Chapter Eighty-Four: The Long Sword That Cut Through the Darkness

Cast aside hesitation, cast aside wavering, cast aside greed—
Discard all stray thoughts, and the bearer of glory lifts his longsword.

Yes, a longsword.

Like light, like flame, like courage that never turns back, and even more, like the spirit of pioneering advance.

Slash!

No showy movements, no pointless words. The boy simply swings his sword, plainly... swings.

Yet what such a simple motion brings forth is no simple result. A strike so straightforward it could not be more so sweeps away the dense storm clouds hanging over the lower district, melts the strange mist that clung stubbornly to the surrounding streets and refused to disperse. Though the roads remain ruined, though the neighborhood still lies desolate, though the ground before him has long been shattered by the earlier battle, beneath the radiance of light and flame the entire world seems born anew with the dawn.

First to collapse is the intelligence merchant's command of the air. The power infused with darkness is ground to dust beneath the crushing force of pure order. The artificially created vacuum zone, with scarcely any meaningful resistance, melts like snow beneath light and heat, returning utterly to nothingness.

Freed from its restraint, the killer seems to sense danger approaching. The mist-like body scattered by the air pressure gathers together at once, and then... the blade of light and flame cuts straight through the curved knife raised to block it, severing one arm as easily as slicing through tofu, with no sensation of resistance at all.

No blood spills.

From mist he came, to mist he returns. The moment the arm is cut away, flesh turns into a faintly foul black smoke.

It drifts away on the wind.

Horror!

For the first time, the killer's expression changes. No cry of pain, no scream, no hysteria. As the ultimate fiend who has taken countless lives, he makes the correct response at once.

Clutching at the missing arm, with no time for thought, he retreats by instinct.

If Amy Ulysses had hesitated even for an instant, the distance would have opened, and victory or death would still have been uncertain.

But the one making the right choice is not only the killer. Once the enemy is wounded and falling back, the bearer of glory does not pause even for a breath. He leans forward, drives power through the toes, and his whole body shoots out like an arrow loosed from a bow, the longsword of light and flame thrusting straight for the heart.

Beneath the mask that is neither smile nor grief, the killer's expression gradually levels into calm. For him, the most dangerous moment has already passed. The boy's fighting instinct and technique, combined with that sword of certain death, may indeed pose a grave threat. Yet in the end, it is still foreseeable. Compared with the earlier brush with doom, the deathly peril that remains now is not much at all—at most, it has only cost him his immortality.

In strength, in experience, in skill, he is no weaker than anyone.

And yet, confident though he is, the killer's nerves remain taut, because he understands perfectly well that the crisis is far from over.

The enemy is not fighting alone!

The dark gleam of his eyes catches the silver-white cross-shaped sword cutting through the air from a diagonal rear angle. The killer gives a faint sigh in his heart, then twists his body during the retreat. With a burst of dazzling sparks, his gleaming curved knife intercepts the great cross sword, descending like a river of stars.

Onefold.

The sword wielder activates the sacred mark, her power surging to twice its strength as she locks horns with the killer.

Twofold.

Power doubles again on top of the original foundation, and the sacred mark on her chest blazes with a blood-red light that is impossible to ignore.

Two point onefold.

The backlash begins. The sacred mark starts to corrode the flesh in reverse; pain rolls in like a tidal wave. Her snow-white cheeks flush red, and thin traces of blood seep from the corner of her lips.

Two point twofold.

The power intensifies further, and the backlash deepens further—for the first time, the silver-white cross sword overpowers the curved blade, and the girl seizes the advantage in this contest of strength.

Good... I've held him. Now it's up to you.

Mia thinks with difficulty, and then pushes her limits even further.

Just a little longer... just a little longer...

Two point two fivefold!

That extra sliver of power becomes the last straw. The silver-white cross sword comes crashing down like a mountain, and the killer, now down to one arm, stumbles—

Then the earth collapses.

Held down, then...

A foreboding thought flashes through the killer's mind. He does not turn to look at the blade of light and flame inches from his body. The mask that is neither smile nor sorrow tilts slightly downward; a flash of ferocity cuts across his black pupils, and in this situation where there is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, he resolutely chooses to place his fate upon the scales.

Mistification!

He can only gamble, and must gamble—

Victory or death will be decided in this instant!

The silver-white cross sword, deprived of its balance, cleaves through emptiness, while the sword of light and flame pierces his... body?

Wait. Body?

With an expression of utter disbelief, the killer lowers his head—his form, which should have dissolved into mist, has now become solid. The searing flame pierces directly through his left chest, and the brilliant light blazing through the hollow behind him strikes the heavens, tinting the world gold together with the newly risen sun.

Thud.

From the left chamber pierced clean through comes the sound of a heartbeat. A beat later, pain like a torn-open soul arrives right on time.

Pain—pain, pain, pain, pain, pain, pain!

Pain long absent gives the killer an uncanny, almost grateful sense of being alive. He can clearly feel the alien flesh within him, like winter snow suddenly meeting the blazing heat of summer, melting away in a crude, direct, almost brutal fashion. Terrible light and flame rush through his blood; wisps of black smoke rise from the seven apertures of his face. The strength that once stood beyond the mortal world vanishes in an instant, as though the demonic part of his body has died in the blink of an eye, leaving behind only an ordinary human—a human with a pierced heart, and one who may die at any moment.

"Why..."

A higher demon whose physical constitution far exceeds that of humankind might still leap about merrily after losing its heart, but an ordinary human would likely lose the breath of life within mere seconds after blood supply is cut off. Once the inhuman portion within the killer, who once blended into human society under the name Jack, is purified by light and flame, what remains is nothing more than a man as ordinary as ordinary can be. In just a few breaths, his black eyes have already dimmed, like the last spark in an oil lamp at midnight, ready to be snuffed out forever by the howling winter wind.

Why? Why ask why?

There could be many explanations, many answers. Amy did not think; he simply gave the reply by instinct.

"Because you are too much like a human, I suppose."

Yes. Too much like a human.

Compared with their first meeting, this killer known as the Fog Night is far stronger, but at the same time he no longer gives off the flawless sense of strength he once did. To put it another way, the difference is perhaps that of a powerful human and a not-quite-as-powerful killing machine. If it were the killer from a few days ago, he would never have granted him a fair duel; he would simply have hidden his form within the thick fog and struck to kill.

But the killer standing here tonight gives him a sense of unfamiliarity. No ambush, not even the use of the intelligence merchant as a third party to muddy the waters of the battlefield. Only pure combat, pure slaughter, pure longing for death. If not for that mask that is neither smile nor grief, so emblematic in its tone, and if not for the fact that his fighting style has not changed all that much, Amy might even have suspected that the man before him and the enemy who had once taken his life were two entirely different people.

So, knowing full well that they are enemies locked in a struggle to the death, he cannot help but feel a surge of emotion.

Too much like a human.

And all humans have weaknesses. The closer one comes to being human, the more unavoidable weaknesses become.

Thus, in this contest, the killer is utterly defeated and has no chance of rising again.

Because—

He is dying.

"Too much like... a human?" The killer lets out a murmur like a dream. His black pupils, already emptied of all light, suddenly brighten at this moment. Beneath the mask that is neither smile nor grief, his dark violet lips curve into a satisfied arc.

"Thank you—"

So saying, he closes his eyes.

Then all things turn to ash.

The demon of murder who once plunged an age into darkness sinks into eternal slumber. As light and flame fade away, the killer, deprived of his final support, collapses into a heap of burnt-out, flame-less cinders. Carried off by the cool morning breeze, they scatter into the air, leaving only the mask that is neither smile nor grief, shining brilliantly in the morning light.

"Goodbye."

The bearer of glory speaks softly, then moves his gaze away from the pale mask on the ground and meets that clear, emerald-like glance.

"Don't force yourself."

After a brief pause, he adds,

"The girl is in very bad shape now. There is no color left in her pale cheeks; her not-quite-full chest rises and falls with each breath, and her breathing is heavy, uneven, lacking any rhythm.

Amy is no stranger to such a sight. It is the sign of flesh pushed to the brink of its limit.

Clearly, the girl's interception just now cost a terrible price. Their clash may have lasted only a short while, but the killer, at that time, was in the most desperate stage of a trapped beast's fight for its life. With his path to survival severed, he was bound to unleash an unprecedented and dreadful hidden strength under the pressure of life and death. And somewhat unbelievably, the sword wielder had actually been able to meet him in that state and force him down.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

And yet... miracles usually require a price.

And this price seems a little too heavy...

"It's not over yet." Mia shakes her head. Aside from the obvious spasms in her muscles, there is no trace of pain in her expression. She simply says, in her usual cool tone, "I can still... keep going."

"I know."

The boy is not surprised by Mia's stubbornness. He simply looks at her calmly, looks into those unwavering emerald eyes, and lets out a soft sigh before repeating, "I know."

Then he turns half around and looks toward the fierce draconic man several dozen meters away.

"Can't we at least discuss it?" The intelligence merchant spreads his hands. "Our earlier cooperation was rather pleasant, after all."

A smile forms at the corner of the bearer of glory's mouth.

"I'm sorry, but no—"

The words are cut short, and then... blinding sparks ignite the fires of war, and the clash of metal rings through the sky.