——The legend of the God of Battle,
In the meritocratic Vollachian Empire, so long as one possessed ability, their background was never questioned.
Compared to the Lugunica Kingdom, where prejudice against demihumans still lingered, or the
For this reason, among the Four Great Nations, the Vollachian Empire was the most livable nation for those who were not of pure human blood.
But on the other hand, its harsh meritocracy meant severe oppression and hostility toward those who lacked both wit and strength. Naturally, the evaluation of an individual differed from that of an entire species.
The Many-Armed Tribe in particular had for many years wandered across the land as a nomadic people who never stayed in one place for long. Due to their unusual appearance and—strikingly for a demihuman species—their remarkably low aptitude for magic, they had long been considered an inferior race as a whole.
Their total population was not large, and in the event of conflict, they would choose to migrate rather than fight to defend their land.
It was precisely because they were this kind of tribe that they were shunned wherever they went, and it was inevitable that they would end up in the Vollachian Empire—only to be swallowed up by its iron-blooded imperialism and nearly crushed.
——It was in that world of meritocracy that the one who raised his voice in defiance was Kurgan himself.
While the Many-Armed Tribe differed from humans in possessing two or more arms, there was individual variation in the number. Among the many who had only four or five, Kurgan—who had sprouted a full eight arms—was an extraordinary existence.
Young as he was, Kurgan rejected the lord's demand to vacate the land they had settled on, and with his eight arms drove back the messenger. He then persuaded his trembling kinsmen, defeated every last one of the lord's private soldiers who tried to expel them by force, and fought his way up to the lord's manor itself.
The lord trembled at this barbarian assault, but Kurgan was not the type to settle things quickly.
He declared that he would prove his own worth and that of his people, and took up a seat as the lord's new private soldier. From there, through countless battles he earned distinction, and the name "Eight-Armed Kurgan" would live on as a legend of the Vollachian Empire for ages to come.
"————"
He savored the sensation of cold water throughout his body, gazing up at the moon beyond the shimmering surface overhead.
The bone supporting his right eye had shattered, and his eyeball felt as though it might fall from beneath his closed eyelid. Instinctively raising his left hand, he activated healing magic, applying the bare minimum of repair.
His remaining left eye watched the red muddiness carried by the water's current as he struck his back against the bottom of the waterway and curled his body into a ball.
"————"
Despite being underwater, he couldn't feel the cold.
Freed from the weight of gravity, in a world where all strain had fallen away, he slowly poured strength into his limbs.
If only the shackles on his heart could come off as easily as the shackles on his body—but his heart remained in darkness.
It wasn't that the thought of simply sinking away hadn't crossed his mind. But breathing eventually grew painful, and the darkness behind his eyelids would not stay empty.
The image of a pink-haired girl, an orange-furred cat girl, and a black-haired boy surfaced in his mind, lighting a spark in his damp heart.
It might be a flame that would be snuffed out again at any moment. That had just been proven when the courage he'd barely managed to muster—not even enough for a hollow display of spirit—was shattered. He was here. So what.
That was no reason for him to keep sinking.
"Phah!"
Unfurling his curled body, he kicked off the bottom and surged to the surface all at once. Breaking through, Garfiel shook his head.
His right eye was still sealed shut, his head throbbing from the residual damage of the beating. Nausea that felt like blood reversing its flow pulsed through his entire body, and the absence of his broken teeth fouled his bite.
"Son of a bitch..."
He grabbed the edge of the waterway and hauled himself up. Shaking the water off his body like a beast, Garfiel looked.
The spot where he'd been pounded into the waterway.
There, as before, stood the God of Battle.
With his drawn demon cleavers held at the ready, not a sliver of his fighting spirit diminished, looking every bit as though he hadn't a shred of doubt that Garfiel would crawl back up.
"————"
Seeing the silent God of Battle, Garfiel considered.
There was, frankly, little reason for him to clash with Kurgan here. The role Garfiel had been assigned was to stop the "Lust" Archbishop, who had likely launched a surprise attack on the City Hall. Even if he fought Kurgan here, he couldn't save the City Hall where only non-combatants remained.
Looking at the overall picture, fighting Kurgan here was the worst possible move in every sense.
"Fine... but I'm not gonna let you get away, y'know?"
A giant of a man, even looking up at him. Overwhelming muscle mass. His appearance gave no impression of agility, yet even fleeing outright, Garfiel couldn't picture himself escaping the range of the God of Battle's blades.
The moment he faced the God of Battle, there was no escape for Garfiel.
The choices allowed to him now were two.
Stand and fight and die. Or die without resisting. That was all.
"You gotta be kidding... as if this is the time to be thinking!"
Brushing off the grim thoughts that had crossed his mind, Garfiel gnashed his teeth. The broken makeshift fangs stung, but that pain carved his negative thoughts to a sharper edge.
Shred the premonition of defeat, the foreboding of loss.
There was no need for excuses to lose.
Win—win, win, WIN, WIN, WIN!
Win, and prove your worth!!
"Ooooooh!"
He roared, subdued his cowardice, and charged forward once more. In the previous exchange, his ultimate blow had been blocked.
But if weight alone wasn't enough, he would overwhelm with speed.
With claws, with fangs—gouge, tear, bite, and take.
"————"
The silent God of Battle met Garfiel's advance head-on.
A blow from the demon cleaver launched from the shoulder.
For a slash, its penetrating power was too low; for a blunt strike, its edge too sharp. It was a devastating attack that only Kurgan could produce—a hybrid of sword strike and bludgeon that cut the enemy down.
The demon cleaver's blade, bearing down with ferocious force, grazed the back of Garfiel's head as he ducked. The aftershock shaved at his neck, and a white-hot thought blazed through Garfiel's brain.
Garfiel should have had ample room to evade a single blow. Between his own compact, agile frame and the towering giant who wielded long weapons despite his many arms, there was a clear difference in speed.
He should have had time to dodge the wide swing and slip inside to land a claw strike. He should have had that time.
"—Guh"
And yet, deep inside the giant's guard, Garfiel was forcibly knocked backward on the spot. From below his chest to his chin, a blow came close to blowing his jaw clean off—a massive arm swinging upward from Kurgan's armpit.
That too was unexpected—no. It was a difference in physical balance.
Kurgan's body, born to the Many-Armed Tribe, had grown and formed itself into the optimal physique for wielding those eight arms.
The astonishing combat technique that body employed was fundamentally different from the four-limbed humans Garfiel knew.
The common sense that you'd open your body and leave a gap after launching a strike? That didn't apply.
The common sense that blocking one arm and circling to the blocked side would give you a blind spot? That didn't apply either.
Even if you blocked the one arm guaranteed to be lethal, you still had to guard against the seven others that could do the same.
If you couldn't do that, you had no choice but to die.
"Uggh—aaagh!!"
Before Garfiel's horrified eyes, the God of Battle's arms shook the world.
The howling demon cleavers rained in from all directions, brutally hammering at his body as though to dismember him.
One blow caught on the shield, one dodged by ducking, one scattered by leaping, one evaded by circling, one neutralized with a full-power strike of his own, one avoided at the cost of a shattered shoulder, one deflected by force with his beastified arm, one landing squarely and sending him rolling ignobly across the cobblestones.
"Guh—guhf"
Eight arms.
Everything Garfiel had—his full-soul offense and defense—had barely managed to survive a single exchange with Kurgan.
All those lethal attacks had raged like a storm, and Kurgan had simply swung his eight arms one at a time.
If the God of Battle had felt like it, the follow-up would have ground Garfiel to dust. The only reason blood-soaked Garfiel still drew breath as he lay there was that the standing God of Battle had no intention of pressing the attack.
"————"
The God of Battle stared down the gasping loser with the same posture, the same eyes as when he'd watched Garfiel climb out of the waterway.
There was no surge of defiance at being looked down upon.
That was a problem from before he could even stand on that level.
He hadn't come close to possessing the strength to face the God of Battle as a fellow warrior of equal skill.
The name "Eight-Armed Kurgan," God of Battle, was still very much alive.
"Haa... haa..."
He couldn't win. There was no way he could win.
A dead legend. A man who had become a hero. The God of Battle.
In the meritocratic Vollachian Empire—a man who, despite his entire race being scorned as inferior, had changed both his people and their destiny through sheer personal strength.
Garfiel was nothing more than a greenhorn who looked up to that legend.
"Haa... ha... ha"
And yet, why did his body stand?
His heart was this thoroughly broken, and still his body rose.
"Ha... shut up, shut up, SHUT UP...!"
The pounding of his heart was deafening.
Beaten by that racket as if someone were hammering a drum against his ear, Garfiel slammed his foot down hard. The cobblestone beneath his boot sole cracked, and the fissure raced straight to Kurgan's feet.
The silent Kurgan and blood-drenched Garfiel faced each other.
Garfiel, swaying, planted his toes once more. Immediately after, Kurgan moved.
No—was made to move.
"————"
Through the sole of Garfiel's boot, the Blessing of the Earth Spirits took effect. That power traveled from the crack that had formed to the ground beneath Kurgan's feet, blasting the earth supporting the giant into the air.
The giant rising into the air—even a body honed for combat as his was, he could not defy the laws of physics.
With nothing to support his lower body, he could not unleash a powerful strike.
"Gaaaagh!"
This instant was the critical moment.
Aiming at Kurgan suspended in midair, both of Garfiel's arms leaped upward.
Partially beastified, wrapped in a great tiger's fur and muscle, his arms hammered into Kurgan. Even the God of Battle, unable to maintain his posture in midair, could not bring his striking power to bear.
The clash of steel rang out, and Kurgan was sent flying along with his demon cleaver.
To meet him as he came, Garfiel delivered a kick. For the first time, he threaded the gap in the giant's defense, and his claw tip tore through the thick abdominal muscles.
As the God of Battle folded in half, Garfiel pressed the advantage, raining blow after blow.
To the chest. To the thighs. To the knees. To the abs—hits landed.
Bludgeoned by the impacts, Kurgan couldn't even shift his many arms into a defensive position, remaining frozen in a position like a man cheering.
"Got you!!"
With the certainty of victory before his eyes, Garfiel roared.
The raised beast claw tore open Kurgan's chest, and dark blood splattered across Garfiel's body.
Licking the blood from his face, Garfiel continued the assault.
Desperate as Kurgan must have been, Garfiel's gaze briefly flickered to the iron mask on the God of Battle's face—and the very next instant, every hair on his body stood on end.
"————"
The eyes of the God of Battle watching Garfiel's onslaught were unchanged from their original state—unmoved, unwavering.
"Ah—"
And at the same time, Garfiel realized.
Far, far too late—the omen of the God of Battle's counterattack.
The two demon cleavers that were unleashed shattered Garfiel's raised arms through the shield's impact and drove him into the ground.
"Ka—"
Not even a proper groan escaped him.
His vision lost sky and ground in an instant, and a sensation as if his limbs had been blown from their roots consumed him.
He understood what had happened. That much, at least.
In midair with no leverage, Kurgan had used only his upper body to unleash a devastating strike.
The method was simple and straightforward.
Gripping the demon cleaver's blade with two arms, he increased the force of the downward swing, catapulting its power to new heights.
In other words—the principle of a flick.
With two arms forming a hook, the attack became a lethal blow.
Lifting him into the air to strip his attack power—such a tactic had been neutralized as if it were routine.
"Gwaaah!"
With his counterattack crushed, Garfiel was exposed, and the giant's boot sole descended from directly above, grinding him down.
Bearing all the momentum of the fall, the stomp hit Garfiel, making his whole body creak as he was launched off the cobblestones.
Dominated by pain and the sense of loss, he activated healing magic on pure survival instinct.
Upper arm, elbow, shoulder—three shattered bones reconnected. Mangled internal organs repaired. Ribs, hip bones, his left thigh—twisted beyond what rapid recovery could address.
His gate was heating up. Prepared to burn through every last drop of mana, he activated the spell.
Drawing up the earth's power from his body sprawled across the ground, he hammered it in, one place at a time—treatment, repair, recovery.
Seconds. Tens of seconds. Perhaps minutes.
Shutting off his sense of time's passage, Garfiel rushed the repairs to his flesh.
And when he had barely regained enough function to move, he spat out the blood clogged in his throat and raised his body.
"————"
The God of Battle quietly watched blood-soaked Garfiel.
Seeing that figure, heat surged behind Garfiel's eyelids. Overwhelmed by rising emotion, he bowed his head, his back teeth chattering.
"What... what the hell are you doing..."
Since the beginning, Kurgan's stance had been consistent.
He met Garfiel's charges with counterattacks, but made no move to initiate, nor delivered a killing blow.
Three times now, Garfiel had been shown mercy.
The feelings of defeat and humiliation raging inside him shattered the pride and dignity he held as a warrior.
He knew he had to win. He believed it.
And he believed it just as strongly—that being forced to make such an ugly spectacle of himself, again and again, he'd rather be killed.
Kurgan, the God of Battle. The hero of Vollachia.
If there was anyone who had seen the pinnacle of all warriors—anyone who could understand the torment Garfiel felt—it should have been him.
"Then just..."
Should he simply beg to be killed?
Honestly admit his defeat, plead that the gap in their power was plain as day, and ask to die as a warrior?
Drop his shield, spread both arms, put on a solemn face?
If he asked, would it be granted?
If his life was scattered by a single blow from the God of Battle—perhaps that was a death a warrior could be proud of.
"If only I could..."
If only it could just be over. It would be so easy.
"If it were over... it'd be easy, damnit."
Strapping his shield back on, closing both arms, baring his teeth— With the face of a brute, Garfiel looked straight ahead.
"From the top of my head... I'm not disappearing."
He'd been told once to fight without thinking.
That he'd be stronger that way—leave behind all unnecessary thought and let instinct take over.
Was that really true?
"The voices... won't disappear..."
His heartbeat was deafening.
Every bone in his body creaked and mended, producing discordant sounds.
Loud, loud, loud, loud.
All the extra noise—every last bit of it, everything, all of it—was a nuisance.
Those voices will go silent, won't they?
They're still here... they won't stop... I can hear them...
No matter how much he tried not to think, to become nothing— Garfiel's ears, or perhaps parts of him that weren't eardrums, kept picking up the voices.
Someone's voice. A familiar voice. A voice he'd heard many times. A voice that made his chest burn. A voice that choked him up. A voice that made him proud. A voice that couldn't hold back its anger.
All those voices refused to let Garfiel go.
Even if he tried to fight on instinct alone, the surging waves would not recede, and Garfiel could not be alone.
If thinking made him weaker, then the person he was right now was weak.
He was different from the time in the
If carrying more things meant growing weaker—then did people grow weaker the longer they lived?
"That's... not how it is."
Cradling voices that wouldn't disappear, swallowing the taste of defeat, wrapping himself in his hunger for victory, pouring in his admiration and envy— Garfiel challenged the God of Battle.
"——kuh-ha"
"————"
The color of Garfiel's eyes changed.
Having witnessed it, Kurgan moved quietly.
Of the four demon cleavers, two were sheathed once more.
But this did not mean the God of Battle's fighting spirit had diminished. The power concentrating into the remaining two demon cleavers increased, and as if to confirm it, the God of Battle's stance shifted.
The God of Battle, who had stood waiting in an immovable, wide stance, now placed his right foot forward and leaned slightly toward Garfiel.
A combat stance. The posture to fight.
It was proof that Kurgan had recognized Garfiel as an enemy.
"So until now you were literally treating me like a kid, huh? 'The Guwan bird is unsuited for raising young'—isn't that exactly what this means?"
"————"
Silence. Against that silent God of Battle, Garfiel lunged.
The ferocious charge met the demon cleavers.
The despair of a wall looming head-on—overcoming the illusion born of that fear, Garfiel slipped through the gap.
In the previous exchange, his first blow had been misjudged.
The cause was the demonic aura Kurgan exuded, and the hallucination born of Garfiel's heart being far too afraid of a hero.
"Oh—OHH!"
His rising punch drove into Kurgan's torso.
The dull thud of steel striking flesh—but the blow hadn't landed where he'd aimed. It struck one of the arms that had been thrust between them.
"Damn it—you're not bad!"
While the fist was caught in the giant's palm, Garfiel roared.
Sucking power up through the sole of his boot, channeling it into the fist trapped in Kurgan's palm, and with a twisting motion, his strike exploded with force.
Kurgan's receiving fingers twisted, and the fist-hammer came crashing down—Garfiel twisted his body to evade. Riding the momentum, he planted a foot on the God of Battle's waist, then his chest, scaling the body upward before kicking off the chin into a somersault.
Kurgan staggered back, and simultaneously a demon cleaver slashed horizontally.
Reading the trajectory through the shriek of wind and air, he caught the attack on both arms raised as shields.
A thunderous crash, and Garfiel's body was launched far away.
"Rrrruuugh!"
Driving his limbs into the cobblestone, he forcibly arrested his tumbling body. In front of him as he raised his head, the God of Battle's follow-up drove in.
Kurgan—who had not pressed an attack until now—bore down to crush Garfiel flat.
The judgment was instantaneous, the action was in a flash, the result was right after.
"————"
Pulling both arms from the cobblestone, he flipped the ground before him and smashed it down. Kurgan, who had been charging in, shattered through that wall shoulder-first, and a demon cleaver plunged in.
A violent sound.
Garfiel, struck head-on, was driven downward. His heel, planted to resist, gouged into the ground, and broken fangs went flying.
But— "You think I'm... not gonna take this, you bastard?!"
The tip of the demon cleaver's thrust was held in his teeth.
His canines crumpled, blood streamed down the blade, but Garfiel did not hesitate.
"————"
The strength of his neck and jaw exploded, and Kurgan's body wavered.
Another arm grabbed the hilt of the clamped demon cleaver, trying to wrench it free, but the embedded fangs would not let go.
On the contrary, the biting force increased. Garfiel's upper body swelled—half-beastification had begun.
"Guh—o—ooooh—GAAAAAH!"
The beastification of the head severely degraded cognitive function.
He had been warned many times that being reduced to little more than beastly reason was a double-edged sword.
But in this moment, Garfiel chose it.
The power of the abhorrent half—that was what he needed now.
To face the God of Battle, who was drawing out the full power of his own lineage as a Many-Armed Tribe member, how could he win while denying his own roots?
Tiger, tiger, tiger—lend me your strength, right now, right here!
"————"
When the golden tiger's eyes flew open, the demon cleaver shattered.
The blade cracked across its entire surface, the destruction propagating into the hilt, and the great body—left with nowhere to put its strength—swayed heavily.
Now. Truly, the opening.
"Gaaagh!"
The beast arm swung down and hammered into Kurgan's head. As the giant staggered, a claw strike followed.
Claw slash and beast-arm strike landed simultaneously, and Kurgan sprayed blood as he staggered back.
"————"
The counterattack—his fist met it head-on.
His elbow smashed into the great tiger's face, the nose caving in, and immediately after, a kick from below launched the chin upward.
The knee buckled, the body nearly collapsing, but he held firm. A straight-fired fist crossed against the giant arm, and their faces rebounded off each other.
Blood scattered. Vision blurred.
His head lost all sense of up and down. His body left everything behind.
So what. Everything that matters is packed right here in my chest.
Even if told not to think, there were things that wouldn't disappear—and they drove this bloody, battered body forward.
The demon cleaver swung.
Of the two that remained—the one that hadn't been destroyed.
The judgment was instantaneous, the action was in a flash, the result was always right after.
"Guh... oh..."
He let the blade that had swept across his torso slide over the shield and catch in his abdominals.
Even after dispersing the force, the power was such that it could have cleaved him in half right through his thick abs.
But to cut through the needle-wire body hair and the swollen great tiger's frame, Kurgan needed one more step of penetration.
Kurgan's footing had already been shattered by Garfiel's advance. The blessing of the Blessing of the Earth Spirits had called it forth.
"Oooh—OOOH!"
With the blade still embedded in his abs, Garfiel lunged onto the God of Battle's body.
Kurgan tried to resist with brute strength and pulled back, but Garfiel would not let him.
His mouth with its broken fangs, his arm that had been destroyed more than once, his instinct that had accepted the loss of reason—they grabbed Kurgan and wrestled him in.
"————"
Grasping the giant who had no footing, Garfiel threw Kurgan behind him—into the waterway.
In the instant of falling, Kurgan's arm caught his collar, and they plummeted together.
A tremendous splash, and both bodies plunged into the waterway.
The two giants tumbled against each other as the current caught them, the waterway turning red with their blood as they were swept downstream.
"————"
Even underwater, the exchange of blows between the two shadows did not stop.
Ignoring water resistance, fighting in the darkness and poor visibility of the depths, Garfiel and Kurgan kept striking each other.
Massive fists twisted internal organs, groans of agony squeezed oxygen from lungs. Pain called forth greater pain, suffering called forth greater suffering—so continued the underwater battle.
Within it, Garfiel became aware of his disadvantage.
The God of Battle before him showed no signs of breathing, for some reason. He grasped the reality—the dead had returned to life.
Oxygen deprivation created sluggishness in his movements, and a slow stagnation crept over Garfiel.
The current gradually picked up speed. Incline after incline, waterfall after waterfall—the two bodies tumbled again and again.
In that repetition, movement finally ceased.
Consciousness drifted, and with it, the fighting spirit at his fingertips faded away.
One breath—wasn't enough.
That was the proper cause of his defeat, and Garfiel's awareness went hollow. And with that, the outcome was— "————"
Through the water where sound traveled poorly, a heavy, resonant sound echoed.
His fading consciousness surged back, and through the dark, murky water, Garfiel saw it.
The demon cleaver gouging the wall of the waterway, scraping the bottom—the God of Battle's strike creating a fatal wound in the path of the current.
There was no time—even oxygen was gone—to ask what it was for.
The clanging of steel altered the flow, and finally the sound of shattering steel and an impact overlapped.
The next instant, what emerged was a new and tremendous current.
A flow different from the waterway's proper course—a different current. Garfiel's body rode it and was ejected from the waterway as if sucked out.
"Bluuh—ha—geeh"
The sensation of being enveloped by water vanished, and Garfiel violently spat out the enormous amount of water he'd been holding.
Water streamed from his eyes, his nose, his ears—from every hole in his face, and Garfiel shook his head.
What had happened—and then he heard it.
"—Gorgeous Tiger?"
Hidden beneath the sound of flowing water, a weak voice called his name.