Chapter 175 : The War Begins (5)
KRA-BOOM!
Roxen hurtled through the air, his charge against Count Pepia shattered. He had exchanged a dozen blows, but not one had found its mark.
The reason was simple.
His family.
Every time he lunged, Pepia would shift, using the mangled lumps of flesh that had once been Roxen’s wife and daughter as a grotesque shield.
Roxen slammed into the outer wall of a building, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Embedded in the crumbling stone, he stared up at a sky torn by war.
A colossal spear of light descended.
My liege?
The light tore through the oppressive darkness, a divine javelin aimed at Pepia. A volley of arrows, born from the void itself, streaked toward the Count. And through it all, Pepia simply laughed, weaving between the attacks with infuriating ease.
It was like a war at the end of the world. No, a war between gods.
A dry, broken laugh escaped Roxen. His stomach churned, but not with awe at the spectacle.
It was because of the two shapes lying so brazenly in the street. Two lumps of meat.
Lumps of meat. That’s all they are now. Not my wife. Not my daughter.
“No,” he rasped, clutching his head, knuckles white. “No, you’re wrong. Get out of my head. Get out!”
Whatever trick the bastard had played, the certainty that these masses of flesh were his family burrowed into his mind like a maggot.
How could they be? It was impossible. Pepia couldn’t possibly remember what they looked like. It had to be a lie.
“Damn you… It’s just a lie…!”
A sob tore from his throat. His trembling hands clenched into fists, teeth grinding until his jaw ached.
But he knew. Deep in the marrow of his bones, he knew. These were their bodies.
How could he not recognize the forms he had held and cherished a thousand times over?
A strangled gasp escaped him, and with it, a firestorm of rage.
His wife. His daughter. What sin had they committed to deserve this?
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of agony.
Reason fled. His breath came in ragged, burning gasps.
All that remained was pure, undiluted hatred.
“GRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
I hate it. I hate this world. I wish it would all just burn to ash.
A vast, swirling demonic energy began to roil around him.
Demonization. The same corruption that had once threatened Lea.
His eyes, now blood-red, fixed on Pepia.
A single thought consumed him: Kill.
But just as he surrendered to the impulse—a cascade of pure white light poured over him.
“GAAAAAAAH!” Roxen screamed, collapsing to his knees as the light seared him.
A figure appeared through the luminescence. “You are a handful, Roxen.”
It was Louis Berg. He stood with blood weeping from his Stigmata, a crown of thorns resting on his brow. Louis lowered a finger, and a second torrent of white light descended from the heavens, engulfing Roxen completely.
“GUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
The red faded from Roxen’s eyes. The explosive demonic energy dissipated like smoke, and his darkening skin returned to its natural tone.
He clutched his chest, panting for breath. A final remnant of the corruption lingered in his heart.
<Willbreaker>
An impossibly fine thread of Aura descended into his chest, crushing the last vestiges of demonic energy.
Only then did Roxen come to his senses, lifting his head.
“Hah… my liege…?”
“Get ahold of yourself,” Louis said, loosing an arrow at Pepia without looking away from Roxen. “Would you show your family such a shameful sight?”
Family?
“They’re already… that,” Roxen choked out. “What shame is left to show them?”
He stared at his hands, his voice thick with self-loathing. “You should have let me turn. At least then I could have killed that bastard.”
Louis’s voice was low but cut through the din of battle. “I will return them to you.”
“…What?”
“I will restore your family’s bodies,” Louis said, loosing another arrow. “Bringing them back to life is impossible. That is the domain of gods. But I can mend what has been broken, so their souls may depart in peace. A rite of deliverance.”
“How?”
“The Stigmata. The halo.” Louis met his gaze. “Is that answer enough?”
Roxen stared, speechless, at the bleeding man with the crown of thorns.
His liege’s voice was calm, steady. “So. Will you remain on the ground?”
“…What must I do?”
“First, pull yourself together. I have a count to kill.”
Louis launched himself back toward Pepia.
Roxen was left with his thoughts until another voice cut in. “Tsk. Foolish bastard.”
The Divine Archer stood nearby, watching the direction Louis had gone. “To think he’d go to such lengths for one of his own men.”
He turned his sharp gaze on Roxen. “Your Aura is an ocean of rage, boy. A storm you can’t control. Does your soul burn? Do you want to surrender yourself to the fury?”
Roxen didn’t answer.
“Tsk. Then I’ll talk to myself.”
Thwang!
The Archer drew and fired, felling an approaching demon without a second glance. “You’re using your cultivation all wrong. An ocean isn’t just waves. Rage isn’t your only strength.”
“…Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Heh. Dullard. Have you forgotten everything else you feel?” The Divine Archer gave a dry laugh. “So weep. An outsider has no right to tell a man how to grieve… but it is the one thing you must do.”
He leveled a finger at Roxen. “So grieve, you fool. Grieve with everything you have.”
Grieve?
Roxen looked down at his hands, still trembling. Was it only with rage?
No. A hollow realization bloomed in his chest. It isn’t.
He had been deceiving himself. He had wanted to weep but had choked it down, screaming for revenge because he believed he no longer had the right to cry.
“Ah…”
The sound that escaped his throat was not a roar of rage, but a strangled cry of pure anguish.
Tears finally broke free, hot and sharp, as the reality of his loss shattered the dam of his fury.
Roxen clutched his chest and wept, his body wracked with tremors. He poured out every last drop of his sorrow onto the cold, unforgiving stone.
The Divine Archer watched him for a moment.
“Stubborn fool,” he muttered. “Like calls to like, I suppose.”
When the storm of tears finally passed, the very nature of Roxen’s Aura had changed.
“…Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet. He raised his sword and began to walk.
“A human…!”
Demonkin charged him. He paid them no mind.
Shhhlick.
A single, fluid swing, and the creatures died before their brains could register the blade.
Thud. Thud.
Roxen walked on.
He was still killing, but the foundation of his swordsmanship was transformed. Where his blade had once been a torrent of rage, it was now a river of sorrow.
Each swing was a memorial.
A clean, precise strike bloomed from his fingertips.
<Lindal’s Second Form: Sorrow>
Slice! Slice!
The number of Demonkin falling to his blade grew. With each one, Roxen felt a fleeting connection to Lindal himself.
…You were the same as me.
An image flashed in his mind: a vast plain, littered with the bodies of Lindal’s tribe and the imperial knights they had fought.
“I will kill you all.”
The tyrant, Lindal. Enraged by the slaughter of his people. And grieving for them, endlessly.
His swordsmanship was a dirge for his kin and a promise of vengeance to his enemies.
Roxen opened his eyes and swung his sword at the enemies rushing him.
Shhhlick!
The blade let out a low, weeping sound. Every Demonkin in his path met its end—cut down, torn apart.
One by one, they fell.
After a time, only silence remained.
Shlick.
As the head of the last Demonkin rolled to a stop, no obstacles stood before Roxen.
Only one. The Count of Madness, Pepia.
“…It has been a long road.” Roxen smiled faintly, his Aura gathering.
He had found Lindal’s third emotion. Beyond rage for his enemies, beyond sorrow for his family, lay the final destination of his heart.
“A very long road.”
It was joy—the sharp, terrible joy of imminent revenge.
And it was lament.
“Now, you die.”
Roxen brought his sword down in a light, almost serene motion.
<Lindal’s Third Form: Lament>
The sword did not scream. It wept.
The sound of its cry shattered the ambient demonic energy, peeling away the armor of darkness that clung to Pepia.
“…Huh?” The Count, locked in combat with Louis, looked at Roxen in bewilderment. He thrust out a hand, firing a dagger of demonic energy.
A swift reaction.
But it changed nothing.
SHRRRRRRIP!
A deep gash tore across Pepia’s torso, blood spraying from the wound.
“Gagh! Th-this can’t be…?!” Pepia choked out, clutching his abdomen.
Roxen’s very presence began to warp.
Cracks, like porcelain fracturing, spread across his skin—not of breaking, but of becoming. A colossal torrent of pure Aura erupted from within him, a star being born in the heart of the battlefield.
FLASH!
When the light receded, Roxen stood transformed, his Aura no longer a storm, but a calm, deep ocean, perfectly controlled.
He regarded Pepia, his voice devoid of heat. “You’re still alive.”
Watching from a distance, Louis allowed himself a wry smile. “Always a handful, that one. Still… I can breathe a little easier now.”
And for good reason.
Before them stood a new Grand Master.