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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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[Completed Main Quests]
[ ! Meet the Emperor]
[Defeat the Priest and Survive]
[Escape with Angela Tail]
Aslan glanced at the system window in the corner of his vision and sighed, his body heavy with pain and exhaustion.
His shoulder throbbed from blocking that last attack, and his mana reserves were almost depleted. The familiar hum of energy that usually coursed through him was now a faint whisper.
Leaning heavily on the executioner’s sword, he stared at the path of destruction left by the axe.
A trail of red, like a gruesome carpet woven from blood and bodies, a carpet he never imagined he’d walk.
He bit his lip, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them again.
The image of a mother and child, caught in the path of the axe and cleaved in two, made his stomach churn.
But he had made his choice.
He would survive.
If he died now, everything would be for nothing.
Pushing down the rising bile, he muttered,
“…We need to leave.”
No one argued. They didn’t need to. They could all sense the gravity of the situation.
“Damn… where did that come from…?”
Even Angie, seeing the devastation wrought by the thrown axe, swallowed hard, finally understanding the danger they faced. Harod, ever the seasoned warrior, recognized the threat immediately, his tail low to the ground.
As all three of them stared at the woman, she smiled sweetly and began to walk towards them.
Aslan took a step forward, then winced.
“Tch.”
His ankle throbbed, and he glanced down, seeing the blood welling up from the wound.
The arrow wound, aggravated by blocking the axe, had reopened.
Panic flared in his chest.
He wouldn’t be able to outrun her in this condition. He needed a means of escape.
And finding one in his current state would be impossible. He made a quick decision.
“I’ll hold her off. Find a way out, something we can escape on. A horse, a cart, anything…”
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening. The woman had lowered her stance and was charging towards them.
She ran with the speed and grace of a trained sprinter, drawing two weapons from her back.
A hand axe and a warhammer. Both weapons, gleaming menacingly, were wreathed in flames.
She wasn’t coming for him.
She was going after Angie.
“Angie!”
“Damn it…!”
Angie, realizing the woman’s target, drew her glaive. The heavy weapon, with its thick, long blade, was more of a glaive than a spear. She charged to meet the woman.
–CLANG!
They clashed.
Angie swung her glaive, but the woman twisted her body, dodging the blow, then brought her hand axe down.
The curved blade of the axe caught the shaft of Angie’s glaive, trapping it. Angie pulled, trying to free her weapon, but…
‘It’s stuck?!’
The woman’s grip was far stronger than hers. The glaive remained trapped. As Angie looked up in surprise, the flaming warhammer came hurtling towards her.
–Whoosh!
Angie, relying on instinct, threw herself backward, her stance faltering, but she managed to avoid the blow.
Just as she breathed a sigh of relief, the warhammer, which had barely missed her, arced through the air and slammed down on the shaft of her trapped glaive.
–Crack!
“Ugh!”
A jolt of pain shot up her arm. Her grip loosened, and the glaive fell from her grasp. She raised her arms to defend herself, but…
–Thwack! Crack! Thud!
The warhammer moved too quickly, striking Angie’s side, head, and jaw in rapid succession before the woman finally pulled it back.
As Angie collapsed, Aslan charged.
“Harod, get Angie out of here! I’ll handle this!”
He shouted, drawing one of the twin swords from the dead War Monk and raising the executioner’s sword in his right hand. Harod, appearing from behind him, scooped up Angie and ran.
Ereta, the woman, watched Aslan approach and the Dragonkin retreat, then smiled and thrust her axe forward.
Aslan’s executioner’s sword met the axe, blocking the thrust. The woman spun the warhammer in her left hand, reversing her grip, and swung upwards.
–Whoosh!
The upward swing was a blur of motion, too fast for Aslan to fully track. He relied on his enhanced Luck, dodging instinctively.
–Clang!
The warhammer stopped mid-air, then arced sideways, aiming for his temple. Aslan quickly raised the War Monk’s sword, deflecting the blow.
Sparks flew as the weapons clashed. Aslan saw the axe coming for him through the shower of sparks. He swung the War Monk’s sword, still angled from deflecting the warhammer.
–Clang!
The impact made him wince. The force of the blow was almost too much for his dwindling mana to handle.
But if he didn’t block, he would die. He gritted his teeth, channeling his remaining mana into his arms, enhancing his strength.
Even with the boost from wild magic, he was being pushed back. Aslan gritted his teeth, blocking the woman’s relentless attacks, dodging when he couldn’t block.
Ereta’s attacks were brutally powerful, delivered with overwhelming speed and force. Too much for Aslan, at level four, to handle.
Yet, he held his ground, using his combat skills and weapon mastery to defend, his Fighting Spirit keeping him in the fight, his Luck guiding his dodges.
But even he had his limits.
As he parried another blow with the executioner’s sword, Ereta smiled.
–Crack!
“Gah…!”
His right arm, the one holding the executioner’s sword, shattered. The warhammer slammed down, breaking the bones, and the following axe swing severed the limb completely.
As his arm flew through the air, Ereta taunted him.
“You can’t keep blocking my attacks with that slow weapon. Now, it’s over!”
She swung her axe. Aslan, his arm gone, his ankle pierced and bleeding, unable to move properly, was on the verge of death. Yet, he smiled. His face slick with sweat, he gritted his teeth against the pain.
“I let you take it… you bitch.”
He flung his severed arm, spraying blood across Ereta’s face, momentarily obscuring her vision.
A fraction of a second, less than 0.1 seconds.
But enough.
Enough time to cast a spell.
“Equalize!”
He shouted. The tattoos on his body glowed.
Equalize was a spell typically used by mages of the Transmutation school to stabilize experimental subjects or perform emergency “repairs.”
It was a spell with a high failure rate, and even when successful, the pain was so intense it was rarely used for healing.
It redistributed damage throughout the body.
A dangerous spell, capable of causing complete bodily collapse if it failed.
Unless the caster had maxed out their Magical Device Proficiency skill.
Which Aslan had.
A faint light enveloped Aslan. His ankle and arm were restored. The arrow wound vanished, and his severed arm reappeared, as if rewound from disintegration.
But the cost was immediate – new wounds appeared all over his body. He ignored the pain, gritting his teeth, and drew back his newly restored right arm.
‘Call Lightning.’
As his fist glowed white, he channeled all his remaining mana into his arm, enhancing its strength.
He clenched his fist and punched, striking Ereta’s stomach before her axe could reach him.
A deafening roar echoed through the streets.
–Crackle!
Lightning erupted from his fist.
Ereta was sent flying.
She slammed into the ground, rolled, and crashed into a nearby building.
The building crumbled, dust billowing into the air. Aslan, gasping for breath, picked up the executioner’s sword from his severed hand.
“Is she… dead?”
Harod asked as Aslan turned and stumbled towards the main gate. Aslan shook his head, his face contorted in pain.
“No. Not with her patron deity. She’ll live.”
Considering the god she served, death was unlikely. Aslan gestured to Harod, who was carrying Angie, and ran towards the gate.
“What are you doing? How are we going to escape from that?”
“We requisition. Maybe there’s a horse or something we can…”
Aslan trailed off, a chilling premonition gripping him. He ducked.
–Whoosh!
The hand axe flew past, narrowly missing his head.
It sliced through the chains of the drawbridge and embedded itself in a signpost near the gate, setting it ablaze.
Aslan clicked his tongue, watching the burning signpost. He turned to see the woman, covered in blood, slowly limping towards them.
Her leg, mangled during her flight, was torn and bleeding, but it was already regenerating.
She wasn’t in any condition to pursue them immediately.
Yet, even from hundreds of meters away, her presence was terrifyingly potent.
Aslan looked around frantically, then spotted a stationary cart.
He gestured towards it, and Harod, after tossing Angie into the back, climbed in himself. The cart’s owner, startled by their sudden actions, let out a yelp.
“Here, take this!”
Aslan threw his money pouch at the cart owner and grabbed the reins.
“Buy yourself a better cart and a better horse! This one’s mine now!”
The cart owner stared blankly at the money pouch, then at the cart, as Aslan yanked on the reins and shouted,
“Hiya!”
The cart, though not in the best condition, lurched forward, the horse obeying the pull on the reins.
It rattled and swayed as it picked up speed, carrying them away from the capital.
As they put some distance between themselves and the immediate threat, Harod, still catching his breath, asked,
“Are you sure about this? This cart belongs to someone…”
“The longer we stay, the more people will get hurt. This is the best option.”
Aslan glanced back, his jaw tight.
“Besides, there’s more than enough money in that pouch to cover the cost of the cart and horse.”
“Hmm, are you sure about spending so much…”
“It’s better than dying. Money isn’t more important than our lives.”
Aslan, brooking no argument, urged the horse forward. The cart gained speed, and soon, they were clear of the capital.
As Belus Ma’kel shrunk to a distant speck on the horizon, Aslan gritted his teeth.
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The cart finally stopped when the horse, exhausted, was on the verge of collapse.
But it wasn’t a voluntary stop.
It was forced.
The cart was blocked by a group of over thirty soldiers.
Harod stared at their armor, gleaming in the moonlight.
Plate armor, chainmail, long shields, high-quality spears and swords.
Seasoned soldiers, well-equipped.
And each piece of armor and shield bore the same symbol: a red teardrop.
He didn’t recognize the insignia, but it clearly belonged to a noble house.
They must have crossed into another territory. Harod thought, but he remained vigilant.
Despite Aslan calmly stepping down from the cart, his hands raised in surrender.
Harod gripped his weapon, ready to fight, but Aslan shouted,
“Harod, lower your weapon!”
The Dragonkin hesitated.
Aslan’s judgment had always been sound, but surrendering their weapons while surrounded went against his Claw instincts.
But his hesitation was brief. He decided to trust the Master of Battle and lowered his weapon, stepping down from the cart.
As the two-meter-tall Dragonkin emerged, the soldiers raised their weapons, their eyes fixed on him.
Aslan, seeing their reaction, breathed a sigh of relief.
He looked past the soldiers at a figure on horseback, shrouded in shadow.
He couldn’t see the man’s face, but even in the darkness, his clothing looked expensive.
Aslan knew this man.
And the man likely knew him.
Aslan had spoken earlier, while stopping Harod, and he assumed the soldiers’ commander would recognize his voice.
With a surge of confidence, Aslan took a step forward. A soldier stepped forward as well, his spear leveled at Aslan’s throat. The tip of the blade gleamed, sharp and menacing.
He could be killed easily. Yet, Aslan calmly stared at the figure on horseback.
The figure raised a hand.
“Stand down!”
The spear was lowered, and the soldiers, in perfect unison, followed suit.
As the sound of metal against metal subsided, the man on horseback chuckled.
“…It’s been a while, Aslan.”
Well-trained soldiers, instantly obeying their commander’s orders.
Loyal soldiers, trained from the ground up by the man who now addressed Aslan.
“How have you been?”
“…Not well. You know how it is for a Great One.”
Aslan chuckled wryly. The man on horseback turned his horse, stepping into the moonlight.
His face, now visible, was that of a man on the cusp of middle age, his features strong and honest.
His eyes were dark, his hair a reddish-brown.
He wore ornate armor decorated with fur and a simple, well-worn sword at his hip.
A warrior, unmistakably. He stroked his brown beard.
The Margrave of the Calus Empire, its greatest warrior and general.
Margrave Sangirus.
‘Good, he arrived in time.’
Aslan breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the nobleman.
The Margrave looked at him.
“So, what brings you here in the middle of the night?”
Aslan’s tense shoulders relaxed.
“I was hoping… you could hide us.”
The Margrave’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
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