——Slipping behind a watchful sentry's back, he drove a pressure point along the centerline of its body.
The target collapsed without so much as a sound. He caught the falling body not out of consideration, but because he couldn't afford the clatter of armor hitting the floor.
"Good grief, holding a full-grown man one-handed is rough on us old-timers. The damn thing's hollow inside, yet it's still heavy. What a nuisance."
Muttering so, the white-haired, white-eyebrowed elder——Orbalt Dunkurken——cradled the felled enemy in one arm and lightly tapped the nearby castle wall with his toe. The stone surface rippled like water where he'd struck, swallowed the embedded body whole, and sealed it shut.
Fortunately, the undead didn't need to breathe, so walling them up wouldn't kill them.
Their hearts didn't beat, so no blood flowed. Even if he did kill them, all he had to do was sweep up the shattered fragments——a tidy job, all things considered.
"Everything else, though, is garbage. Kill some of these things and they just pop right back up. Makes you think twice about killing at all, doesn't it?"
The quality Orbalt feared most about the undead was their resurrection.
Not because repeated revivals broke even the most battle-hungry Imperial soldiers' spirits——but because the undead inherited the memories they had before dying.
Once that happened, the enemy could trade expendable lives for instant intelligence sharing.
As head of the shinobi, Orbalt understood the critical importance of information freshness and accuracy in warfare. The enemies Orbalt had killed most throughout his life were scouts and messengers——it was that close a contest.
He killed them to prevent information from being relayed, yet even after death, information could still get through. If that wasn't the definition of absurd, he didn't know what was.
"Well, our own shinobi tricks include self-destructing upon death——sending intel via the color of the explosion smoke. So I suppose we're even on that front."
The very soul of shinobi work was harassment, yet this situation made a mockery of that profession.
During the retreat from the Imperial Capital to the fortress city——conducted amid rear-guard fighting—it had been confirmed that a so-called "Core Bug" existed within the undead, serving as the source of their resurrection. Some undead could regenerate even after beheading, because the Core Bug hadn't been killed.
Furthermore, the Core Bug's power source was the Great Spirit known as the "Stone Mass." Kill too many undead along with their Core Bugs, and the weakened
Therefore, Orbalt painstakingly adhered to a "do not kill" approach when dealing with the undead.
The undead he'd embedded in the wall earlier had been neutralized by accurately striking kyusho—the body's critical points—using pressure point techniques, which robbed them of bodily freedom. By that method, Orbalt had sealed roughly fifty undead in walls. Even if their bodies and insides were mere shells, he was grateful that the pressure points still functioned as weak spots.
Of course, compared to the staggering total of undead, this was barely a dent.
"Telling the Empire's people—whose specialty is killing and being killed—not to die and not to kill? That's a cruel ask."
Friends from the Kingdom and the City-States, allied in saving the Empire, would furrow their brows at this sentiment. But most Imperial citizens would probably sympathize.
In effect, the enemy leading this "Great Disaster" had forced the Empire of Vollachia into its worst nightmare: a defensive battle predicated on not killing.——No, not "in effect." Not at all.
"Always imagining the worst—that's an old man's bad habit, isn't it? This enemy is using the blood the Empire has soaked into its soil against us. They're targeting every last weakness."
That the battlefield was one where ancient warriors rose one after another was an environment that only existed because of Vollachia's culture of endless conflict.
Considering that no other country would have suffered this level of catastrophe under the same conditions, the enemy had played the most effective hand possible against Vollachia.
That was precisely why they had to understand: this was a board where they could not afford to misread the enemy's moves.
The white-eyebrowed elder narrowed his gaze, holding his breath within the Crystal Palace, where he infiltrated alone.
His stealth technique suppressed his presence to the greatest degree possible—a testament to the shinobi head's supreme skill. Reducing sentries without detection was one thing; having his existence pinpointed was entirely another.
If his existence were detected and he fell within the range of the "Thorn Curse," even Orbalt would be incapacitated. He was weak against pain. Thorn spines piercing his heart—just imagining it made him want to curl up and die.
To prevent that, Orbalt moved with utmost caution.
——Strike the Imperial Capital with a small elite force and quickly slay the enemy commander.
This was the strategy adopted for the final stage of the war against the "Great Disaster," and both Vincent and Orbalt agreed it was the best move without objection.
The undead outnumbered the Imperial troops. A war of attrition would only drain the Stone Mass's life force and shorten the Empire's lifespan—a thoroughly crippling approach.
The need to reach a swift conclusion was plain for all to see.
"Naturally, the enemy has predicted this as well."
But even if the enemy knew, if there was no other card to play, he had to play it. The question was how much he could pack into that telegraphed move to catch the enemy off guard.
To that end, the small elite force was further divided, and multiple flashy diversions were deployed to draw the enemy's eye.
While those diversions performed their role, Orbalt would simply fulfill his assigned task.
——Orbalt's role was to infiltrate the Crystal Palace and bring back intelligence on the opaque interior.
Most critical were the whereabouts of
"Though, ol' Cecy's swords probably can't be found. The 'Evil Sword' ran off, and who knows where he's stashed the 'Dream Sword.'"
Cecilus would chatter endlessly about anything and everything, but he wasn't foolish enough to rattle off the full capabilities of his beloved blades. Or perhaps he'd answer if asked—but asking about an opponent's hand meant inviting suspicion about your own motives.
Orbalt wasn't stupid enough to recklessly provoke Cecilus.
In any case, due to the low probability, Orbalt deprioritized the sword retrieval.
The ideal outcome was to locate Sphinx and secure her. If that could be accomplished, then with the power of that strange boy who refused to return to his original size—Schwartz—and the girl accompanying him, the undead could be destroyed body and soul.
That was the most desirable conclusion to this war against the "Great Disaster."
However, even that was no easy task.
"Tch. Another dead end."
Despite his eagerness for an early resolution, Orbalt's feet were repeatedly brought to a halt.
Reading a map perfectly to grasp the landscape, and never forgetting a place once visited—these were fundamental shinobi skills, and the Crystal Palace was Orbalt's well-worn workplace.
Yet his search was proceeding poorly because the Crystal Palace's interior had been thoroughly remodeled, bearing no resemblance to what Orbalt knew.
"Something like this would normally be our trademark, for heaven's sake."
Orbalt saw no value in it, but the Crystal Palace was known as one of the most beautiful castles in the world. Though the battle for the Imperial Capital had left scars—collapsed wall sections and the like—the exterior's impression from a distance remained largely unchanged.
But step inside, and the difference was staggering.
Corridor layouts, room positions, door sizes—every element had been altered, transforming the Crystal Palace into an entirely different castle, one that could confuse even Vincent, who had lived there.
With no external changes to warn you, charging in without a plan was a guaranteed way to get lost.
Merely bringing back this intelligence alone made Orbalt's advance trip worthwhile. Had Schwartz, who served as strategist, anticipated even this scenario?
If so, his discernment was as reassuring as it was a future threat.
Even the Kingdom and City-States currently allied with them—after they'd halted the "Great Disaster" at the gates—there was no telling what attitude they would adopt toward the Empire.
When that time came, Vincent would no longer have Chisha at his side.
"...Still. You did well, Chisha."
The atmosphere of "death" lingered over them—warfire and blood-wind, clinging to both the living and the dead.
He'd had no time to mourn in his heart for those reasons, but Orbalt thus evaluated Chisha, who had stolen his own technique and, moreover, had gone completely undetected while replacing Vincent.
Orbalt loved stealing others' techniques. He did not love being stolen from.
After all, growth was a privilege of youth. They had countless possibilities to create something new with their own hands, without needing to steal. Old men, by contrast, had no such growth left. That was why Orbalt disliked being stolen from.
But what if young people grew addicted to taking rather than creating?
Then nothing new would be born in this world, and Orbalt would have nothing left to steal.
"That Chisha bastard, pulling a lazy stunt like that.——Though I can't say I don't understand the feeling."
Within his limited time, Chisha had sought the best possible outcome.
Ultimately, Chisha's choice and Orbalt's were the same. Orbalt was an old man whose time was nearly up; Chisha was a soldier who had set his own death date.
So it came down to playing every card he had, with no regard for means.
With so few cards to play, Chisha had staked his hand and won this situation.
——Vincent alive, and Orbalt as an ally.
Orbalt Dunkurken had harbored ambitions.
It was his final life's goal—to leave his name in the annals of Empire history in a way unmatched by anyone else, to carve and prove that his existence had truly been there as a single, living soul.
Taken in as a shinobi, raised as a shinobi, lived as a shinobi—Orbalt.
Countless lives were treated as disposable, and dying young was the expected lot. Yet Orbalt had lived to nearly a hundred years of age. But across that long life—both as an Imperial citizen and as a shinobi—the vast majority of Orbalt's days had been spent fulfilling the purposes of others.
That was the way of the shinobi, and that was that. But Orbalt had lived longer than any shinobi in history.——If so, his end didn't have to be shinobi-like either.
If quietly leaving no name, fading silently into the darkness of history was what being a shinobi meant, then Orbalt could well aim for the exact opposite.
That was why Orbalt had been watching, biding his time like a tiger stalking its prey.
To bloom one last flower at the end of his life, the most worthwhile thing would have been to take the head of the "Wise Emperor"
When the enemy was the "Great Disaster"—an army of the undead—whose goal was the annihilation of the Empire of Vollachia, Orbalt's grand scheme could only crumble.
Orbalt wanted to leave his name in the Empire's history.
If the Empire itself was destroyed, Orbalt's wish could never be fulfilled. That was why he tipped his hat to Chisha's acting, which had kept Orbalt from jumping the gun until things came to this.
"After this whole circus wraps up, I hope there's still room for me to pull something off. My time's running out, and if I'm not careful, I'll miss the chance."
Post-war, during the Empire's reconstruction, seizing the Emperor before the Kingdom or City-States made their move——he hadn't dismissed the thought entirely, but the stench of riding the "Great Disaster's" coattails put him off.
The truth was, unable to find the perfect opportunity, Orbalt kept his calculations and ambitions suppressed for now, facing forward——until his gaze landed on the great door leading to what had once been the audience hall.
His silent thoughts churned with two opposing sensations.
The sense that he should not go beyond this door, and the sense that he should. The former was rooted in instinct; the latter, in decades of shinobi intuition.
Normally, Orbalt would never deviate from the first option. But his intuition insisted: beyond this door lay the very reason he had infiltrated.
Whether it was Sphinx, or Moguro, or the swords—or something else entirely—he couldn't say.
"...Dragging this out, making an old man on his last legs miss his chance at a coup d'état? I'll never die in peace, damn it."
Hoarsely muttering thus, Orbalt made his choice.
Since the audience hall's position should have been accessible through a hole in the wall rather than the door, Orbalt reached the target room via a window in the corridor, traveling along the wall.
Without opening the door, he peered inside—— "Oh, come on. Even I wouldn't go this far."
At the "
△▼△▼△▼△ ——That being's soul had long lost its original form, torn asunder.
Pulled back to the surface by forbidden arts and forced into military service to destroy the very empire it once belonged to—a pitiful soul held captive. That was the state the undead had been placed in.
To varying degrees, the undead's mental structures had been tampered with from their living states. Without such alterations, every resurrected dead would not have agreed to participate in the Empire's destruction.
The modifications ranged from mild to severe, but the greater the burden placed on the original constitution, the more obedient the subject became—though at the cost of being unable to display their true power.
Therefore, practitioners naturally preferred to keep the burden light for those who had been powerful in life.
In practice, the "Thorn Emperor" and the "Marksman of Magic Bullets"—both formidable fighters—suffered significant power loss from mental burden. The "Witch" chose to preserve their capabilities by allowing them a degree of free will.
Had these powerful warriors been reduced to puppet dolls, they would have displayed less than half their true strength and cut a pathetic figure.
Regardless, apart from such exceptional fighters and those like
No matter what wishes they held in life, no matter how noble the warrior, no matter what they had treasured—all of it was trampled upon and weaponized.
And they were forced to serve as the vanguard of disaster, working to destroy the Empire.
This being was no exception.
Stripped of free will, reduced to a tool for combat, used up and discarded. And yet, no matter how many times it experienced "death," its soul was summoned once more, and a clay vessel became its new medium for resurrection.
Tragically, this being happened to match the conditions the "Witch" had set for undead transformation.
Sufficiently skilled, sufficiently obsessed with battle, usable as a puppet without compromising capability, with powerful regret and hatred burned into its final moments.
That was precisely why it rampaged with frenzied, unrelenting passion.
Pulled along by its soul—torn apart and losing its original shape—its body had long forgotten the human form, becoming a grotesque horror.
Long, oversized arms. Too many legs. A flat, skeletal torso. Even in this transformed state, it could not escape the "Witch's" exploitation.
No matter how many times it was killed, its soul was stretched and reshaped into yet another monster.
To end this, the only way was to fulfill the "Witch's" wishes. Fulfill the "Witch's" wishes, serve as the herald of the "Great Disaster," and burn the Empire to ashes.
That had become the only desire of a being that could no longer recognize itself. That alone was its wish.
That alone, that alone, that was it, that—the wish was, nothing more— "Giant Eye" Izmeil!"
A single voice.
Amid the monstrous roars and the thunderous sounds of fierce combat, that one voice reached its ears.
Its ears no longer had the shape of ears, and countless other sounds must have been pouring in—yet that single call cut through with startling clarity, oddly firm, almost uncannily precise.
What that voice meant, the being did not understand.
It did not understand— "Izmeil!"
"Iyaa iyau—"
The question caused stagnation in its thoughts, and every one of the many arms and legs meant for killing froze in place. Exploiting that opening, a hand reached out and lightly brushed across its flat torso, extracting something.
In an instant, something slipped away.
Whether it was precious or vast, even that much was unclear. But the moment it was taken, the violent impulses that had filled its entire being receded all at once.
Hollow. It was hollow. It was becoming hollow.
All the reasons for fighting—crammed in from outside, forced and numerous—poured out, and deep within the growing emptiness, only what had been there from the beginning remained.
It was the reason to fight. Ambition, or the desire for glory—you could call it either.
The reason it had come was to fight. It had fought to carve its name into history. To prove that it—that the "self" its clan had been proud of—had truly existed.
That it, Izmeil of the "Giant Eye," had been there— "Ah... So it was fulfilled after all."
Reflected in the golden iris of its large, black, single eye was the face of that man.
The beautiful man with black hair and sharp, narrow eyes did not so much as flinch before a blade that threatened his own life. He gazed firmly at Izmeil—this grotesque thing that had once been human—and called its name.
At the pinnacle of the Empire of Vollachia, he had recognized Izmeil.
That was— "The honor of the Sword Wolf, Your Majesty."
△▼△▼△▼△ Jamal halted the strike of the arm fused with a battleaxe, while Subaru and
In the meantime, multiple attacks of lethal power were unleashed, but
And then— "'Giant Eye' Izmeil!"
With sharp eyes locked on the grotesquely transformed undead, Abel called its name.
For a moment, Subaru thought—really? But if Abel was going to call an undead by its name in this capital, he would believe it wholeheartedly from the start. In truth, Abel had never once misremembered an undead's name.
That said— "Izmeil!"
"Iyaa iyau—"
Spica, sent hurtling by the clasped hands swung like a flail, slammed her palm into what passed for the chest of the grotesque being called Izmeil.
Neither a piercing strike nor a crushing blow—"Star Eater" activated, and Subaru and the others held their breath.
If the conditions were met, no matter how far removed from human form, it should meet the same end as the other undead.
And indeed, before the watching eyes of Subaru and his companions, Izmeil slowly trembled its massive body, the golden iris within its large, round, single eye fixed upon Abel.
And then— "...Ah."
With a soundless voice, it left something behind—and its grotesque giant body crumbled to dust in an instant.
"God damn! No way! What the hell was that thing?!"
"A warrior of the one-eyed people, called the 'Giant Eye'—Izmeil. As Abel called out at the end, so it was."
"One-eyed people... it wasn't just that it had one eyeball, it was actually that kind of monster, huh..."
After finishing the battle against the powerful undead, Jamal grumbled while wiping blood and sweat from his jaw. He quickly caught himself for speaking so crudely, having forgotten he was addressing Abel—but his observation was probably off the mark.
Izmeil had not always been in that form.
"Bea-chan."
"I know. That was the work of the 'Secret of the Undead King.' Being resurrected again and again—it was far from a normal state."
"Mm, au..."
When Beatrice pulled her chin back, Spica looked down at her own palm with a somber expression. Subaru placed a hand on her head and patted gently, exhaling deeply.
Izmeil had also been encountered during the battle for the capital, when Subaru was fleeing with
Whether it hadn't died from the dust explosion, or had been resurrected yet again after death, its grotesque transformation had progressed further still.
But that endless hell should have ended with Spica's "Star Eater."
"But still, you figured out who it was despite it looking like that."
"The moment it was resurrected as undead, its appearance was affected to some degree. The key is to identify it by its distinguishing characteristics. That one was on the obvious end."
"Obvious, he says..."
It had been so far removed from its human form that only traces remained. Subaru had recognized it because he'd seen it during the retreat—but Abel had not.
Yet Abel had identified it perfectly. This was less about supernatural memory and more like a cheating ability.
"It is essential to keep track of powerful figures within the country. Whether they become enemies or allies, more information for judgment is always welcome."
But Abel's follow-up words revealed that it wasn't mere physical characteristics he relied on, but evaluations of everything else as well.
Listening to that, Subaru recalled Izmeil's final moments just before it crumbled to dust.
That soundless voice—that single utterance—seemed to carry not resentment or hatred, but something more solemn.
Perhaps it had been reverence for the emperor who had called it by name.
In any case— "...This is the real deal."
Subaru looked up at the sky, where rumbling booms sounded without pause, and murmured.
Within his field of vision, piercing through the cloud-covered sky, he could see an iceberg falling toward the Crystal Palace—something Roswaal had used tactically, having
Further in the distance, swirling clouds became sinister weapons, while elsewhere thunder roared up from the ground, and buildings could be seen toppling under the clean edge of sword strikes.
This was proof that each of the peak fighters, following the conditions Subaru had set, was engaged in fierce battle.
"Roswaal's certainly being flashy with it. He's overdoing it."
"Seeing that reminds you he really is a dangerous one. Orbalt's sneaking into the castle, and he won't crush it, will he?"
"He'll crush it if he needs to. He's that kind of man."
With a sound like the sky splitting, the shattered iceberg scattered countless glints of light across the heavens.
Roswaal, alongside Medium, was facing off against the "Wyvern Rider" enemy—this was among the most difficult opponents, so there was nothing to do but trust in Roswaal's victory.
Naturally, the "Thorn Curse" and the "Cloud Dragon" were threats beyond anyone's control as well.
"Whether Emilia and
Within the capital, where the situation had escalated beyond the word "fierce battle," Subaru worried about Emilia's party among those he'd dispatched—the ones whose outcome he couldn't see.
He believed the current forces were optimally distributed, but Emilia's deployment remained the one unresolved variable, left in a vague state. However, given the role he'd entrusted to her, having her operate alongside Tanza was the correct choice.
"Honestly, when Izmeil showed up, I thought we were done for..."
That they had held back the grotesquely transformed Izmeil with the current forces—minus Emilia—was undeniably thanks to everyone's united effort.
Jamal's contribution was particularly notable; his movements improved visibly as the battle progressed. He might have been leveling up at an alarming rate by being pushed to the brink of death.
That was welcome in itself—aside from the psychological resistance to relying so heavily on Jamal.
"
"Sir! Give the word, Your Excellency, and I'll take on a hundred or two hundred of them!"
"So he says. You all take heart as well."
"Tch. Acting all cocky just because he's got a job nobody else can do."
Muttering complaints about Abel, who had yet to participate and wore a composed expression throughout, Subaru checked on Beatrice and Spica.
It was a continuous tightrope walk, but fighting the undead was always an all-out effort using every available fighter. With the desire to proceed cautiously, pushing forward with a hole in the lineup was inadvisable.
"Betty is fine, I suppose."
"Aau!"
The two returned his checking glance with reassuring nods. At this rate, Subaru might be the one most lacking in stamina—though of course, Subaru's connection to the Pleiades Watch continued, so in purely physical terms, Abel was unanimously the most concerning.
In any case— "The battle should be shifting soon. If
He wanted intelligence from other fronts, material to consider the next several moves.
Just as he was about to call out to his companions— "I see. This is a curious phenomenon. Worthy of observation."
Without warning, a voice from beyond everyone's awareness struck them, and they spun around as if jolted.
In Subaru's widened eyes appeared a third party that hadn't been there before—a short, pale-skinned undead crouching down, probing the dust accumulated on the ground with a finger.
The pink-haired undead they knew well, fondling the dust of Izmeil, destroyed by "Star Eater"— "You—"
"It appears you didn't directly interfere with the Core Bug. The parasite died after losing its host... Soul loss? Theft, seizure, recovery... Fascinating."
Muttering thus, it licked the dust from its fingertip to examine it—a being that was the spitting image of Subaru's group, yet harbored a warmth entirely absent from its eyes. Sphinx.
The leader of the "Great Disaster," the very objective of this final battle, had appeared in person.
The sheer audacity of this entrance left Subaru's consciousness swallowed by a momentary void.
With the "Thorn Curse" and the "Marksman of Magic Bullets" present, and Spica—their trump card—accompanying them, meeting Sphinx in the Crystal Palace would have been difficult. That was why they'd sent Orbalt, who excelled at stealth, to scout, while Subaru and the others continued hunting undead to wear down the enemy's forces until a path opened for the coming decisive battle.
But that premise had crumbled this easily— No. This is a chance.
Suppressing his shock, Subaru gripped Beatrice's hand tightly. He exchanged a glance with Beatrice and took Spica's hand as well, despite her surprise.
The Sphinx before him was the root cause of this "Great Disaster."
And like all the other undead, she had been resurrected through the power of the "Secret of the Undead King"—meaning Spica's "Star Eater" should be effective against her. By becoming undead, she had gained the advantage of cheating death—but in return, she had inherited the unavoidable weakness of Spica.
Take away her ability to resurrect, and the fight was over.
Even without understanding the enemy's intentions or aims, the battle could be ended.
So— "Sphin—"
"What is required is the correspondence between the target's 'name' and 'soul.' You would even make use of the Authority of 'Gluttony'—that is surprising. Countermeasures are needed."
Before Subaru could act, Sphinx's calm analysis crushed his initiative.
At the casual mention of the Authority of "Gluttony," and the fact that Sphinx had seen through the true nature of Spica's "Star Eater" at a glance, Subaru held his breath. He had held his breath.
Even if his aim had been read, he should not have forgotten the overwhelming strength of an authority that, once it connected, could not be avoided.
And now he was paying the price.
"——You fool."
A vulgar curse cut in between the hurled Subaru group and Sphinx.
Sphinx had raised a single slender finger, pointing its tip toward them. Before the white heat ray it launched could pierce Subaru and Spica's heads, a man threw himself into the path.
The sword Jamal had braced was carved into a round gouge by the heat beam. Unable to fully block it, the ray pierced the rough warrior's torso, and the acrid, iron-rich stench of burning blood struck their nostrils with overwhelming force.