Chapter Seventy-Two: A Glimpse of Eternity's Shadow (Second Update)

Meanwhile, in the upper district.

What on earth is this creature?

Dazzling sparks illuminated the darkness, crimson blood splattering the ground. Having just withstood a brutal blow from his enemy, Joshua Onions pressed a hand to the wound on his chest and abdomen, retreating again and again like a startled hamster until he managed to put enough distance between himself and the threat. Only then, with a sidelong glance, did he examine the beloved sword that had accompanied him through thirteen years of hardship. At the sight, a muscle at the corner of his eye twitched involuntarily—after only a split-second clash, the Iron-Cleaving Sword Isfir had… dulled its edge?

What kind of joke was this?

Isfir, forged by the master Morphett, was indisputably of legendary quality. In Joshua’s hands, it could slice through steel and iron with ease. Yet just now, that monster had not only withstood his strike head-on, but had done so with nothing but that carapace-like armor, which enveloped its whole body like the exoskeleton of some insect—armor so tough that the finest product of human craftsmanship was damaged in an instant. Such defense defied understanding—it was as if the creature possessed some specialized defensive ability.

Was this thing truly just a cultist of Chaos?

Could it be… a Scion of Calamity?

The figure before him, though roughly human in shape, was anything but human in detail—a foreboding aura radiated from the armor of disaster that wrapped it entirely; the spikes at elbows, knees, and even the head were all at once long and razor-sharp. Most unsettling of all was the mouth apparatus on its helmet, snapping open and shut like a giant pair of shears. From appearance alone, this was no opponent to be trifled with.

He should have observed more carefully before attempting an ambush, Joshua thought. Rushing in without a plan—what folly. Such recklessness was the path of heretics.

With that thought, the young Champion of the Radiant Order narrowed his eyes and retreated a few cautious steps further.

The all-out war against the Chaos cultists had erupted seven days ago. For once, the great lords of the Council had set aside their prejudices and joined forces with the Swordbearers. Together, they had fought a pitched battle with the Chaos cult before the City Hall—yet the outcome was unexpected. Where before the dark cultists would scatter at the first sign of trouble, this time they assembled with fierce resolve and fought back with fervor. The long-wanted black wizard Alfred appeared with two unknown Dark Lords, and together they declared war on the entire upper district.

Joshua did not know the details of the battle, but he knew the result.

Three councilors, led by the Dawnfire, slept forevermore in the endless darkness. Of the three High Swordbearers permanently stationed in Hemptica, one fell in battle. The western suburbs, where the fighting raged, were razed to the ground—gone with them were three hundred and twenty-six households, thirty-two Champions of Radiance, seventy-four Swordbearers, and Hemptica’s shining facade of prosperity. The world’s fate veered sharply downward in that moment—plague, death, disaster… all the world’s malice burst forth uncontrollably.

Greed overwhelmed reason, desire corrupted will. In just a few days, Hemptica seemed to become a breeding ground for “evil,” nurturing something unspeakable in the midst of chaos and disorder.

For example—

The Scions of Calamity.

These were abominations awakened from darkness by the Chaos cult through means unknown. Perhaps their inherent weaknesses allowed Champions of Radiance to have some chance against them, but in sheer combat prowess, each was the equal of a greater demon. Yet what made them truly terrifying was not their power alone, but their numbers.

Ten? Twenty?

No, more than anyone had guessed—by now, sightings of various types of Scions had been reported more than twenty times, many correlating directly with lists of casualties. There were records of successful hunts, but against such foes, victory was impossible without a willingness to lay down one’s life. For Joshua… this was especially true.

Brow furrowed in humility, Joshua gripped his dulled sword tighter, carefully keeping distance from his foe.

He was not ready—

Not ready to bleed, not ready… to face death.

So, should he run?

There was, in fact, every possibility of escape. The armored monstrosity before him, bristling with weapons, moved slowly. As long as nothing unexpected occurred, Joshua’s speed would all but guarantee his getaway. But… did he truly want to flee? A subtle dissatisfaction gnawed at him. He was not Ulysses, forever mouthing “strategic retreat.” He was Onions, proud and unyielding. On the eternal battlefield between Order and Chaos, how could he tolerate fleeing in cowardice?

Besides… he was not without hope of victory.

If his foe indeed possessed some defense-enhancing power, then Joshua’s own ability would be the perfect counter. Despite the gap in raw strength, as long as he used his power wisely, the outcome would be decided in a fleeting instant.

Should he gamble?

The hesitation lasted but a heartbeat. In the next, the red light in the Champion’s eyes flared—what was there to hesitate for? Hadn’t he made a vow with them? Even if one of them was a scoundrel with none of a Champion’s dignity, even if another had fallen seven days ago into an endless dreamless sleep, a vow was a vow. Even if it cost his life, he would see it fulfilled—this, after all, was his own incantation of victory!

In a daze, he seemed to see a sweet smile on a girl’s face.

In a daze, he seemed to see a friend giving him a thumbs-up.

“When in doubt, charge ahead.”

Joshua Onions whispered the childhood oath that had brought him so many victories, and then—

He strode forward!

Like the wind, like thunder, like a painted tiger rousing from its forest lair, the youth surged into motion.

He began to sprint.

But if the Champion’s assault was a raging storm, then his opponent was an immovable mountain in that storm. With supreme confidence in their own defense, the creature did not retaliate, but simply swung an arm—simple, yet not so simple.

“Vmm!”

It was as if he’d been struck by a bull. The force that crashed into the spine of his sword nearly knocked the weapon from his hands. But the attack was not over—a fraction of a second later, Joshua’s ears caught the brutal rip of air being torn, and then—a wave, invisible, dizzying, nauseating, and suffocating.

He staggered half a step back before regaining his footing. The wound in his abdomen burned fiercely, but rather than retreat, he pressed forward, swinging his battered sword in a perfect arc—a blazing meteor crashing down upon the enemy’s armor.

“Aaaaaaahhhh!”

He screamed meaningless words with all his might, dragging another shower of sparks from the foe’s body—and once again, gained nothing.

No, not nothing—at least he gained another wound.

His powerful bellow was impressive, but in truth, it left no mark on that baleful armor. On the contrary, his focus on brute strength made him slow and rigid; lost in the thrill of attack, he was unable to dodge the enemy’s next blow—blood, hot and red, sprayed from a fresh wound, painting the silver armor in vivid strokes.

But it was still not enough.

The hotter his blood ran, the cooler Joshua Onions became. He had only one chance at victory—he could only demand perfection from himself.

So then—

Again!

He had many tactics to choose from; in the instant he was injured, countless options flashed through his mind. But to him, they were all trivial details. What he needed was not more thought, but to abandon thought altogether and charge straight ahead.

Thus… he despised his own ability.

Its compatibility… was truly abysmal.

Such thoughts flashed by. The youth hunched his wounded body and—

Became a bolt of lightning!

A lunge!

Channeling all his strength to a single point, sword whistling through the air and igniting the scorching wind.

Here and now—victory, sworn!

The red in his eyes blazed with hunger for triumph; his silver-white hair streamed behind him like a banner in the storm. Every fiber of his being was invested in this moment. The Champion forgot all except his one goal: pierce his enemy. Forward, forward, ever forward!

And then—through!

When sword and armor collided, the force was like the crash of heaven and earth, sending the youth stumbling. With no time to check the result, he activated his power.

Directional Detonation.

The blood spattered on the armored figure came alive, animated by some will of its own, swelling in an instant to its limit—and then, in a blaze of glory, detonated.

An explosion consumed the armored horror in a flash.

Immediately after, the sword sliced through the armor as if it were tofu—no resistance at all.

It was dead… As the smoke cleared, Joshua Onions let go of the now-ruined sword and raised his eyebrows: No, not dead—it had never truly been alive.

It was an empty suit of armor.

Nothing within.

“This doesn’t feel like victory,” the Champion muttered, sitting down hard and skillfully bandaging his wounds. “It’s as if I only killed a shell.”

In the final moment, he had distinctly felt something escaping his sword’s edge.

What could it have been?

Joshua Onions did not know the answer.

He knew only one thing—the war was far from over…

No—

It had only just begun.

Far away, the one who knew the answer suddenly halted in her steps.

“Lady Pandora?” asked the black wizard Alfred, glancing aside at the girl, still not grown.

“The seeds of conflict have returned,” the petite, black-haired, black-eyed girl pressed a hand to her chest, a pretty frown creasing her brow. “Calamities of this grade are no longer adequate for our purposes. But, thanks to the spread of the Black Death, ‘Plague,’ ‘Death,’ and ‘Fear’ have all accumulated—the only thing missing is a vessel. I need the corpse of a Champion of Radiance.”

In her uniquely childish and imperious tone, she made her demand.

The Dark Lord, like a figure from a painting, blinked, then bowed deeply to her like a gentleman. “If that is your will.”

“And furthermore,” said the girl called Pandora, resuming her walk and addressing another Dark Lord at her side, “spread evil, spread fear—let the world grow livelier, Crow. Pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, lust, gluttony… With our current strength, we cannot yet storm the Temple of Hephaestus. To fulfill the Demon Duke’s decree, I must awaken the ‘Seven Deadly Sins.’”

“As you wish.” The black-haired, red-eyed Crow spread his wings and soared.

The girl, beautiful as a painting, paid no mind to the departure of the black bird from her shoulder. She hummed an ancient, nameless lullaby, skipping down the empty, wide street like a sprite in the night. Yet as a breeze swept by, she abruptly stopped again, twirled her skirt, and turned toward the nearby darkness, dipping in a curtsey.

“The war is only just beginning—”

“What do you think, Duke Galsworthy?”

A pure, innocent smile—like the bloom of a poppy—lit her face.