# Enhanced Translation
Two hands cover the Pope's eyes, while other hands stir the empty air. Even sitting in this tent, he can survey the entire battlefield.
Pale white hands fluttering in the air. All the threads they grasp and cradle are his chess pieces. Each piece breathes and moves according to his gestures, conversing and thinking.
This sense of omnipotence.
Humans must never go extinct. They must move and pulsate under his control. This intense heartbeat felt beneath each thread. This alone is the driving force that keeps him alive.
This is neither his royal palace nor his nest. Naturally, his power was once greater than this. But what does it matter? With less than half the power of his nest, a nation crumbles and mighty monarchs and vassals kneel before him.
Truly, he was created to rule.
-A twitch.
The white hands weaving through the air momentarily paused. A thread had broken.
There's resistance. Who could it be?
The pale white face still wears a gentle smile. It had no facial muscles to create expressions. Even when feeling displeasure, its body could form no expression other than a smile.
And its true face, with eight eyes like a crustacean, clicked its mandibles that split open sideways.
What is this?
A question arose. Soon he turned his gaze. The will connected through the thread revealed the situation. And now he could observe what was happening in this military camp.
Countless puppets were collapsing like marionettes with cut strings.
-CRASH!!
Steel armor crumbled under an axe blade with a thunderous noise. A knight fell from his horse. He writhed, spitting blood, then stopped moving and breathed his last.
Knights swarmed in. Beyond them, soldiers with spears and swords raised could be seen charging forward.
It doesn't matter.
Ivan swung his axe with an unchanging expression.
When facing an army, a Hero Party had three choices.
Retreat.
Deploy Beolgrin.
Or send out Einar.
Beolgrin advanced alone, collapsing fortresses. Legions were crushed under his hand, and thunder and lightning swirled at his will.
Before this ancient astronomer who could summon natural disasters himself, numbers lost their meaning.
Meanwhile, Einar moved more simply.
He took to the battlefield wielding an axe in one hand and a greatsword in the other. A mechanical slaughter that never tired, never stopped, never showed mercy.
He was the manifestation of death without purpose, striking with no concern for efficiency. His ability was simple: to swing fast, strong, and violently.
Everything within his reach was torn to shreds. When violence beyond what's meant to kill a person touches a human body, it too easily becomes fragments.
Just five minutes of such a scene is enough to shatter an entire unit. More people fled after witnessing the horrific sight than those directly caught in it.
That's why his nickname was "Mountain of Corpses, Sea of Blood." The grotesque image of a berserker in the middle of the battlefield, weapons gripped in both hands, screaming, was enough to instill primal fear in all enemies.
He is the most suitable one when facing an army.
So now, Ivan holds weapons in both hands. Because he must face an army.
-CRACK!!
Soldiers' heads flew through the air, and outstretched spears and swords shattered under the storm of axe and greatsword.
If one had to describe it, it was a tsunami. That's the only image to imagine. At the pinnacle of martial arts, when one must establish mental focus. Ivan's intent was always based on "efficiency" and "rationality," but not now.
For a near-perfect imitation. He forcibly accelerated his pounding heart, ignoring the screams of his blood vessels under intense pressure as he swung his weapons.
"—sir!!"
Isabelle screamed as she ran behind him. But the sound didn't reach his ears now. He had blocked his hearing.
-Whoosh— THUD!!
A flying spear tip—he ignored it rather than dodge, as evasion risked breaking his offensive momentum. He shattered the spear shaft embedded in his shoulder, ignoring the blade stuck in his muscle.
Blood sprayed more vividly than usual due to his elevated blood pressure. His body screamed danger. But this too didn't matter. He had blocked his sense of pain.
And, appropriately spilled blood could cool his heated head. Even if it wasn't sensible, he had to believe so. Because that's what Einar would have done.
Perfectly imitating Einar of that day, that era of war. Ivan charged forward without stopping.
At the end, a long fracture forms through the army. A fracture built from mountains of corpses. The trace of the Mountain of Corpses, Sea of Blood.
Einar—?! But there's no way he could appear here!!
The moving hands stopped. Threads were breaking. The threads of talented humans he had been saving for last.
Of course, puppets cannot fully utilize the abilities they once possessed. It can't be helped. Whether martial arts or magic, those caught in his hands have dulled reasoning.
Sword strikes fueled only by desire cannot replicate the martial arts they built up.
But quantity soon overwhelms quality. When sufficient numbers gather, even the finest knight will crumble.
However, the quantity he had prepared, the puppets he was orchestrating.
Were being overwhelmed by the quality of a single person.
The trajectory of broken threads leads toward his quarters. Even pushing in humans continuously to block it, completely. Without even a moment's delay.
A breakwater can stop waves, but it doesn't break a tsunami.
Like that. Like a coastline where a tsunami surges in. Like mortals watching a natural disaster.
In that moment, he realized. That among humans, there were those called "natural disasters" even to demon-kind.
Einar the Mountain of Corpses, Sea of Blood.
Patricia, the Angel of Death.
Enrique, the Shadow Sword.
Beolgrin of the Thunder Call.
Gil Ber, the Iron Fortress.
And.
Maximillian of Despair and.
And, newly.
-Ivan, the God Slayer...!!
The moment he saw the face of the charging man through the eyes of his puppets beyond the spider web, he rose from his seat, tightly gripping the threads.
Isabelle was desperately riding her horse, following Ivan's back. She could somehow deflect incoming spears and swords, but fighting like Ivan was impossible.
The enemy was an army. Not a rhetorical expression, but in plain description, precisely. Bellacrya's legion was swarming in. With clear hostility despite their vacant eyes and sluggish movements.
So naturally, this charge by just the two of them should have been crushed under tremendous pressure. That was common sense. Even if Ivan could successfully break through, she couldn't.
It wasn't so much a lack of ability as an absence of experience. She had plenty of experience facing single powerful opponents, but almost none facing countless enemies.
But now, the pressure reaching her was negligible. In the midst of a massive army surging forward, most of the pressure coming toward her was being absorbed by the back in front of her.
Absorbed?
As that word came to mind, Isabelle found herself laughing in spite of herself. It wasn't mere absorption. To be precise, he was "pulverizing" it.
Charging forward steadfastly, turning everyone he collided with into mush as he advanced. With a flame that seemed about to extinguish at any moment, yet still burning fiercely as he pressed on.
Anxious about this, Isabelle gripped her reins roughly.
Because it seemed about to go out. Because it was burning as if it were the final flame.
Come to think of it, that man had always been like that. Even a single action performed resolutely without leaving any room for hesitation. Putting his all into even the most trivial matters.
Almost mechanical in a way. Like a magical device precisely executing programmed commands. More like encountering a product of magical engineering than a person.
But she knew.
That man shed tears when eating food from his homeland.
He would lightly bite his lip when mourning the departed, and always called their names with a cracked voice as he suffered from nightmares of days gone by.
When looking at those he called comrades, those who stood by his side, that man's eyes were surprisingly gentle.
That gap was so pitiful. As if all his happiness was buried in the past.
Once, she had seen a taxidermied dragon in the Tilles royal court.
A massive dragon taxidermy that seemed to roar at everyone who set foot in the court. A figure that seemed to fully display the king's majesty. In fact, as a child, she had often been frightened by that sculpture.
But it was nothing more than an imitation of its appearance in life, in the distant past. With rotting insides, dead flesh and muscles filled with wax. A taxidermy left by a once-great tyrant.
Its imposing form was merely a reflection of the past. Its glory remained only in distant history. And Isabelle's feelings as she looked at it were no different from how she felt looking at Ivan now.
Like a taxidermied figure with only memories of old companions, no longer able to give his heart to the world's surprises and joys.
She had thought while looking at that man's forearms. What past lay in those abundant scars? What kind of life would leave such marks engraved on those arms and legs, and perhaps his entire body?
And she could easily imagine.
Wounds heal but leave scars. That is the result of the traces scribbled across that man's body as a canvas. So, in that long life of struggle, his soul. How mangled must his heart be?
So.
Because he's a Hero. Because he's a Hero who saves people. Because he must be the bravest person, and the person who loves people the most.
So.
She wants to save that man.
She wants to save that broken man who can only find happiness in nightmares, amid sorrow and grief.
To that man who has only ever saved her in times of crisis and threat. To that man who only ever gives, she wants to give something of herself as well.
She wants to show him happiness. Joy, warmth, pleasure and laughter too. She wants to bring a smile to that dry face.
Even if she can't save everyone in the world. At least.
No longer seeing that scarred back before her eyes.
Stopping that man who always walks ahead, telling him that now she will stand in front, rising proudly.
Walking ahead, cutting through despair.
Further forward. To that place beyond hope. Leading so that you no longer live in grief—
"Sir—!!"
Isabelle deflected a blade piercing Ivan's body and moved closer to his side.
"Wake up! Look at me!!"
To awaken the taxidermied shadow.
Toward the man submerged in numb darkness, blocking all senses and only moving forward.
And Ivan, from within the darkness that had enveloped him, spoke to the white figure.
"Chereno...vika?"
A woman in a wedding dress, smiling brightly, was trying to hand him a bouquet.
It's a cathedral.
He looked around. Countless spectators were firing celebratory shots and walking over to shake his hand.
He could see the Saintess and Enrique crying. Could vampires cry? Perhaps they could. He didn't know because he'd never tried crying.
He saw Sasha and Dmitri applauding.
He saw Elizabeta Kirillovna Krasilov scattering flower petals. Why was she doing such a thing? How far had the royal dignity fallen?
No, there was no need to maintain dignity.
Because the former king was looking down at him. Who would dare speak of the dignity of the Krasilov royal family in his presence?
Alexandr Kirillovich Krasilov laughed as he rolled his severed head.
"Lieutenant Colonel. What are you doing? Spacing out."
Laila Cherenovika chuckled as she placed a wreath in his arms.
Kim Seon-woo muttered softly with a cracked voice.
"Thinking."
"What are you thinking about?"
"That I don't want to wake up."
"Wake up from what? What are you saying?"
Kim Seon-woo lowered his head at her question. He saw himself dressed in a tuxedo.
He gripped the ceremonial sword hanging at his side. A familiar grip. Like an axe handle.
"Lieutenant Colonel?"
"Speak no more."
When he raised his head, Kim Seon-woo's brightly smiling face was no longer there.
Ivan spoke to the figure in the wedding dress with sunken eyes.
"Stop mocking my life."
The thing in the wedding dress tilted its head and said.
"I can fulfill what you desire most. God Slayer. This is not what I wanted. Your role was not here. Take my hand. I have no reason to fight you."
"I do."
-Crack.
The ceremonial sword was drawn and embedded like an axe in the figure's neck.
"From the moment you started this."
The thread piercing his forehead burned and broke.
"—sir!! Sir!! Can you hear me?!"
When Ivan opened his eyes, Isabelle was urgently shouting beside him.
His axe was caught on Isabelle's blade, wavering. Looking around, he saw that the approaching army was no longer moving.
In the middle of an open space piled with blood and corpses, Ivan and Isabelle stood facing each other with weapons raised.
"Get a grip!! Please! I almost died!!"
"Isabelle."
"Yes! Hero has arrived!!"
Isabelle said with a laugh despite her panting. Her body showed traces where spider webs had tried to penetrate but were repelled. Traces of magic corruption that had failed to progress.
I see.
For a human who has never fallen into despair, and will not fall into despair, his desire couldn't take hold.
No, it's not just that. Ivan looked at Isabelle with fresh eyes.
"Are you a virgin?"
"...?"
How could the curse of lust be cast on a human who has never experienced lust?
Of course. So that's why I was affected. This is largely Elizabeta's fault.
"Sir, you're still not thinking straight. Good. Then this Hero will have to help you."
Isabelle growled as she extended her sword straight out.