The dry sand absorbs a single drop of water, releasing a deep breath between scattered consciousness and fractured soul. Even if these emotions will evaporate and fade in an instant.
No, perhaps it's more welcome precisely because of that. Though the emotions themselves disappeared without leaving even an echo, Maximillian could smile with genuine sincerity just from their lingering traces.
With the transcendent perception and control he gained in place of his lost sight, he could measure even the inhales and exhales of a man far in the distance at this moment.
"You've gathered every martial art one person could possibly possess."
What is mental martial arts? It is the unique mental imagery that a warrior has cultivated throughout their lifetime. It's a skill honed so precisely that one can impose their mental imagery upon the world itself.
With just one sword, and with one person's soul and magical power. An extreme technique almost like magic.
It's a realm one can only reach by dissolving one's entire life into the weapon they wield. Thus, generally, a person can only manifest one mental martial art.
But that man is different. He was like that ten years ago, and now he has surpassed even his own limitations to reach that place.
"I feel jealous."
He cannot feel jealousy. It was an emotion he lost when he killed Perniche of Malice. Yet Maximillian said so with a smile.
Sincerely.
He was a Hero. Since the time when "human gods" no longer intervened in this world, since the era when humans could not know the existence of gods except through fragments and traces of divine power, he was the man who communicated directly with the gods.
His power and authority, talent and ability all originated from the gods. He lived his life as a weapon directly chosen and forged by the gods.
Therefore, all his great achievements—splitting mountains, tearing the sky, slaughtering the false gods of this world and bearing their curses—were "natural." Because he possessed a body infused with divine power.
But what about that man?
He opened his eyes as a peasant's son and charged through battlefields with nothing. Without a master, he learned martial arts from the world itself, honing his skills. And finally, he killed a god with his own hands, received the curse, yet stands whole in that place now.
If this world were a story, yes... wouldn't that be the appearance of a protagonist?
Rather than himself, designed with intention and precision, isn't that man who stood up and ran on his own truly the greater Hero?
From a humble, even lowly ordinary birth, with nothing but a wretched body, he bloomed brilliantly... a man who considered himself a weed.
Without epic lineage or destiny, he reached the same level as the heroes of many worlds through will alone.
Yes, if there were a "protagonist" for humanity, it should look like that.
And...
If he himself stands at the opposite end of all those things. Wouldn't he be perfectly suited as the villain of the story?
"Come. Brother from a distant land. Reach me."
Stranger from a far world whose form I no longer remember. Come.
Today in this place, two stories will end, and when the last page is closed. Now this world will move on to the next chapter.
The killing intent of this world is a physical phenomenon. I couldn't understand exactly what mechanism allows emotions to manifest in the world.
But well-refined killing intent easily harms people. From mild effects like a constricted heart and rapid breathing, to severe cases that can be fatal.
Then what phenomenon would "maximized" killing intent cause? Einar demonstrated the answer himself.
Killing intent refined to the realm of mental arts distorts gravity.
-KUUUUNG—!!
Ivan no longer runs. It was a technique he lacked the proficiency to deploy while making intense movements simultaneously.
Killing intent permeates his every step. So intensely that colors scatter around him. So heavily as if he himself were the center of the world.
Like a massive predator walking among a flock of sheep.
With each step he took, the surrounding magical beasts and demon folk stopped breathing and knelt. Against their fierce fighting spirit and loyalty, their bodies instinctively lowered to worship the predator.
-KUUUUNG—!!
Like the heartbeat of a deep-sea monster, killing intent echoes along the axe blade. Heavy and powerful. Kuung, kung. The pulsating echo drew waves that seeped through and dispersed among the demon folk.
"..."
To humans, the Seven Dragon Lords are disasters that cannot be resisted. When gods appear, humans lose their advantage as a collective.
And similarly, Einar had the same effect on demon folk. The "Hero," forged solely to face armies.
Just as the Seven Dragon Lords do, Einar also strips away the collective advantage from demon folk. When a farmer harvests grain, can the number of kernels damage the farmer's plow?
Ten years ago, this was how the Hero Party advanced.
Ivan and Enrique found the optimal route.
Einar broke through armies.
Beolgreen demolished fortresses.
Gilbert blocked incoming offensives.
Maximillian beheaded gods.
Now he could do all those things alone. Enrique's techniques, Einar's strength, Gilbert's solidity, the trajectory Maximillian showed—all were imprinted in his mental imagery.
He never forgets what he has seen once.
Throughout his life, that ability he considered a curse now aids his steps. That terrible ability that prevents him from peacefully burying the dead in oblivion.
The deaths of all those he loved remain as vivid as yesterday. He would never forget them even after a lifetime. So he would rather call it a curse. Because even the most terrible deaths cannot find rest in his memory.
So, even in this moment of opposing a god.
The memories of all the dead, their strength, the traces of the departed walk alongside him.
He takes a step, and in that terrible killing intent, demon folk kneel and clear a path, then he takes another step.
Though he was always left alone, those numerous deaths never left him alone.
[It wasn't Einar!! I know you. God-slayer... you shouldn't be on this battlefield. No, no! You shouldn't exist in this world!!]
Its form is now much closer. Nekinnon's screams and shouts weigh him down. The god's magical power and presence were binding him.
Only now breaking free from the influence of the killing intent, the demon folk painfully regain their senses and raise their weapons toward him.
[Stop him, stop him!!]
There still remains a number that could be called a barrier between him and the creature. Each one a demon folk who has been fighting since the Great War.
Taurus and Orcs, and occasionally even rarer demon folk. Elite forces capable of handling magical power and reaching the realm of the superhuman—the centurion level—stood blocking his way.
There wouldn't be enough time to defeat all these numbers and approach.
[Bind his feet!! You, God-slayer. All those you tried to protect will soon breathe their last. Your world is ending. Your best efforts are crumbling like sand castles, and my armies will fill their hungry bellies with your flesh!!]
Nekinnon turns around. The creature began advancing toward the front line.
Humans cannot stop gods. Collectives cannot resist gods. If Nekinnon directly engages at the front line, the defensive line that is barely holding will instantly shatter.
Then it's over. If the forces here scatter, the United Kingdom would never be able to form such an army again.
Knowing this fact, Nekinnon was trying to leave. There was no need to fight someone who had killed a Dragon Lord.
His victory doesn't come from dueling the strong. If he can just break the United Kingdom's forces, that would be his victory and Ivan's defeat.
"Don't run away."
In the distorted air swirling with killing intent, between the hissing black currents, Ivan growls.
Only his blue glowing eyes remained unwavering in that vortex. He glared at Nekinnon and took another step forward.
"Don't run away. If you're a god. If you pride yourself as a god, don't run away."
[Go ahead alone. When you face me, there will be no world left for you. That will be my divine punishment upon you.]
Nekinnon had no reason to confront him. Fighting him would be inefficient. After all, he's just a human, a mere human who can only be in one place at a time.
In contrast, he is an army. The number of his followers is countless.
If he wins this war, there will be no sanctuary for him. His people, nation, and world will perish, and even if he's consumed by revenge, he cannot reach him.
Because there will be more demon folk born under his rule than the man could kill in his lifetime.
His lifespan is finite. If he just avoids confronting him during that time, he will fade away with the years. Whatever the process, he can only win.
Just as all Seven Dragon Lords thought when the Hero Party rampaged.
"You have no right to fear me."
Tearing apart the charging demon folk, Ivan takes another step. Nekinnon was trying to leave without confronting him.
That sight is so familiar. Yes, because the Seven Dragon Lords were basically cowards. Having lived eternally, they feared death extremely.
If there's even the slightest possibility of death, they never show themselves. That is, if he loses the creature here, he will never be able to confront it again. Even a lifetime would be at most 50 years.
From their perspective, it's like a moment. If they hide for just that brief time, permanent victory will be theirs.
Ivan was violently breaking through the demon folk. It's not easy. They are the creature's personal guards, the most elite among demon folk.
Nekinnon's figure grows more distant. Despite his rising anger, beyond his reach...
-KWAJIK!
The head of a demon folk approaching Ivan was severed and shot into the sky.
"Go!!"
Looking back, an old man was shouting at him. Looking ahead again...
"Go!! Be faithful to your mission!!"
Like the old man, bloodshot remnant soldiers were running with him.
Already about half had disappeared. It's remarkable that even ordinary soldiers, no matter how well-trained, survived while penetrating an army of tens of thousands of demon folk.
Hungry, tired, injured, and ragged soldiers raise plows, axes, and spears. Farmers', carpenters', and hunters' weapons.
They raise tools, not weapons. They resist death holding the relics left by their families and comrades.
For revenge, they too chose to walk carrying the memories of the dead on their backs, instead of mourning them.
Revenge is like a curse. Every moment burning with vengeance, they had to ruminate on the deaths of those they loved most. Struggling not to allow rest in oblivion.
The avengers walk the path. Now advancing ahead of Ivan. Through the forest of demon folk, forward. Further forward.
"Grand Duke."
"Go, Colonel...!! Save those who haven't died yet! Hurry!!"
The old swordsman once called Krasilov's strongest swings a gap-toothed longsword and shouts.
"Kill him!!"
[Kill him!!]
The shouts of Grand Duke Volonovin and Nekinnon pour over Ivan's head.
And again, looking back.
"If we kill this one, is that the end of the Seven Dragon Lords, brother?"
"Always jumping ahead thinking you're so great. Just following the old man's back—is this what a Hero is? Seriously."
"I'm planning to marry my fiancée when this war ends."
"Hey, Essie. You shouldn't say things like that..."
There is a party. Grumbling, yet gathering.
Each one's skill is still insufficient to be called "trained." They didn't have enough time, so it's natural. But nevertheless.
When everyone crumbles in tragedy, when they kneel under beings they cannot resist.
When they must face gods, when destruction blocks their path as if it were predetermined fate.
The Hero Party carries their weapons on their shoulders and walks with smiles.
"Let's go. I'm tired of looking at demon folk faces."
Isabelle slaps his shoulder, and Asidis naturally links her arm with his as they walk.
As Yu-jin pushes down his helmet visor and gestures, Yu-ri hits the back of his head hard.
Ivan watches them for a moment, then silently nods and raises his axe.