# After the Invention of Gunpowder
After gunpowder was invented, and after it was discovered to be unprecedentedly useful for killing humans.
And simultaneously, after it was proven that superhumans who could dodge crossbow bolts and arrows could equally dodge projectiles fired by gunpowder.
All the world's leaders began to share the same concern.
"If we arm all our troops with this new weapon, how do we deal with superhumans who can perfectly counter it?"
A wise ruler deploys superhumans to face superhumans. It's the same logic as deploying cavalry when the enemy attempts a cavalry charge with lances.
However, gunpowder was abundant while superhumans were scarce. With enough population to arm with gunpowder weapons and wealthy enough to operate munitions factories, one nation began researching a new methodology.
"Even superhumans die when struck by a blade."
True. It's the blade of a superhuman that kills a superhuman.
And naturally.
"The impact force of a sword wielded by a superhuman cannot easily surpass the impact force of artillery." (Though it can surpass it.)
True. A strike produced by human muscles and skeleton cannot easily surpass the destructive power of artillery.
So, if artillery could just hit them, even superhumans could ultimately be defeated. Looking only at results, excluding the process.
"Superhumans avoid artillery trajectories through line-of-fire detection."
The way superhumans avoid attacks isn't through the protection of some great divine being. They detect before being hit and remove their bodies from the firing trajectory. This means that superhumans must ultimately move their bodies physically.
Then the story becomes simple.
"If we strike simultaneously in a range that superhumans cannot avoid, wouldn't at least one shot hit?"
How far could a superhuman in crisis sprint at maximum speed? The northern country that first began researching this methodology decided to think boldly.
Instead of vaguely measuring distances.
Why not just blow up the entire area?
After this extremely bold conclusion, they created a military corps specialized for this kind of operation. Not like existing corps that defended borders and occasionally marched according to the monarch's conquest desires, but a corps useful only for these operations.
Thus, the Krasilov 2nd Corps was established. Under the reign of Ivan "the Conqueror," with full support.
Until the end of the Great War, the 2nd Corps did their best to carry out the king's orders. Since they had only one goal, the data and battle lessons accumulated over those long years made them nothing short of perfect.
To flatten the widest possible area. Simultaneously. With the most powerful firepower possible.
The Reaper Battery consists of howitzers. Therefore, the greater the distance from the firing point to the impact point, the longer the shell's falling time.
This means that for simultaneous strikes, batteries hitting relatively close distances and those hitting far distances must fire at different times.
With a perfection that wouldn't allow even the slightest error, the 2nd Corps finally achieved the ability for all batteries to bombard all areas simultaneously.
The maximum width of the blast center is 3m. That's assuming direct hits only. The calculation was simple. All batteries just needed to fire precisely at 3m intervals.
Even in this era of underdeveloped ballistics, under the battle lessons built with blood and the firm determination of the Dwarf secretary who decided to impart all mechanical engineering knowledge.
The Krasilov 2nd Corps' ground leveling became capable of perfectly precise bombing that transcended the era.
"Wheeeeeeee—"
As all batteries fired in sequence, the shells clustered without error, blocking the sky.
And cast a long shadow over that once sun-worshipping massive city.
"KWAAAAAANG—!!!"
In all this process, there was no divine will or miracle, only human wisdom.
And as history proves, human wisdom has always implied destruction.
The Krasilov 2nd Corps doesn't give targeted enemy territories a chance to protest. Since the ability to protest meant the ability to flee, they silently raised their gun barrels, loaded gunpowder, inserted shells, and pulled the trigger for their founding purpose.
As a result, an irresistible disaster pours down. To destroy divine relics and bring down living gods, without any exaggeration. Like rain.
Under the steel-cast downpour, Ovidis became a wasteland in less than 30 minutes.
After an all-out bombardment that even bent the barrels of the last batteries, abandoning even the minimum time needed for heat dissipation.
Ivan and Isabelle mounted their horses with hardened faces and headed to the battlefield.
"An Garr (Warrior)."
A dwarf prostrated and bowed his head. Though idol worship was forbidden to them, still in the posture of one who praises. In response, like a round song, the entire camp shouted.
"Good fortune!!"
From across this vast land surrounding what was once called Ovidis, now a wasteland.
All warriors of Krasilov and the Underground Kingdom willingly raised their voices for their great warriors.
Does the maximum force created by ordinary humans work against superhumans? Yes. Those standing here have just proven it themselves.
So now.
Does the maximum force honed by superhumans work against gods?
Yes.
Four years ago, the preceding superhumans proved it.
Now it was time for those who inherited that legacy to prove it again.
# The Location of Hope
At this point where gods have been brought down to the gaze of mortals.
All humans present had to completely withdraw from the battlefield. Because numbers seek strength under the power of the Seven Dragon Generals.
Always, when the Seven Dragon Generals appeared, humans had only one strategy.
To pile up corpses and clear a path for the Hero Party to reach them.
Under these battle lessons written in blood, Ivan stepped from the wasteland prepared by the corps into the divine realm.
On this land where only ruins remained, a woman lay collapsed.
## EP38. The Location of Hope.
"Isabelle."
"Yes, uncle."
Ivan dismounted. Staring at the motionless Seven Dragon General, he slapped the rump of his horse, which had begun to be contaminated by the Seven Dragon General's magic power.
The horse quickly left the wasteland, convulsing. Isabelle approached and stood beside him.
"Create an opening for me to land a strike."
Ivan gripped his axe, glaring at Lamerix with cloudy eyes.
His muscles trembled. His entire body was screaming for rest. These were internal injuries that would make an ordinary person collapse while vomiting blood. He was forcibly suppressing them while walking.
Each step was like walking on a bed of thorns. This wasn't simply metaphorical. Every nerve in his body was crying out in pain.
Despite extremely suppressing most sensations, he couldn't do the same with pain. Pain was almost the only countermeasure against Lamerix's temptation in this situation.
So he walked, fully feeling the sharp pain tearing through his fever-hot head and internal organs, trying to feel it as completely as possible.
His muscles were losing strength. His joints were screaming, and his head, having lost its sense of balance, was making his vision dizzy.
But it didn't matter. Magic power was moving. That meant he could manipulate his body through magic power.
Ivan was someone who could pride himself on being an expert in magical operations occurring within his own body.
He forcibly tenses relaxed muscles. Adjusts them through magic power. This was a purely surgical act, separate from sensation. In other words, he was simulating muscle movement by adjusting each nerve.
It's a process of meticulously adjusting every muscle fiber in his entire body. Like manipulating a puppet by controlling hundreds of threads.
At this point, the body doesn't actually need to operate. It doesn't matter if not a handful of strength remains in the body. As long as he has magic power to move the body and cognitive ability to handle the manipulation process.
So even though his head was heating up, unable to handle the excessive information.
Even though his muscles were melting and his internal organs were screaming at movements beyond acceptable levels.
Just one strike.
Just one strike to plant his weapon in the enemy's body would be enough. This body created by Beolgrin had already transcended human principles.
In an era where divine power had disappeared, only in battle with the Seven Dragon Generals could he grasp divine authority. With that, he could heal injuries and re-enter battle.
When alternatives and will exist, people can use themselves as consumables. And he had plenty of both.
"Stay right behind me."
Isabelle moved forward, catching her breath.
In this wasteland where everything had dissolved in the time of gunpowder, the only being maintaining its form raised its head.
Its nest, the great divine domain worthy of being called a royal palace, no longer remained.
Its offspring, children who would have gladly worshipped it, had already been swept away under the earth.
It feels no regret about this. These were neither its only offspring nor its only nest. Originally, its territory was in a far-off land.
So the only emotion it now possessed was vengeance. The kind that wounded gods typically show toward mortals.
"Humans have always lived seeking something to worship."
It whispered toward the short woman approaching.
"Now you'll worship that pile of scrap metal as your god. How fitting."
The approaching woman stops blankly. Under the most terrible malice and magic power emanating from the god, she looked at it with an increasingly flushed face.
In a sweet voice, its voice continued.
"But not us. We lived only to rule, and our survival was like the length of days proving our birthright to rule. Every moment of life was a struggle, and only those who won in all those moments could still be alive!!"
Its cry wasn't desperate. Rather, it was blasphemous. A god singing its anger.
"Come, come closer, insects. I, Lamerix of the Veil, declare. You have abandoned your last hope with your own hands, and now the hope I bestowed upon you has become despair. I will gladly enjoy your death throes."
The gradually strengthening magic power announces its well-being. Physical bombardment could topple its minions and palace, but couldn't harm it.
That meant even the most intense malice brought by humans was insufficient to overcome a god.
And also, after clearing away the adversaries before its eyes, those insignificant humans standing like a folding screen in the far distance, quietly looking down, couldn't cause it any harm.
Just mortals who would kneel and beg for pleasure with a single gesture. Their numbers are no different from the weight of meat they could offer. No farmer feels fear toward a wheat field because it has many ears.
Therefore, it turned off its attention to mere humans. The most powerful magic it could exert was spun like thread, weaving a net, filling the mesh, becoming a veil.
A veil shining in five colors draped like a curtain over the heads of the two approaching humans.
"Sleep. You will serve me even in your dreams."
It ignored the god-slayer trembling in pain. That human had already served his purpose, and his attacks couldn't harm it. Enduring was all he could do.
And the young human in front—even more so. Surprisingly still enduring but not impressive. She seems strong-willed, but still just a human.
No matter how persistent an ant might be, all its struggles within a spider web are merely futile thrashing that wraps around its own body.
Lamerix wrapped magic spider webs around the resisting human's body. Densely, like a spider spinning a cocoon.
The light finally disappeared from Isabelle's eyes.
And in that dark world, she was looking at a man's back.
The back of a man she could recall, could gladly worship, wanted to follow with all her might.
The most perfect sword path that man had displayed, the most perfect she had seen in her life.
No.
The most perfect sword path that man had imitated, the most perfect he had seen in his life.
"Is imitation merely derivative of the original?"
Words that man once said come to mind. As does his attitude toward life.
Words from a man who spent his lifetime imitating others. It might have been inferiority and self-consciousness. Saying that no matter how much he tried to follow, there was a great original he couldn't catch up to.
She doesn't think so. Even if it started as imitation, from the moment it reached a certain level. All that man's actions became his own original work.
In the darkness, she gripped her sword.
Imitating the most perfect sword path that man had seen in his life.
The design philosophy sleeping within it. The great first sword path that man had to create by mixing all kinds of constraints and techniques because his qualities and abilities couldn't reach it.
The many brushstrokes of an ordinary person trying to follow the canvas created by a genius. Inferring the form of the first sword path he would have seen between those brushstrokes.
Recreating it, finally.
"Right foot forward. Put weight on it."
Exactly matching the posture the man shows.
"Left foot back, step lightly."
The desired form is reaching out. Yearning. Praying. Pledging to seize it.
"Breathe in deeply, exhale halfway and tense firmly."
Hope. To cut through despair and find it.
"Ivan's."
Maximillian's. My father's.
Ivan's. My idol's.
And Isabelle's. Mine. And my goal's.
"Sky Cleaver."
The sword path continues. Drawing the final line in an ordinary person's work completed by imitating a genius's canvas.
The connected will is finally completed. No sense of achievement or omnipotence. Not even elation.
Just a plainness so simple, a calmness she never expected to feel.
Ah, I've accomplished it. Or.
Ah, so this is the view they saw, my predecessors.
Under that small realization.
The veil tears and scatters.