and Gil Ber.
His longtime friends, and even Beolgrin.
Even the disciples of the Sword School.
Survive.
Please, just stay alive.
All those he had asked this of eventually died and disappeared.
The lives of those individuals, their names, and causes of death. All of them seemed to tear at his soul like wounds. Wounds may fade with time, covered in dust, but scars never disappear.
Ivan stands here with a body and soul that have become tattered rags covered in scars.
He is such an incompetent person. All the scars remaining on his body are traces of his incompetence.
But even so.
"However."
Even for someone like him, there is one thing he has surely accomplished.
A declaration.
The plea for others to live. The promise to protect them. Those all failed within his incompetence.
"Of those I declared I would kill, none remain alive today."
That declaration alone, throughout his not-so-short life, he had always kept.
Aviditas, the nobles of Krasilov, the rebels of Tilles.
Even the god born in Idranhill died.
Therefore.
"Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Petrovich. Listen to me—"
"Do you remember? Do you remember the last words I spoke directly to you?"
"..."
"I remember."
He never forgot.
"Don't die. Please live a long life. Make sure you stay alive until I come for you. That's what I said."
"There could be opportunities in this world, Ivan Petrovich. Compared to the countless masses, the number of those who have died is only—"
"Now I have come."
The two men's conversation didn't connect.
Ivan stared directly at Alexandr, who was hastily opening his mouth, and immediately drew the sword at his waist.
The sound of the blade being drawn—srrng—was almost slower than the action itself. By the time the sound was heard, the blade had already been raised, reflecting the sunlight from outside in the dark interior.
When bewilderment crossed Alexandr's eyes, the blade had already left Ivan's grasp.
SWAAAASH—!!
"Now I have come before you, and I will fulfill the one thing I have lived to keep."
The declaration to kill. That alone he had always kept while living.
CRASH—!!
The flying blade shattered the window and disappeared over the sea. The blazing killing intent instantly swept through the room and was carried away through the gap.
Afterward, neither Alexandr nor Ivan remained in the conference room. The two men jumped onto the deck following the broken wall.
"...Phew."
Someone let out a short sigh. It was one of the elves who had barely escaped from the terrible killing intent.
Everyone present realized at that moment. They could only imagine themselves dying helplessly with broken necks. Even masters of magic couldn't defeat a swordsman of that caliber without preparation at this distance.
Having regained their composure, the elves began to put on airs.
"What insolence! Such barbaric behavior in the Privy Council!"
"Humans...!!"
The elves began to raise their voices, each trying to forget the powerlessness and fear they had felt. Watching their behavior, Edel pressed her brow and sighed softly.
"Coenulf! Look at the riot caused by that barbarian you brought!"
"Shut up. Have you no shame?"
"What did you say?"
"Dominated by a single human, talking about colonies and broader worlds... How pathetic."
When Edel clicked her tongue and spoke, one elf stood up abruptly. He growled, gathering magical power in both hands.
"No matter how exceptional you may be, do you think you can handle everyone here?"
"Of course not."
The elves of the Privy Council. The lords of the academy are by no means easy opponents. These are great magicians who have devoted as much time to magic as Edel has devoted to the sword.
Naturally, each individual is the essence representing their academy.
However, this is an enclosed indoor space, and Edel now holds a sword in her hand.
In other words, a prepared swordsman facing unprepared magicians.
"Exactly five."
"...What?"
"If all of you attack me now, I will surely die. But I can definitely take five of you with me. Starting with the first spellcaster who uses magic, I'll take five of you as companions... Come."
With a sliding sound, Edel partially drew her blade with her thumb and stood up. The elf who had risen to glare at her looked around with a flinching expression.
Some were angry, some were observing the situation, and some were looking at him with interested eyes.
Yes, this is a den of wolves. The death of one council member means more benefits for the others. No one here minds if the number of competitors decreases.
Therefore, even if he makes the first move, he knows that no one else will follow him to attack Edel.
He had no choice but to bite his lip roughly and sit down.
Seeing their pathetic display, Edel let out a deep sigh.
"I am currently in a very, extremely, incredibly bad mood, my kinsmen. I killed half of my disciples with my own hands, and the other half died under my orders. And yet this is what I see immediately after victory. So, as the lord of the Sword School with only thirty members left, I say this."
Edel leaned forward and whispered ominously.
"If you don't have the courage to fight, please don't run your mouth. I'm desperate to kill someone right now."
Alexandr, who had climbed onto the deck, quickly surveyed his surroundings. He saw elves looking at him with surprised expressions.
Smiling, he approached them and quickly disarmed them. The elves, disarmed in a moment of carelessness, backed away from him in confusion.
There was no time to explain or cast magic.
Like a storm rising, like a tsunami crashing down. Like a sea monster surging from the deep.
Killing intent, visible to the naked eye, swirled and settled before him.
"Lieutenant Colonel Petrovich. If you listen to my explanation, you'll understand."
He had already thrown his last sword, and bullets cannot harm a superhuman.
So that man has no weapons.
Alexandr raised his sword and quickly continued speaking.
"Don't think about those who died in the war. Look at those who survived afterward. Never in the history of this world have individual rights been so elevated—"
"Annihilation Squad. 711 people."
A low voice growled like a wounded beast from within the killing intent.
"Royal Guard. 1,132 people."
The killing intent rippled. He saw an elf nearby collapse, clutching his heart with a pained expression.
"Including the Conqueror Ivan the Great, 6,193 soldiers who had to take the field."
He saw humans approaching hurriedly. Faces pale as they looked at the rippling killing intent.
"From the civil war in Tilles, including Gil Ber, 20,000 soldiers and knights who dedicated themselves to that campaign. And all the remaining righteous people of the Sword School and Annihilation Squad who faded away in Idranhill—"
A young man with no legs, supported by others, approached with a stiff face and answered in a low voice.
"For the deaths of all those heroes. Death penalty."
Beyond the killing intent, silhouettes appear to ripple. The dead appear like phantoms. Becoming clearer and clearer.
In frozen time, facing death alone, Alexandr gritted his teeth and held his sword upright.
"Ivan Petrovich! You could use your strength in more meaningful ways! I am trying to make the world—"
"Revenge is meaningless."
The killing intent was suddenly right in front of him. Through the terrible magical power that even refracted the brilliant noon sunlight, eerily glowing blue eyes flickered like ghost fire.
He has no weapons. His physical condition is abnormal, his magical power is at rock bottom, and his soul, which once held divinity, is on the verge of breaking.
Since arriving at Idranhill, he hasn't rested for a single moment, only continuing to fight. In the final moment, he died and revived dozens of times.
Ivan is now in a state where even walking is close to a miracle.
Alexandr, on the other hand, is different. The education and training he received since childhood, the skills honed through battlefields, talent demonstrated in both magic and swordsmanship, and experience gained while operating behind the scenes of the world.
Considering all of that, he was confident he could escape even if he faced a member of the Hero Party. That was his self-assessment.
But at this moment.
CRACK.
A hand that approached without sound.
A hand covered in scars. An arm that had become tattered, with newly grown flesh and old scars chaotically intertwined. Tendons writhing like snakes within.
Until it fully grasped his head, he couldn't resist.
"But it's appropriate as an offering for those who died meaninglessly."
Therefore.
"I will no longer postpone your death."
Taking one step forward to disrupt his balance, and under the grip that firmly held Alexandr's collapsing head.
CRACK. It was slammed into the deck.
Only one person was moving in this place.
A man from a poor rural farming background. Participated in the Great War as a conscript. Joined the Royal Guard out of admiration for the king called the Conqueror.
Lost all his comrades, went through long military service, and finally discharged.
Yet still devoted. Even though he received no compensation from the country, no honor or respect from the world.
Stubborn, steadfast, uncompromising.
Not a young man from another world. Only, a man of Krasilov.
A man who remembers all past scars.
CRACK!
Silently, he moves.