"What's with that dopey look? Something on your mind, or what?"
As they were about to reach the control tower, Riccard called out to the knight wearing a severe expression.
Julius stopped and raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"I'm impressed, Riccard. I never thought you'd have the delicate sensitivity to worry about another person's mood."
"Don't try to dodge it with some fancy talk. I'm the only one here with you. The lady's not around, so if you want to vent a little, it'll stay between us."
"...I can't beat you."
He rarely had the chance to notice it, but despite his rough exterior, Riccard was remarkably perceptive about people. Otherwise, he never could have led a group like the
"Well, there's the wisdom of age for you! I'm supposed to be the reliable father figure in our camp, you know. I'm always happy to take consultation from my daughters' suitors."
"Sons-in-law? That's too generous. I harbor no such indecent thoughts toward Anastasia."
"What? I didn't say anything about the lady. It could be about Mimi. I've got plenty of other daughters besides her—though the fact that you jumped to the lady first kind of kills your credibility."
"......"
Julius smiled wryly. His habit of quietly shaking his head was elegant as always, but his choice of words and phrasing still lacked their usual polish.
And those signs— "Ever since the City Hall reclamation, something's been off. The lady thinks so too. She didn't seem able to get you to open up about what's bothering you, but I'm going to press the issue."
"You won't show me any mercy, will you?"
"Of course not. This is life or death. I'm not about to put my back into someone who's still hesitating. Can you give me some reasonable little argument to counter that?"
"...No, you're right. I'm the one in the wrong. I am indeed caught up in a hesitation I'm reluctant to voice."
To Riccard's pointed questioning, Julius nodded honestly and furrowed his well-shaped brows.
But from that troubled profile, no further words came. Riccard lost patience with this attitude and huffed with some irritation.
"So why go quiet? What's there to hesitate about? Just spit it out. What are you hesitating over, and about what?"
"......"
"Julius."
"I'm sorry. I can't find the right words—suitable words. The source of my hesitation, as you've no doubt already deduced, is the Archbishop of Gluttony we encountered at City Hall. The one who called himself
Julius cut himself off, his yellow eyes clouded with unease.
"Like the other Sin Archbishops, Gluttony almost certainly possesses some sort of inexplicable Authority. The horror of devouring memories and names was something we could already glean from the
"Julius—!"
As he was approaching the core of the matter, Riccard's call came with a slight edge of urgency. Julius understood immediately what it meant.
—Beneath their feet, the ground trembled. Sound vanished from the world, and light surged into the sky.
The sight of a blue aurora piercing the night sky was unmistakable.
It had to be the remnant of a single slash from the strongest individual in existence.
"That's quite the show. That's one shot from the Sword Saint, no doubt?"
"Ah, it has to be Reinhard. It seems Subaru's group has made contact with Greed. We can't afford to fall behind—we need to hurry as well."
Even though the attack on another Sin Archbishop had begun, there was no guarantee the remaining ones wouldn't retaliate en masse—but it also wasn't impossible that some action would be taken.
Heading toward the control tower looming before them, Julius and Riccard quickened their pace.
"So what's off about Gluttony? Was he really that far beyond the norm!?"
Hefting his cleaver over his shoulder, Riccard walked ahead and demanded the rest of the interrupted story. Julius turned back with just his head and negated the question with a look alone.
"No. He didn't seem to be using his full power, but at least in terms of pure skill, Gluttony wasn't anything beyond the extraordinary. With the two of us, we could handle him just fine. —It's the enemy's eeriness that concerns me, and that's something else entirely."
"......"
The reason his response was so vague was that Julius himself didn't fully understand the true nature of that creeping dread. And the fact that he hadn't voiced it during the earlier discussion about the assault team selection was a rare instance of Julius being selfish.
Despite regarding Gluttony as an uncanny, unfathomable enemy, Julius still believed he had to cross swords with him once more.
Riccard couldn't tell where that reasoning lay.
Julius himself couldn't articulate it clearly.
"......"
They kicked off the cobblestones, rounded the corner where the street turned, and approached one of the four control towers—distinctly out of place among the surrounding buildings—when— "Aaah, I knew you'd come! I knew it! That's right, exactly, yep, that's how it goes, sure thing, of course, absolutely—because that's exactly why! The wait was worth it!"
—Standing in the cobblestone plaza before the entrance to the control tower was a single boy.
Dressed in filthy rags, with unkempt dark brown hair growing wild, his eyes glinted with manic glee. Sharp fangs and a tongue dripping with saliva spilled from his grinning mouth.
A small, scrawny frame, with both arms hanging limp at his sides. From any angle, he looked like a street urchin with no strength to speak of—if not for the bone-chilling demonic aura emanating from his entire being.
"Just to confirm... that's him, right?"
Not "is it him?" but "that's him." There was no doubt.
To Riccard's question, Julius simply inclined his chin.
Without question, without shadow of doubt, the one standing there was the Archbishop of Gluttony.
The most despicable of blasphemers, who masticated the memories and names of others.
"Roy Alphard—"
"Yes, exactly right! That's our name. I'm so glad you remember it. Happy, happy, really happy! —Happy, which is exactly why—Binge drinking! Gluttony! You're worth devouring, worth drinking dry! And besides..."
At the sound of his name, Alphard smiled with terrible cruelty. His gaze slid to Riccard, standing beside Julius.
He bared his fangs, flaring his nostrils with a look of ecstasy.
"So you brought a tasty morsel of a doggy along this time. That thoughtfulness just melts my heart. Because, you see, just
"I was growing rather tired of your insults, to be honest. I resolved to settle this quickly and brought a friend along this time. Ganging up one-on-many isn't exactly elegant, but—"
"Aaah, it's fine, all that preamble of yours. Trying to psych yourself up like that is very Julius-like, but it's also bland. We're gourmands, so we're particular about flavor, and Julius is the most unappetizing thing we've seen in ages! Too neatly put together!"
"Well, well... for such a grand welcome, you're certainly unkind with your words."
"What can you do! That's not really our intention, we've been a bit dragged along by our own nature. I hope you'll overlook a little inconsistency between word and deed—it's just how we're made!"
Alphard waved his hands about, maintaining his mocking posture. Julius remained composed in the face of the provocation, but Riccard couldn't hide his displeasure. He clicked his tongue and cracked his neck.
"Oh ho, running your mouth all you want, brat. You think being a kid means you'll get off easy? What you lot have done is past any sort of leniency. We're well beyond spankings. I'll split your damn skull, you hear me?"
"Ooh, scary, scary! Don't glare at me with that scary face. If calling you a doggy hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, Riccard Welkin. We actually admired you a little, you know? That fearless, loud, rough-around-the-edges way about you!"
"——?"
At the sound of his name, Riccard grimaced and glanced sideways at Julius. Julius shook his head.
Something was wrong. Alphard's words couldn't simply be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman—there was something that felt off. For example—when had Alphard learned Riccard's name?
"Creepy little brat. ...How'd you find out our names?"
"We're not being clever about it. We're just saying things that should be obvious to know. Right, Julius?"
"I'm afraid I can't agree with you. I don't know you nearly as well as you seem to think I do. So I'll chalk your methods up to being your own."
"There you go again, drawing such boring conclusions! You're curious about everything, but you stuff all your worries, dissatisfaction, and discomfort deep inside, putting yourself last every time! It's a fine quality for a knight, but as a person, it's tedious."
The knight drew his sword, and Julius quietly murmured something from his lips.
In an instant, light bloomed around Julius, and six colors of radiance enveloped his tall frame.
The six quasi-spirits that Julius commanded.
The fusion of swordsmanship and spirit arts that made the Spirit Knight Julius Juukulius the "Finest Knight."
"The savory tang of inferiority, the rich texture of a palate that's known defeat, the sweet craving of desperate yearning, the full satisfaction of a secret clutched close—you have none of that!"
"—Riccard. We're going full power from the start. Back me up."
"You got it."
Swinging both arms, a pair of short swords strapped to his wrists peeked out from beneath his sleeves. Wielding twin daggers was Gluttony's fighting style, but they were woefully inadequate against either Julius's magic or Riccard's blows.
Unless there was some hidden trump card, the outcome of this fight was already decided.
And yet, to Riccard's eyes, Gluttony showed not the slightest hint of someone stepping into a losing battle.
"Spirit Knight, Julius Juukulius."
With perfect form, Julius stated his name before entering combat.
Beside him, Riccard shouldering his cleaver, had no such formality to offer in return. He simply fixed his gaze, trying to uncover the true nature of Gluttony's composure.
Without a flicker in response to Riccard's stare, Alphard sneered.
"Fine, fine, sure, why not, sounds good, absolutely, naturally, of course—because that's exactly how it is! Binge drinking! Gluttony! Fine cuisine, foul cuisine, gluttony, overindulgence! Bland, rich, exquisite, exotic! We'll devour every last bit! A life without flavor is also a taste we've never known!"
"—El Klauzei."
Six colors of radiance traced a circle before Julius's eyes, and from the tip of the sword thrust at its center, an aurora was launched toward Alphard.
Multiple attributes mixed together, painting a rainbow of destructive force—a single blow that would swallow everything.
Behind the blinding light, Riccard charged in with enough force to shatter cobblestones. He raised his cleaver overhead, ready to crush Alphard no matter how the aurora forced him to move.
A wind-wreathed slash, and a rainbow aurora of destruction—before them, Alphard bared his fangs in savage delight.
"—Truly, Big Brother is as wonderful as we imagined. We're absolutely enraptured."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * —Beneath the moon, silver flashes tore through the wind, dancing in a duet of clashing steel.
One half of the clash wielded twin swords with the crisp precision of a Sword Devil.
Facing him was a swordswoman whose blade moved with the fluid softness of flowing water, meeting the Sword Devil head-on.
The sparks of blade on blade danced through the air, and the fierce ring of steel somehow seemed wistful, sorrowful. The high-pitched clash of cuts was reminiscent of the caresses of lovers seeking each other.
If that illusion arose, it was because the swordplay of those two fighters meshed together more perfectly than should have been possible.
"Shhiii!"
Holding her breath, the Sword Devil's twin swords flew in every direction—up, down, left, right—on trajectories with no discernible pattern.
The arc of each slash was almost artistic, and each refined cut represented a pinnacle that every swordsman aspired to reach.
A swordsman of lesser skill might have been mesmerized by those blades to the point of defeat—but that level of cutting was unleashed here without restraint.
"......"
Countless slashes, each one capable of delivering a killing blow.
Yet the longsword that received that storm of blows, and the skill of its wielder, were beyond human.
For one thing, the very existence of that longsword was extraordinary.
Its length was so extreme it seemed unreasonable to wield—the blade matched the height of the woman holding it. Yet the slender swordswoman swung that enormous weapon as though it weighed nothing at all.
A full-body hood concealed her entire form, restricting her own vision and line of sight, yet the wielder of the longsword made the sword's tip dance with movements as fluid as water.
In speed and sharpness, the massive blade couldn't match the relentless twin swords. And yet, the Sword Devil's slashes were repelled by the longsword's blade as though being drawn in.
With high-pitched ringing and bursts of sparks, the Sword Devil clicked his tongue in frustration before the swordswoman, who launched herself backward in a wide leap. The movement had no preparatory motion, and the Sword Devil's response lagged—the instant he stepped forward to pursue, light stabbed between his brows.
"—Guh!"
What flashed in that instant was the thrust of the longsword, aimed to pierce clean through his skull.
A refined stance that gave no indication the blade had been pulled back, and a thrust that closed the distance in a straight line in the blink of an eye, specialized for killing—had decades of experience not warned him of death's approach, he would have died, his brain scrambled by the light he saw at the very last moment.
Tingling, the phantom image of his own death burned between his brows. The Sword Devil cut that sentiment away with a single blink and moved to pursue the now-stationary woman in a thrusting stance— "Gu—urk!"
"......"
At the very moment he was about to strike, the tips of a woman's toes plunged into his abdomen.
Piercing through the gaps between trained abdominal muscles, the long, slender foot scraped at his organs. As the impact folded his body in half, the silver flash drew a half-circle and rose overhead.
The flash fell straight down, cleaving the moon.
Contrasting sharply with the previously fluid, silent sword, this overhead chop descended with a sharpness so keen the atmosphere itself seemed unaware it had been cut—aimed to split the Sword Devil clean in two.
The power of this blow was incomparable to anything before. Both the wielder's skill and the blade's refinement met the standard necessary to bisect a human body.
Truly, death arriving in the blink of an eye— "Don't underestimate me!!"
With his body still folded, both arms sprang upward, clashing the twin swords above the Sword Devil's head.
The longsword crashed into the center of the crossing blades, and the molar he bit down on shattered from the force. Unable to endure it, both arms dropped, and the longsword's blade lightly cut across the Sword Devil's forehead.
Blood sprayed, and his vision mottled with red. But he did not fall to his knees. The twin swords were not broken.
"Ugh—!"
The upper arms gripping the twin swords bulged, pushing the dropped arms back up.
In a sweeping motion, he deflected the locked longsword, and the shock that sent both weapons aloft left the swordswoman's body exposed. A return kick was launched toward her midsection.
The kick landed with enough force to embed itself in cobblestones, but was absorbed by the sole of the woman's raised boot. The recoil of the longsword, and the recoil from the kick—using both, the woman's body flipped backward in a wide arc. With no escape into the open air, her slender body had nowhere to go, and the old Sword Devil's body lunged after her.
—An opening.
With the swordswoman suspended in midair with no possibility of escape, the Sword Devil snarled and brought his blades crashing down.
He stepped into her retreating body, closing the distance in a single bound, and smashed the dual slashes from above and below. The two blades carved simultaneous arcs, biting into her narrow frame like the jaws of a beast.
In midair, with her back turned to him—the woman had no way to defend.
And yet, those flawless silver flashes wavered.
"—!"
Twisting her body in midair, the hood covering the swordswoman's head flew backward. Succumbing to the gravity of her inverted body, what had been concealed beneath the hood was laid bare.
Cascading down was long, beautiful, crimson hair the color of a burning flame.
"......"
The instant that flashed through his vision, a split-second lapse appeared in the Sword Devil's slash.
The faintest deviation—a microscopic divergence from perfection. Even if that lapse were removed, no one else could summon the power to block the attack he'd unleashed.
But for the being facing the Sword Devil, that lapse was fatal.
To the child of the sword, to a being who had once basked in the Sword God's favor—a nicked blade could never reach her.
"......"
At the sight before him, the Sword Devil's throat froze with horror.
The strike he'd been certain would be decisive was halted midway, cut off just before reaching the woman.
It was nothing more than this: the woman had drawn her longsword toward her in midair and inserted it between the twin swords descending from above and below. —With the casual ease of placing a wedge in a beast's jaws.
The tip and pommel of the longsword locked perfectly against the twin blades. What truly shook the Sword Devil was not only this, but the fact that only a single metallic sound had rung out.
To receive two blades and produce only one clean note, the only possibility was to time the incoming blades so that their lengths matched his weapon exactly.
What was terrifying was the perceptiveness to judge that timing, the skill to execute it, and the mental fortitude to achieve it all without so much as a tremor.
"—Hmph."
From the Sword Devil's throat escaped something close to admiration, at a feat so far beyond the realm of reason.
In that instant, the woman's feet, having caught the blades, spread wide and kicked hard at both of the Sword Devil's arms, still halfway through his slash trajectory.
The impact knocked the blades from his hands, and in that moment, he was exposed in an impossible state of defenselessness.
Immediately after, the longsword was unleashed in a lateral slash that made the air itself scream its death cry.
The speed of the approaching blade—above all, its reach.
The unarmed Sword Devil had neither means to block nor the time or distance to dodge.
The longsword tore through the thin skin of his right side, then cut through his organs, his spine, and burst out through his left side—his body splitting in two, spilling blood and viscera, unable to even cry out. That was, in essence, the unavoidable conclusion.
An ending that could not be evaded. A natural curtain call.
The terminus of a lifetime devoted to the blade, having let everything slip away, unable to atone even now.
—There was no way he could accept such an end.
"Oooooohh—!!"
In a flash, he rebelled against the bloody conclusion that had flickered through his mind.
The Sword Devil's throat threw the vision of that final scene into flames, and scarlet vitality erupted like fire. Extreme concentration blurred the passage of time, and sound, color—everything in the world except himself and his opponent—vanished.
The approaching blade followed the trajectory he imagined, plunging toward his torso.
Slowly, feeling the heat of blood and the pain as the blade parted skin, with the sensation of gravity multiplied tenfold from the world he'd known, he poured the full power of his being into both legs.
His heel gouged the cobblestones as he pushed off, and the downward swing of both arms gave him the momentum he needed.
Twisting his body at the shortest distance and optimal angle, he rolled sideways so that the blade touching his torso passed just over him. He slid along the length of the blade, rolling his body to evade.
"......"
Even the swordswoman was momentarily slow to follow up after having her decisive blow evaded.
In that interval, the Sword Devil leaped backward, catching the twin swords that had been knocked away out of midair. He exhaled deeply, pressed his palm against his gashed side, and assessed the depth of the wound.
It was by no means shallow.
He'd allowed the blade to penetrate his right side, then twisted and rolled in that state. With the blade still inside his body, a rotating motion would naturally leave a circular wound.
Fortunately, he'd managed to avoid it at the last moment—just before the tip reached his organs. But blood dripped copiously from the wound that had sliced deep enough to graze the surface of his innards.
For an ordinary person, this would be a grave injury—grounds for strict bed rest.
"...I never expected to fight for long."
The time limit he'd set had simply grown shorter.
The Sword Devil—Wilhelm wrapped the jacket he'd shed around his waist, crudely stanching the blood. Exposing his sturdy frame, he received no pursuit as he administered first aid.
The woman facing him gazed at Wilhelm quietly with those emotionless eyes.
Wilhelm smiled bitterly at himself, for hoping that some flicker, some small change, might appear there. He dug at his own wound, sharpening his consciousness with pain.
"There's no use being timid. Don't dream of it. Meeting again—we can do that as much as we want in heaven."
"......"
"Don't think I hesitated. Don't expect heaven's intervention. My wife was a woman who despised swinging a sword, but she never once pushed the burden of holding one onto another."
Without emotion, the dead wielded the techniques of her lifetime.
Long, lustrous crimson hair. Smooth, translucent pale skin. Beautiful eyes set with gemstones. A face she could recall endlessly, simply by closing her eyes—beloved beyond measure.
All of it was before him, and none of it could possibly be here.
"Theresa, you are beautiful. —And that is precisely why you should not be here."
Spinning the twin swords in his hands, Wilhelm resumed his stance.
The one who stood here was not Theresa van Astrea's husband. The one who was asked to be here was not
The one who belonged here was the Sword Devil, Wilhelm.
—Confronted with the apparition of his deceased wife, Wilhelm's mind sharpened to a razor's edge.
His blood boiled, and his fury toward the malevolent existence that had orchestrated this knew no end.
But in this moment, this instant, this single exchange—he needed nothing extraneous.
Once, a friend, a comrade-in-arms, his wife had told Wilhelm: Don't let the steel cloud with heat. Don't let it boil with blood. Love the cold of steel.
How was he now? Was he burning?
"No, I'm cold. —Like a blade."
Beneath the moon, the Sword Devil pierced his enemy with eyes as hard as steel.
The supreme swordswoman facing him wavered not at all as she flickered the tip of her longsword.
In a flash, the silver flashes surged toward each other once more.
The ringing of steel on steel sounded like screams, like pleas, like courtship— As if hoping it would end, yet hoping it would never end— As though exchanging words that could never be exhausted, the sword dance continued to ring out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "AAAH, you son of a bitch! Why the HELL won't you respond, you bastard!!"
Kicking off the ground. Kicking off walls. Kicking off rooftops. Leaping.
Arcing diagonally through the air, his short blond hair streaming in the wind, the fangs he bared were the picture of desperation.
Click after click of his tongue, the searing impatience eating away at his composure.
"Goddammit! What the hell is going on, damn it!!"
His clothes snapping in the wind, he hit the ground and broke into a run without pause.
Only someone with superhuman physical strength and physical ability could perform such a feat. But the man who could leap across the entire city with his body alone showed no pride in it.
He simply, desperately continued barking at the unresponsive mirror in his hand.
Running was Garfiel. The one he was calling to was the magical device in his hand—the Talk Mirror.
The Talk Mirror should have been able to connect conversation with the same individual. It wasn't responding. No one answered Garfiel's calls. Despite there being two candidates who should have been able to reply.
"City Hall, the people fighting Wrath! Why won't you answer!?"
They'd divided the Talk Mirrors among themselves to maintain contact, each party heading into battle.
In truth, communication had been possible right after departing City Hall. But now, when communication was actually needed, the Talk Mirror had fallen silent.
—I have to tell them. Right now.
"Get out of City Hall—! I have to tell them that—!!"
He cursed as he leaped, vaulting over the street in front of him in a single bound.
The rooftop shattered under his violent landing, but Garfiel didn't spare it a glance. Right now, preserving the counterattack team took priority over city damage.
Garfiel was hurrying back toward City Hall.
The very place he'd departed only tens of minutes ago, Garfiel was returning alone—having left Wilhelm behind, desperately calling into the unresponsive Talk Mirror.
The reason was simple.
City Hall—their home base—was in danger.
—It was almost simultaneous with Reinhard's strike against Greed that Wilhelm and Garfiel had arrived at the control tower seized by Lust.
Witnessing the aurora rising in the distance, the two warriors stormed the tower.
No
Everything had gone smoothly up to that point. The control tower, equipped with the functions needed to operate the city's water gates, had few rooms or places worth examining.
The two headed straight for the upper floor, preparing for the decisive battle with Lust. Lust's faction was considered the most dangerous in terms of force ratio. With Lust plus two supreme warriors—three enemies total against two of them—tension naturally filled their bodies.
"If possible, I'd like you to leave the swordswoman to me."
"I've heard the boss say something about that. But hey, I've got my own business with that lady too. Sorry, but I can't just hand her over."
"—She is my wife. Those bastards desecrated my wife's corpse, trampled on her soul, and now force her to point her sword at everything she once protected."
"......"
"There is no way that can be forgiven."
Along the way, Wilhelm had spoken the reason he fought.
The sheer force of it made Garfiel—himself harboring reasons he couldn't back down—involuntarily fall silent. Perhaps the moment he couldn't summon a retort, it was already decided who was the more fitting match for that swordswoman.
"......"
He didn't put it into words, but Garfiel yielded the enemy to Wilhelm. Wilhelm received it as such, inclining his chin in lieu of thanks.
That was why, upon stepping into the control tower, every hair on Garfiel's body had stood on end.
If Wilhelm was to face the swordswoman, then Garfiel had to take on the other two. The swordswoman, of course, but the giant who stood beside her was no lesser fighter.
In terms of combat power, Lust was considered the weakest—but Subaru had warned them repeatedly that the true terror of a Sin Archbishop wasn't their combat power, but their very nature.
Quiet tension, and overwhelming fighting spirit.
When his senses caught the strengthening scent of blood, Garfiel equipped the silver shields on both feet and kicked open the door to his destination with ferocious force.
And inside, he saw it.
"We're not just gonna sit around waiting like chumps, obviously, duh."
The entire room was painted in blood—massive crimson characters covering every surface.
The instant he grasped the meaning, Garfiel's brain boiled over.
The natural, instinctive tendency to flee in the face of an attack. There was no obligation to wait. The mentality to so brazenly abandon their post— "—I forgot. That's the kind of people they are."
Pressing his voice down, Wilhelm drew a Talk Mirror from his coat. The reason he'd moved to contact City Hall first was that Wilhelm had been the first to consider the possibility.
"When forces are diverted to attack, naturally, the main base is weakened. This type of enemy won't hesitate to exploit such openings."
Before Garfiel's blanching face, Wilhelm clicked his tongue at the unresponsive Talk Mirror.
What arose simultaneously was a concentrated hostility descending from the rooftop of the control tower.
The sensation of a blade running down his spine told Garfiel of the enemy's presence.
Wilhelm, too, understood the identity of that hostility.
"Lord Garfiel, please see to City Hall."
"If it's just about getting back fast, I'm the quicker one."
The exchange took a single heartbeat.
The enemy left to delay them radiated a sword intent sharp beyond doubt. If either turned their back to flee, that blade would cut them both down from behind.
One of them had to stay.
And one of them had to return to City Hall.
"Keep calling. —My lord. Please."
"Don't gotta tell me twice. 'The voice of Libré rallies the soldiers,' as they say."
Catching the thrown Talk Mirror, Garfiel burst from the control tower.
He flew across the city, vaulted waterways, all the while continuing to call into the unresponsive mirror. —Wilhelm's battle had surely begun by now.
"Son of a bitch... having my back scratched in the most pointless way possible...!"
If Lust had launched a surprise attack on City Hall, there was very little force available to respond.
Anastasia and Felix had no combat power, and Crusch was down from her injuries. A few members of the Iron Fang were on guard duty, but compared to Mimi, their abilities fell short.
The moment he thought of Mimi, Garfiel's chest throbbed with sharp pain.
The girl who was still on the brink of death—who had dragged him back, protected him, and saved him.
Keeping her alive and pulling her from death's door was supposed to be his role.
And he'd surrendered that role to someone else over an emotional issue, letting the chance for revenge slip away. And even the task he'd taken on in its place—he still couldn't fulfill it properly.
What was he doing? What was he doing in this state?
He couldn't face Mimi, couldn't face Subaru, couldn't face his sister, couldn't face
"I'm about to—again—!"
Was he going to be powerless once more?
The Talk Mirror's surface showed his own pathetic face. The instant he cursed it— "—!?"
After shattering a rooftop and leaping, he was late to notice the shadow hurtling at him from the side.
His midair body was struck head-on by a mass far greater than his own, and he was sent tumbling sideways.
The reason he couldn't even cry out was the elbow jammed into his throat, choking off his air. Blood and oxygen ceased reaching his brain, and maintaining consciousness became rapidly difficult.
What arrested his fading consciousness was the impact that slammed through his entire body.
His body, intercepted midair, flew at an angle and smashed into the building beside him. Plowing through the wall, trailing smoke, Garfiel's body was flung about.
Groaning at the dull pain and the agony of shattering bone, he simultaneously realized the restraint had loosened. Using the spring in his entire body, he punched whatever was within reach to right himself.
He was inside a building with its lights extinguished. Thick smoke, illuminated white by moonlight, billowed around him—and beyond the bloody phlegm he spat out, there was a presence.
It had to be the very thing that had shot him down and smashed him in here.
"You little—pulling that kinda shit on me—"
He raised his fists, and the instant he moved to charge, a fist drove into his gut.
The colossal opponent's fist struck his entire abdominal wall, lifting Garfiel off the ground. Immediately, a fist hammered down from directly above, smashing him through the half-destroyed floor and dropping him to the level below.
"Guh—wha... what!?"
His face-down body was stomped on from behind by a boot sole.
The combination of momentum and mass sent blood flying as his reeling body was kicked again, tumbling violently. He was blasted through the building's entrance, and Garfiel's body was hurled into the street.
Coughing from the devastating force, Garfiel rose. Simultaneously, he cast a basic healing spell on his body, setting only the broken bones before raising his head.
Pursuing Garfiel, the figure that emerged from the building was so massive you had to look up.
Enveloped in a black robe that still couldn't conceal the thick arms and legs beneath. Rather than muscular, it was no exaggeration to say the entire body was clad in armor of pure muscle.
This was already the third encounter for Garfiel with this enemy.
And he already knew the name.
"'Eight-Arms'
One of the heroes who had once wielded a sword in the Volacchian Empire.
He'd supposedly fallen in battle during the city's defense over a decade ago, but his current state was, like Wilhelm's wife, a desecration of the dead.
"......"
The moment Garfiel spoke his name, the giant—Kurgan—extended his arms.
At the same time, the fastenings of the robe came undone, and his true form was revealed. In other words, it meant being confronted at close range with the sheer majesty of the hero Kurgan.
As he'd imagined, that robust frame was encased in a thick suit of muscle armor.
A stature rivaling the giants', and above it all, a face of such fighting spirit and warlike intent that even demons would pale—a true god of battle.
And what made the god of battle were the eight arms that supported that monstrous combat power.
In addition to two arms extending from the shoulders, another pair extended from the same origin. Lowering his gaze, yet another pair grew from the flanks below the shoulders, and the final pair jutted out from the back, palms facing forward.
Worthy of the name "Eight-Arms" Kurgan—just facing him was enough to strip an enemy of their will to fight. A body forged purely and solely for battle.
"......"
Before Garfiel's held breath, Kurgan wordlessly took up his weapons.
Attached to the outside of his massive legs, in a shape identical to Garfiel's own shields, were thick, elongated, warped blades—the "Demon Cleavers" wielded by the god of battle.
From his back, Kurgan drew two more Demon Cleavers. Four in total. The remaining four arms were empty, yet Garfiel was still overwhelmed by the sight.
There was no room for complaints about being underestimated.
"......"
A shudder ran through him.
Before a genuine hero, Garfiel's body trembled quietly from within.
He who had admired hero tales, legendary figures, and great names etched in history—Garfiel.
There was no way he didn't know the name of Eight-Arms Kurgan.
The countless legends left by that god of battle had lived within Garfiel's earnest admiration.
And now, that very figure stood before him as an enemy's puppet.
This was a nightmare. The nightmare had surely been going on endlessly since yesterday.
Otherwise, how could there be this much malice raining down on him?
"...Hah, hah..."
Gasping, Garfiel reached for his own feet.
Like Kurgan's Demon Cleavers, silver shields were mounted there. He touched the rim with his fingers, sliding his nails across the surface over and over until he finally managed to unfasten them.
He equipped the shields on both arms, covering his fists. Testing the fit by clashing them together, a high-pitched ring echoed through the night sky.
Equipment was ready. His wounds and inability to fight were behind him.
It was only his heart that still harbored hesitation somewhere.
"This ain't the time to be spacing out—!"
Grinding his teeth, Garfiel slapped his own cheek.
The pain and impact blurred his vision as he shook his head and looked forward again. Raising his fists, he bared his teeth at the god of battle standing before him.
"What the hell am I standing around here for?! The boss is fighting! Everyone else is fighting too! And I can't do anything but fight, so why the hell am I dawdling?!"
"......"
To Garfiel's roaring battle cry, Kurgan remained silent.
Without a word, Garfiel decided he'd put that stoic expression on the god of battle's face into a grimace, shattered the street beneath him, and charged forward in an instant.
Drawing on the power of the earth through the "Blessing of Earth Spirits" flowing from his feet, he channeled it through his entire body and converted it into a single strike.
It was a punch carrying the force to level a stone building in one blow.
His fist, reinforced by the silver shields, struck with a hardness that could shatter even a hero— Both arms, launched from a grounded stance in a straight line, slammed into Kurgan's sternum— "—Right?"
"......"
Garfiel's full-power blow was stopped by one of Kurgan's extended Demon Cleavers.
A single Demon Cleaver, and the flat of its blade had caught the full force of the strike.
There was no deflection. No parrying.
It was simply a head-on contest of strength, and his greatest blow had been blocked.
By a single arm of the Eight-Armed hero.
"—Puh!"
A fist from the shoulder crashed into Garfiel's rigid face. His reeling body was caught at the flank by another arm, and unable to absorb the impact, he was pummeled with a barrage of blows.
In an instant, his cheekbone shattered and his eye socket collapsed. His right eye's vision turned blood red, and a sharp fang broke in half and went flying. His torso seized, he was slammed into the ground, kicked by a thick leg, and went rolling, rolling, rolling down the street, bouncing, and plunging into the waterway.
"—Ah..."
In an instant, everything receded, and he fixed his eyes on the moon floating overhead.
The sensation that even the moon was mocking him had barely formed when Garfiel's body sank beneath the waterway's surface.
—The water's surface slowly turned red.