——What the blue-gleaming orb projected was a scene of blazing flames so intense it seemed to herald the end of the world.
Chained by locks in the underground prison, hung before Priscilla's eyes, the sphinx with its cadaverous, death-pale skin showed her the brutal battle unfolding in a corner of the imperial capital.
On one side, a being that had swallowed the very core of the Empire into itself; on the other, a titanic existence that refused to yield a single step — two inconceivable facts colliding head-on made this nothing short of a passage from myth.
The sort of thing from which songs and stories passed down since ancient times were born.
"——However, that is only true if there is someone to pass on what they have seen and heard."
"Do not intrude upon another's — let alone mine — reverie. Excessive boorishness becomes tedious enough that even anger feels like a chore."
Priscilla responded to the voice that spoke with faint warmth while gazing at the same scene in the orb.
Faint. Yes, a voice with faint warmth — not warmthless, but faint. Sensing this, Priscilla furrowed her well-shaped brow and regarded the sphinx through the orb.
The opponent standing before her — the self-proclaimed leader of the "Great Disaster" — had deliberately come down to Priscilla's cell to show her the tragic state of Volachia, a land deeply tied to her.
What the sphinx had whispered into Volachia's ear while Priscilla was confined and sealed away, she could not know. But the results were displayed in the orb, and the sphinx's purpose lay right before her.
Volachia was teetering on the brink of bursting from the enormity of what it harbored within, and the sphinx was observing Priscilla as she witnessed Volachia's suffering.
Within those eyes that sank black into gold, there was an unmistakable curiosity and a glimmer of anticipation.
The sphinx was anticipating — that Priscilla's heart would waver at Volachia's tragedy.
It was, without question ——— "——An obsession with me."
Meeting Priscilla's gaze as she uttered those words, the sphinx silently parted her lips.
It was affirmation — an expression of rapture. Including the catalyst that had triggered this "Great Disaster" itself, the sphinx's obsession with Priscilla was beyond doubt.
Its origin remained unclear, but every action driven by that obsession was contemptible.
"To have what was given to you taken away — that is the act most calculated to bristle the emotions, as I have learned from personal experience. What about you? Query — confirmation needed."
"Quite cheerful when things go your way, aren't you."
"Yes. I acknowledge it. As you say, I feel a surge of exhilaration. I had considered it only natural that things would unfold according to my prior plans, but... I too should have known the feeling of achievement in the past. Had I, perhaps the outcome of the 'Subjugation War' would have been different."
"———"
"——But then, I would be unable to be given anything, unable to gain anything."
Leaning forward over Priscilla as she spoke at length, the sphinx placed one hand against her own chest and bowed her head as though biting down on something.
From this posture, Priscilla discerned an emotion that was neither rapture nor fury — and understood.
That posture radiating pathos — that was what had driven the sphinx to become the "Great Disaster."
"———"
Setting the sphinx's inner state aside, Priscilla turned her attention back to the orb's vision.
On a battlefield where a fight so titanic it threatened to alter the very nature of the world raged on without pause, what collided was a mass of power that could be called the Empire itself, and a bolt of lightning that refused to be overwhelmed.
But within that maelstrom, Priscilla did not miss the thing so faint it seemed ready to vanish.
"Can something weak, fragile, timid, born innocent with nothing at all, that rails against becoming no one — leave its footprints in a passage of myth?"
"What are you—"
Priscilla had averted her own gaze, and the sphinx's mind moved to wonder what she had seen in the orb. But she never confirmed what it was that had caught Priscilla's attention.
Faster than that, tremors reached even the underground prison — erupting throughout the imperial capital.
"I suspect it must be my brother."
"Vincent Volachia, the Emperor?"
The sphinx, suspicious of some development, knit her slender brows at Priscilla's murmur.
It must have been a possibility she did not rate very highly within her own calculations. Priscilla, confined to the underground prison, had no way of knowing, but what was the total number of forces the sphinx had fielded?
That an emperor who had once abandoned the capital could find some way to break through that horde of the dead — "The swordsman who ended my life was also in the midst of a one-on-one duel with Volachia's foremost general... Even if the Volachia Emperor is a man of cunning, he cannot overturn a board that has already been checkmated. —No."
Tracing a finger along her own lips, the sphinx attempted to dismiss the troubling possibility. But midway through that deliberation, her dark eyes narrowed.
And then ——— "——An extraneous element slipped in and blocked Barga's stratagem?"
"Oh? So you've already sensed a thread of it."
The sphinx let the words slip out as if struck by sudden realization.
She had put the thought that surfaced in her mind onto her tongue, then immediately began shaking her head to deny it. At that moment, Priscilla deliberately let silence hang.
As the sphinx looked toward her in that instant, Priscilla smiled languidly.
"Your reasoning seems to have hit a wall, has it? Then allow me an 'advice' of my own. —Call what you felt an intuition."
"Intuition..."
"You may think of it as your heart having tasted the wind. Rather ironic for the dead, wouldn't you say?"
At Priscilla's snort of amusement, the sphinx fell silent and weighed Priscilla's words.
Her inborn disposition was neither to laugh it off nor to dismiss it coldly — calling it "inborn" was equally ironic, but the sphinx continued her reasoning beyond the boundary of life and death.
Eventually, she slowly looked upward ——— "I concede. There exists an extraneous element capable of derailing my plans. —Query — revision required."
With the sphinx acknowledging this shift in herself before her, Priscilla likewise raised her eyes toward the ceiling.
Nothing but the dimly lit, time-blackened ceiling of the underground prison, faintly illuminated by the orb's light yet still bearing the weight of history.
But that only proved the narrowness of the one who looked upon it.
Priscilla was not raising her gaze to confirm the state of that soiled ceiling.
It was so that her heart would not miss its chance to taste the wind.
△▼△▼△▼△ ——A battle that began abruptly, resolved with brutal pragmatism, and resumed with sacrilege.
Swarmed from every direction by countless swordsmen bearing the same face, Iris shattered them head-on after a single instant of surprise.
"A bizarre spectacle, yet nothing more than a paper tiger, de gozansu!"
Dressed in a gown, Iris's arm swept forth, and the approaching horde of blue-haired swordsmen —
But some among the Rowans had slipped past that opening and closed to blade's length. Their full-power strikes Iris caught effortlessly between two fingers of one hand, leaned to dodge the blade, and then drove a stomping foot down — the shockwave scattering the rest.
Literally a brush of steel on sleeve — no matter how they numbered, they were no match.
That was the gulf of power between Iris and Rowan, now a revenant.
However ——— "Next," "Next," "Next," "Next," "Next," "de gozansu."
"———"
The sheer impossibility of the defeated涌出 one after another froze her thoughts.
Men approaching with elated grins, faces that practically declared they had laid hands on their heart's desire — no, the entire swarm of identical Rowans — leveled their blades at Iris.
Reflexively countering their frenzied slashes, deflecting every one, what flashed through Iris's mind was self-reproach for what she had done.
She had overpowered them by force, driven them off without taking their lives, and tried to reduce the dead — even if only slightly.
Her arrogant thinking had blinded her to the fact that it would shatter the hearts of those who had been stained by the Empire's ways and cause them anguish.
The result, the victim of that, was the Rowan standing before her now.
"I —"
She dodged the incoming blade and struck the approaching faces with her kiseru. Her long, slender leg kicked one up from between the thighs, then caught the airborne body by the foot and smashed it spectacularly into the surrounding Rowans, scattering them as they closed to a dozen.
But no matter how she struck or cut down, the Rowan revenants surged back with undiminished momentum.
"I —!"
A Rowan's body, shattered by Iris's blow, broke apart like a ceramic vessel.
But the next Rowan trampled over the pieces without hesitation and charged in, only to shatter again.
To repeat this over and over was to be placed in the role of an executioner with no end in sight.
There were, in truth, those who cared nothing for destroying things shaped like humans.
But in most cases, destroying something shaped like human — a vessel for life — required great resolve, determination, or else the grim ease of habit and resignation.
Iris was, one could say, the very pinnacle of the latter.
Even now, she could not bring herself to kill without a trace of inner pain, even if the opponent was an enemy.
Precisely because of that, Iris had manifested a power that could only be wielded by someone who possessed compassion for others — the "Soul Marriage Art."
That power was what had pushed Iris to the summit of strength known as the "Nine Divine Generals," though it was the malicious miracle of her soul being bound to the Empire's very earth that had made it possible.
In any case, whether the opponent was an existence as far beyond the pale as Rowan Segmunt, or a seemingly endless parade of resurrected bodies, every time she shattered one, Iris's heart groaned.
Torn apart by unbearable pain, her heart corroded ever deeper, Iris was laid bare.
Every time she plucked away a single life, every time she destroyed a physical form, every time she allowed the world as it was to be lost — Iris's soul cracked.
"I am ——!"
And where that cracked soul finally arrived — For Iris, who had lived unwillingly across a vast stretch of time; for Sandra Benedict, who had given birth to Prisca and perished tragically; and for
"——Ah."
A hoarse breath escaped red lips, and in the next instant, blood sprayed.
A droplet struck the cheek of the blade's owner, and an extended tongue licked it away.
A smile spilled forth. —An evil, swordsman's smile.
"The Heavenswordsman has reached the stage where even the tips of her toes qualify."
△▼△▼△▼△ The outstretched hand slipped past, and the naked blade grazed the shoulder of the beautiful woman.
A heartbeat later, the spray of blood vividly stained the grey streets, and Rowan surpassed the finest sword strike of his life — no, not life, for he was already a revenant; rather, the finest since his existence began.
"More, more, more, more, more — more is coming, de gozansu!"
Yet his insatiable desire, born from a heart that no longer beat and sent through his entire body in place of circulating blood, drove Rowan's existence to accelerate its evolution.
Before him, the beautiful fox-woman was terrifyingly strong. An unbelievable foe. An overwhelming gap in power that easily shattered everything Rowan had built.
Normally, upon such a defeat, Rowan's challenge should have ended there. But this abnormality — threatening the capital, the Empire, the world — would not allow Rowan to end.
He had once placed a blade to his own neck, turning his back on a life without purpose or value.
Believing that only by casting himself aside could he reach within his grasp what had always been beyond it — and that if he fell short, he would simply rot and die — when he drew that blade, Rowan's vision truly opened.
"Oh, oh, ah! How grotesque the world I had been looking at all this while, de gozansho!"
With his vision opened, Rowan effortlessly surpassed the realm his living self had desperately clawed toward.
Life was no good after all. Life was not worth having. Because it was the first thing given upon birth, even a world-weary man like Rowan had clung to it.
Only by casting all of that aside did Rowan obtain the lightness of spirit to pursue the Heavenly Sword.
This — this lack of attachment — was the qualification to ascend the rung leading to the Heavenly Sword.
"Look and see, old man! Even you couldn't do it, right!"
This was the state one could finally reach only by losing one's life.
In other words, it was a vista that even
How cruel of the Sword God to place the Heavenly Sword at a summit reachable only through death.
He had won the gamble. —And so, he would now collect the swollen stakes.
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
Rowan's laughter rang out, and his swordsmanship began to reach the heights that had seemed so far away.
No matter how furiously the advancing Rowan swung his blade, Iris before him swatted them all aside. He could not keep up with her as she kicked off the ground, and a single strike from her slender female arm was enough to send him sprawling.
That overwhelming disparity was beginning to close — at an unbelievable speed.
——Here, let us once more speak of the misfortune of the man called Rowan Segmunt.
Rowan had a lifelong yearning. Something he had always sought. A prayer he had never stopped craving.
But he had never found the chance to fulfill it, nor the worthy opponent he needed.
That was the tragedy of Rowan Segmunt — a man who was unfortunate until the very moment his life ran out.
——And here, let us speak of one miracle in the life of Rowan Segmunt.
Rowan had a lifelong yearning. Something he had always sought. A prayer he had never stopped craving.
And at last, he had found the chance to fulfill it, the worthy opponent he had sought.
Even in death, his obsession with the "Heavenly Sword" — something never lost — had resurrected Rowan Segmunt as a revenant. No matter how many times he was shattered or refused to be broken, his soul conjured successive identical existences, transforming the man into a monster beyond anything he had been in life.
When a warrior faces a formidable foe and witnesses skill far beyond their own, fighting with life on the line and using that experience as nourishment — they can achieve explosive growth.
The same thing was about to occur as a miracle in Rowan's case.
Facing a formidable foe in Iris, witnessing skill far beyond his own again and again, and using a battle fought while being shattered over and over — literally — as nourishment.
Had
That revenant's abnormal persistence and thirst for learning intertwined, honing Rowan's sword to a razor's edge.
And so — the swordsmanship of the revenant who had left his living blade behind, the art of "Corpse Sword Master" that was Rowan Segmunt's killing craft — closed in upon Iris's life.
"Ugh... ah..."
Surrounded on all four sides, Iris could not cope with every slashing blade. Her arm and flank were torn open, blood spilling as she let out a small groan.
Hearing that feeble sound, Rowan shook his head with displeasure.
He did not want to hear it. He did not want to hear it. He did not want to hear the weakness of the strong.
Rowan was grateful to Iris. It was because of her that he had grown stronger. Dying was merely a catalyst — something he had needed on his path to the "Heavenly Sword." Iris had no reason to feel troubled about any of it.
And so, because he did not want to hear it, because it grated on his ears, because when the inferior were catching up to the superior, what he wanted was not a sob but a roar of applause — therefore ——— "Spare the tears, young lady. It ruins that pretty face of yours, de gozansu."
The downward slash from high guard was caught by the kiseru Iris raised in haste, while her other hand punched straight through Rowan's torso.
This Rowan was finished. But it did not matter. Another Rowan immediately burst forward, and before the pierced Rowan could crumble, they closed in on Iris with one arm pinned.
A leaping kick shattered that Rowan. In doing so, she had now lost one arm and one leg. A Rowan stabbed from behind — her agile tail lashed out to strike it, but blood gouted from the tail's base. A slash had connected. Iris's expression twisted in pain. Bad. Truly bad.
"You over there — you won't die and come back to keep me company forever, will you?"
It would be a splendid future, but one that was probably impossible.
"———"
Locking eyes with the Rowan who closed in, Iris was gazing at something beyond life and death — somewhere else entirely.
It was not at the victory or defeat, the life or death before her, but at something far different: one might say, she was looking into the past.
Those who gaze into the past and mourn it are never visited by glory.
That much, from the depths of his hollowed-out, empty heart, Rowan deeply regretted ——— "——I humbly accept your life."
A streak of silver closed the distance, the finest swordsmanship since his existence began, hurtling toward the woman's slender neck.
And there, a perfect, artistically exquisite decapitation should have been accomplished.
"Wh—"
Blocked by a sensation hard, firm, and unyielding, the life-snatching technique came to a halt.
That it was a powerful foe — the finest rival, and in a sense a teacher — made this blow of gratitude all the more agonizing to have stopped. Rowan's gold-shot eyes, now blackened, widened in astonishment.
Being stopped in a single blow was painful enough, but the one who stopped it was the real problem.
It was not Iris, whom he had recognized as formidable enemy, difficult foe, and worthy rival. It was not the hidden strength she had revealed at death's door. It was, quite simply, an interference.
"——Lady Yorna."
A childish voice called that name — none other than Rowan's blade — and cut through his strike.
Forced entry, putting her entire body in the path of the blow — even so, from Rowan's perspective, it should not have been possible to pull off.
Even if she had thrown her entire slender body into the gap, his slash had been charged with enough power to bisect her from end to end. And yet ——— "Same faces, but move — all of you!"
Next, a voice clear as a ringing bell sounded boldly, and the taut tension in the air was torn asunder.
In that instant, an ice flower that bloomed upon the earth swallowed the surrounding scenery in a single sweep, and the Rowans hidden within it — Rowan upon Rowan and all the rest — were reduced to nourishment for that flower.
Frozen in place, unable to move, Rowan caught sight of himself from the corner of his eye as he leaped back, raising his blade and straining to comprehend what had just occurred.
There ——— "At last. At last, I am able to see you once more."
A quiet voice, brimming with emotion, murmured those words as the antlered girl drew Iris into an embrace.
Bloodied and on her knees, Iris was pulled against the slight chest of the shorter girl, her blue eyes going wide with surprise as she accepted the embrace.
And then, the girl who held Iris turned her dark eyes upon Rowan and ——— "Though I am unworthy, I shall be the one to deal with the villain who raises a blade against Lady Yorna."
The antlered girl declared this clearly and without hesitation.