——Yugald Vlachia was a king forced into solitude.
Cursed with the "Thorn Curse" before he could even begin to think, his body became one that no family member or servant could approach. He had no choice but to grow up in a desperately skewed environment.
Suffering from congenital analgesia, Yugald himself never experienced the pain of the Thorn Curse he radiated. But he understood—from the pained expressions and screams of those around him—that his very existence was corroding and tormenting everyone near him. And so he accepted a life of isolation.
Regarding the Selection Ritual as well, his resolve to fight through it had been dangerously fragile.
From a common-sense perspective, he judged that ascending to the throne while manifesting the Thorn Curse would bring far too many disadvantages to the governance of the Vlachia Empire.
Even if he somehow became Emperor, an Emperor who could never once appear at audiences with key officials of the state or negotiations with dignitaries of foreign nations—such a figure should not exist.
Therefore, the moment he decided he should not fight his way through the Selection Ritual, Yugald set his remaining lifespan as the age at which the ceremony would begin.
Until that age, Yugald absorbed every scrap of knowledge he could, and devoted himself to the duties of the imperial family—that is, improving and safeguarding the lives and peace of the Empire's citizens.
Yugald, corroded by the Thorn Curse and forced into solitude.
And yet, despite such circumstances, Yugald did not consider himself unfortunate. Since there was a rational answer to the question of *why* he had been cursed, he bore no grudge toward the one who had cast it.
Some are born blind. Others are born without the use of their limbs. That he could not stand beside others was merely another variety of the same condition.
Moreover, in a world where the blind and the limbless were constantly losing their lives, he considered himself fortunate to have survived this long—thanks to his imperial lineage.
Because of his birth, Yugald could live on without ever knowing hunger, even without family or anyone close at his side. If that was the case, then he would fulfill his duty as a member of the imperial family.
It was unfair to his mother and the others in the household, but he could not seize the throne. —If that was the case, then at the very least, he would use the short years remaining to him for the sake of the world that surrounded him.
——And that was precisely why his encounter with *her* had been the greatest mistake of Yugald's life.
Not because he had come to desire the throne he had already given up on. Not because he had abandoned his duty as royalty.
He had simply come to want to live. —To live alongside Iris.
△▼△▼△▼△ The Thorn Curse had been cast upon Yugald Vlachia, and its purpose was to force Yugald into solitude.
What conditions would maximize its effectiveness?
The opposite of solitude could be rephrased as love. In other words, the Thorn Curse was a spell that drove away those one loved.
Which meant— "The thorns on my chest vanished, but the rest didn't—turns out, that's the answer."
The reason the thorns had disappeared from the chest of the werewolf who had betrayed the "Thorn Emperor" and been branded a traitor in a fairy tale that would be passed down for ages—and who was the former of the two creatures (werewolf and earth-rat) to suffer that fate—was that Yugald had recognized Halibel as a werewolf, thus removing him from the conditions of the Thorn Curse.
The Thorn Curse only activated against those one loved.
"Being a big ol' bundle of love—who could that possibly have been bad for, I wonder."
Mixing his frustration into the purple smoke, Halibel drew the entire contents of his pipe in one long pull.
The special tobacco he had dropped into the fire dish burned away in a single inhalation, filling lungs already abnormally large to capacity. The next instant, clenching his teeth, he flicked the pipe into the air above his head, and the black-kimono-clad Halibel leaned his upper body forward as black hair swept diagonally behind him—slashing down with the Demonsword.
Behind him, the shockwave of his slash sent the Imperial Capital's streetscape tilting at an angle as Halibel stepped forward with his long frame, and at the same time, two more equally tall figures materialized beside him.
All three were Halibel—clones indistinguishable in appearance.
However— "I saw that trick before."
The Sunblade in his raised right hand swung downward, and flames engulfed the path of all four Halibels.
The inferno was so intense it appeared almost white, a curtain of fire drawn across the street. Halibel faced a forced choice: leap over or go around. But Halibel chose neither—a third option.
"This time's a little different from the last show."
Two of the four Halibels surged ahead, palms thrust forward into the rising wall of flame.
A step that cracked the cobblestones, combined with a palm strike that could blast apart a lesser gate in a single blow—two such strikes halted just short of the fire, and the wind they generated became a gale that blew the flames away.
Yugald's expressionless mask shifted almost imperceptibly at that—though it was too soon for surprise.
The two who had lagged behind overtook the pair in front and likewise drove their battering-ram palms straight into Yugald's torso.
"—!"
Suppressing a groan deep in his throat, Yugald was sent flying straight backward from the impact. But only shallowly—he had caught Halibel's palms against the flat of the Sunblade at the last instant, then deliberately launched himself back.
Even so, to endure Halibel's offensive power without dying—for someone whose only station was Emperor, what extraordinary martial prowess this was.
If he hadn't wasted his life being Emperor and had simply trained as a warrior, he would be in a class of his own.
But it was only natural.
Given his constitution, Yugald could not rely on subordinates to protect his body. The only way to defend himself was with his own hands. For this Emperor, there had never been another choice.
"I'm not holding back."
Disregarding the other's circumstances, Halibel's pursuit of the flying Yugald did not relent.
To kill his backward momentum, Yugald scraped his toes against the ground and spun toward the sound of Halibel's voice nearby, ready to bring down a slashing strike.
But the Halibel there took the slash at an angle, instantly dissolving into a scatter of beast fur. As Yugald's eyes went wide, another Halibel kicked up at him from directly below.
"Mmph—!"
Kicked in the back and launched into the air, Yugald found Halibels lunging at him from every direction—front, back, left, right—each one swinging a knife-hand in mirror-perfect symmetry. But Yugald did not simply endure the assault. He used the Sunblade's function to obliterate them.
Specifically, by triggering an atmospheric explosion through ultra-rapid heating, he threw off his own movement.
The crimson-hot Sunblade detonated, sending Yugald spinning, and his slash described a perfect circle in midair, bisecting all four Halibels.
All four immediately burst into flame—every last one of them was nothing but beast fur.
In their place, an elbow strike descended from directly above like a war-axe, slamming into Yugald's head with devastating force. The Emperor tumbled vertically and crashed into the Imperial Capital's street with a thunderous boom, carving out a circular crater.
Halibel landed beside the crater, and when he casually extended a hand, his pipe—tossed into his mouth just before impact—fell perfectly into his waiting fingers.
And then— "Normally you'd be dead by now. But things don't go that easy, do they?"
"—No. They don't."
From within the swirling smoke, a calm reply rose to meet Halibel's voice as he peered down into the center of the crater.
Taking this much damage with nothing to show for it was painful enough, but since it was within expectations, the psychic wound was kept to a minimum. From this exchange, Halibel revised his assessment of the Sunblade and the Demonsword. He had considered the Demonsword more dangerous, but the Sunblade was every bit as formidable.
And beyond even that— "You're distinguishing between solid clones and hollow ones, aren't you?"
Rising from the crater floor, Yugald analyzed the exchange that had just occurred.
Without confirming whether his deduction was right or wrong, Halibel simply licked the blood dripping from the cut on his left cheek and let his silence serve as his answer.
"Techniques of this caliber must require training that draws blood with every session. You have my admiration."
"How kind of you."
The minimal reply was to avoid giving away unnecessary information, but Yugald's observation had been correct.
Halibel's clones came in two varieties: decoys woven from beast hair, and true clones indistinguishable from Halibel's actual body.
Combining these to confuse the opponent was the core of Halibel's fighting style. Even his decoys possessed enough power to completely overwhelm any ordinary adversary.
The problem was that Yugald was no ordinary opponent—and furthermore, a man impervious to the very curses that were Halibel's specialty.
Techniques designed to kill were useless against someone already dead.
Yugald's soul already bore the most impenetrable curse imaginable.
However— "If I've decided to do it, I'd better follow through, or Ana will scold me."
He twirled the pipe in his hand, loaded the fire dish with fresh tobacco, and lit it.
Just as before, he filled his lungs with smoke in a single draw, and the illusion of power surging through his limbs trickled into his brain. From there, he launched his next attack at Yugald, still standing at the center of the crater— "I'll have to stop you there. You are too strong. I have no choice but to get serious myself."
In that same instant, Yugald burst from the crater, the Sunblade already raised before him.
The descending Sunblade—Halibel threw himself into its path at the last moment, not to catch the blade itself, but to seize Yugald's right arm and stop the attack barehanded.
The shockwave that followed passed clean through behind Halibel, and the already carved and scorched buildings of the Imperial Capital disintegrated into scattered ash.
At that moment, Yugald held only the Sunblade in one hand. The Demonsword he had carried in his left was planted in the crater floor, abandoned.
This was not a decision to discard a powerful weapon.
"I'll face you with one blade I know, not two I don't."
"You really are a disagreeable fellow, Your Imperial Majesty."
Selecting precisely the option most unfavorable to one's opponent at every turn—that was, in truth, a ninja's trade.
Facing Yugald, who executed this with extraordinary perception and resolve, Halibel pinned that arm and drove in with three clones simultaneously.
Palm strikes and kicks—one even hurled a slab of torn-up earth like shrapnel. Yugald, his arm still seized, overpowered all three with overwhelming swordsmanship.
In the span of a blink, he dispelled the Sunblade from his gripped right hand and recreated it in his free left, then burned away the three encroaching Halibels.
Two of the three had been beast-hair decoys—but the one made of shrapnel had been solid.
Feeling the singed smell of his own scorched hair, Halibel slashed out with a knife-hand, carving across Yugald's cheek—and the super-grade exchange of seconds began.
△▼△▼△▼△ ——There exists, in this, what could be called a cruel twist of fate.
The Thorn Curse had forced solitude upon Yugald, but the curse itself brought no pain to Yugald, who suffered from congenital analgesia. However, even though Yugald was immune to pain, the fact remained that his body was being corroded by the curse and continuing to suffer its effects.
Indeed, young Yugald felt no pain but had experienced difficulty breathing under the curse's oppressive pressure, and his movements had been restricted. But such effects were inconvenient for a Yugald who had already set his remaining lifespan and decided what to accomplish within it.
To what degree his spirit had resonated with his body in response was unclear.
But before long, Yugald's body had become capable of functioning at full capacity, entirely undisturbed by the effects of the Thorn Curse—functioning perfectly for the pursuit of Yugald's own purposes.
In other words, Yugald's body had evolved to respond to the constant, life-threatening danger he faced. —The origin of the strongest Emperor in Imperial history lay in this very irony.
Yugald's body, honed solely for the purpose of survival, served as the perfect foundation for cultivating his own machine-like diligence.
Unable to place himself under guard by nature of his condition, Yugald had trained himself to protect his own body. Armed with his talent and the physique to maximize it, he had grown stronger and stronger, with no point of comparison.
It was a meaningless hypothesis given that the Thorn Curse had made Yugald strong, but his skill and swordsmanship were such that, curse or no curse, he could have annihilated all of the Nine Divine Generals of his era.
Of course, in practice, Yugald's "battles" consisted almost entirely of severing the heads of opponents who were already writhing in pain from the Thorn Curse. His fight against the Nine Divine Generals had been much the same.
For Yugald, combat was not a contest of strength—it was the work of execution.
"I commend you."
Little known to most, Yugald Vlachia was the Emperor in Vlachia's history who had spoken these words more than any other.
Precisely because he could not stand on the same ground as others, precisely because he understood that he had been placed in a position fundamentally different from everyone else, Yugald never withheld praise for others.
And so, this was an ironic encounter.
The "Thorn Emperor" who had praised others more than any ruler in Imperial history, and the werewolf whose way of being was called "Admirer" in the modern age—colliding here, separated by life and death.
But there was yet another cruel twist of fate in this meeting.
As previously established, for Yugald, combat had always been one-sided.
The Thorn Curse corroded his targets, and Yugald faced enemies who were anything but at full strength, able to achieve victory only by severing their heads.
Now, that concept of "battle" that defined Yugald Vlachia was changing.
Through his clash with Halibel, the werewolf known as the "Admirer," who bore no curse.
"Hah—"
A small breath escaped parted lips, and Yugald's single flash painted the world red.
The crimson sword-light cut diagonally across the sky—but the trace of that slash held no trace of the tall werewolf's figure. The opponent had stopped throwing out clones and switched entirely to evasion.
Not to buy time—to read Yugald's swordsmanship.
"Good judgment."
Genuine admiration—the accolade of one who recognized correctness filled Yugald's heart.
This resurrected body, despite its poor complexion, was in excellent condition. Yugald felt almost as though he could move without limit.
Of course, in reality that was not the case. This body did not exceed its living strength, and he should not expect more from it than repairs beyond what a broken body could sustain.
Even in a corpse's body, pain was felt just the same.
Therefore, the only one who could stand here as this place's guardian was Yugald alone. Anyone else—even other corpses—would be bound and tormented if they entered the range of the curse.
Even if they were corpses, Yugald had no intention of causing his people unnecessary suffering.
Above all— "I do not wish for anyone to interfere in my fight with you."
Combat. *This* was combat.
Exchanging techniques with Halibel, reshaping the very form of the Imperial Capital, Yugald poured all his strength into the arm wielding the Sunblade, devoting himself to this rendezvous with an enemy he could not kill.
It was the first time, in life and in death alike, that Yugald had ever felt exhilaration from swinging a blade at another being.
The first time Yugald had taken a life was at the estate where he lived apart from his family. An assassin had broken in, and in the garden, clutching his chest and writhing, the dying man had begged to be killed.
Since taking a life for the first time at seven years old, drawing his sword had always been the same as carrying out an execution.
And now—look at this.
Wielding his honed swordsmanship at full power, still falling short, chasing after a life just beyond reach—the sheer sweetness and preciousness of that sensation.
"—!"
His thrusting arm was caught from above and below by a knife-hand and a knee, then shattered at the elbow. The Sunblade, released by the impact, vanished from midair. He caught it with his intact right hand and swept it horizontally in a flash.
The opponent dodged with a motion like sinking into the ground, and in passing grazed his left hip with fingertips, carving out a chunk of flesh the size of a palm.
He spun around, trying to bring the Sunblade to bear on the retreating back, but the strike was blocked by the arm of a clone reaching from another direction. Simultaneously, their kicks collided at torso height, sending both flying backward. Flying backward. Backward.
"Half a step."
Next time, he would step half a pace deeper.
A technique he could not have performed mere ten seconds ago—but he was certain he could do it next time. A feat he had never accomplished in life or death, yet techniques branched from it filled his mind.
It was a greedy, and thoroughly desperate, growth for a corpse.
——Because the Thorn Curse had forced solitude upon him and turned combat into execution, Yugald Vlachia had missed every opportunity to hone his martial prowess.
His sword was for self-defense alone; given his unique station, he trained only as much as was necessary, never more.
And now, that very swordsmanship was being rapidly refined through the acquisition of vast combat experience.
Yugald did not know that the being he was facing was the strongest in the
But the enormous combat experience absorbed through that unknowing confrontation was driving Yugald's growth as a corpse into territory far more ravenous than anything he had achieved in life.
"I commend you... no. I thank you."
Thus, what tumbled from Yugald's lips was not praise but gratitude.
The lineage of this despised werewolf he faced brought a sentiment Yugald had never known in life. Since it was not an unpleasant one, such a gift demanded an appropriate response.
From Yugald, it was sincere.
"No need for thanks. I'm going to win anyway, y'know."
Halibel's unpromising words remained as insolent as ever—but even that insolence was pleasant to hear.
Come to think of it, perhaps because the Thorn Curse had always had its way, Yugald had rarely experienced being talked back to. Those who chose betrayal aside, the only one who had ever truly argued with Yugald was Iris— "—My star."
As Yugald murmured this, the werewolf's figure before him blurred like a haze.
A combination of extraordinary footwork and unbelievable speed created a visual deception distinct from his clones. The sensation of diverting a portion of his awareness to afterimages filled Yugald with nothing but admiration for the other's versatility.
But there was no need to be dazzled by tricks. The killing intent pressing in from overhead and both flanks—the harbinger of a fatal blow bearing down with ferocious speed—Yugald turned to face without flinching.
And stepped half a pace deeper, behind him.
"An obvious spread of killing intent. —In that case, the one with no presence is the real one."
"Hng!"
The angle was too shallow to deliver a clean cut, but the pommel of the Sunblade still buried itself deep in Halibel's side. The sensation of cracking bone transmitted through the impact—in the same instant, Yugald superheated the Sunblade's blade, and the resulting explosion drove the pommel deeper, crushing everything within.
"Ohhhh—!!"
With enough force to shatter his own wrist, Yugald sent Halibel flying.
He realized with quiet surprise that he had roared in the act of launching his opponent away. In his vision, Halibel smashed into the city wall, spawning a vicious web of cracks, the tall werewolf's legs going limp as his head hung down.
It had been his all. A strike of extraordinary refinement, the most polished of his life and death combined.
That sensation was being rewritten again and again in the course of this fight with Halibel. Half a step—stepped deeper. Next time, perhaps another half step, deeper still.
Perhaps far, far ahead, a landscape Yugald had never seen was waiting.
Perhaps he could reach it with Halibel, who was now rising to his feet. So stand, stand, *get up*—Yugald recognized the voice in the depths of his heart urging him to— "I must go to my star. This is where it ends between us."
And with his love for Iris, he crushed the martial rapture and the elation of reaching new heights.
"—!"
He would admit it. The fight with Halibel had been exhilarating.
In every sense, it was a stimulus he had never experienced in life or in death. He had gained the perspective that such a vista existed on the path he had abandoned—that he had let go of.
Whether he would ever have a chance this meaningful again was uncertain.
But even so, no matter what— "Not for a single blink will I take my eyes from my star."
That was Yugald's unwavering value, unchanged in life and in death.
No unknown stimulus, no exhilaration, could reach the Yugald who knew Iris.
He had desired the throne even knowing he should relinquish it—because he knew that without doing so, he could not remain with Iris for even one second longer.
In exchange for that indulgence, he had gained the throne. And even though the time without Iris far exceeded the time spent with her, he had continued to fulfill his duties as Emperor.
Yugald Vlachia had spent the least time in the Crystal Palace of any Emperor in the history of the capital.
He had spent nearly that entire imperial life alone after losing Iris. Even the production of an heir had been managed with minimal contact. He had devoted his life to the Empire.
Every other moment of his life had been spent for Iris.
Therefore— "I shall cut you down, black werewolf."
Deeming no more time necessary, Yugald carried the Sunblade toward the city wall.
He intended to finish the collapsing Halibel with a single flash—but could not. At the last moment, just as he swung, Yugald's right arm exploded from the shoulder.
"What—?"
The impact carried no sensation of being pierced. Yugald raised his brow. But the peak of his surprise lay beyond that. —The corpse's arm did not begin to regenerate.
Shards of the right arm, shattered like ceramic, scattered across the ground. The Sunblade plunged into the earth.
And then— "—At last. I've found the killing spot."
Halibel rose from the wall he leaned against, exhaling as though releasing a breath he had been holding. The werewolf, propped against the cracked wall, once again took his pipe into his mouth.
Slowly, he dropped tobacco into the fire dish, snapped his fingers to ignite it, and drew the smoke into his lungs. Watching those motions, Yugald touched his unhealing right arm.
From the right shoulder onward, the arm was gone. Not even the faintest sign of regeneration.
It was unmistakable. Yugald's right arm had died again—ahead of the resurrected body.
The one who had accomplished this stood before him in the form of Halibel—and the "killing spot" he had spoken of.
"There is still so much I do not know."
"Right? If you learned it, that'd be great. Was about to be the end of werewolves, though."
Halibel chuckled low in his throat, smoke curling from his nostrils as he nodded.
Yugald had been impressed time and again by this werewolf's versatility, but this was the apex. That he possessed even the means to kill a corpse—such mastery of craft was terrifying.
"With that same technique, can you kill even my life?"
"That was what I was observing for. Looks a little difficult, but... well, I should be able to, right?"
"Boasting. It is insolent. But I am in a pleasant mood, so I shall forgive it."
He pulled the embedded Sunblade free with his remaining left hand and leveled it at Halibel. The expression of the slowly rising Halibel was unreadable, but his words and manner were bold and fearless—not bluster.
His opponent, too, had completed his preparations to strike Yugald down. Once more, the dark creature that had been lurking in his chest—the one he had only just become aware of—throbbed. He crushed it instantly.
Having discovered a desire he never knew existed, he could say it with absolute clarity: There was no light in this world that could fulfill Yugald more than Iris.
Therefore— "The sixty-first Emperor, Yugald Vlachia."
"The 'Admirer,' Halibel."
They announced themselves simultaneously. In the next instant, both Yugald and Halibel vanished, and time itself ceased to exist.
"—!"
The ground beneath their feet exploded as they launched, billowing smoke erupting in all directions. Using that detonation as propulsion, the dozens of meters between Yugald and Halibel disappeared.
At a speed so great it gave the illusion that the world had shrunk, Yugald's blade struck first, slicing the air. The crimson slash, fired at an angle, dyed its trajectory crimson, and an instant later erupted with heat—producing a superheated blast that melted stone into liquid.
But Halibel swayed his body just enough to evade the slash, allowing only a scorched red burn on his right shoulder and back. Then he pressed forward.
Rising up, Halibel's foreleg collided with the one-armed Yugald, caught it with a raised knee, and a shockwave detonated between them.
The swelling shockwave blasted away flames and rubble. At a distance close enough to breathe on each other, attacks were exchanged with savage ferocity. Knife-hands and a crimson holy sword, kicks and elbows, body-checks and grappling—Yugald's body was torn apart in the blink of an eye.
But his opponent was bleeding too.
Remarkably, even excluding the missing arm, their rate of depletion was roughly equal.
And so, for the sake of victory, Yugald took a half step further—spiritually.
"The 'Sunblade,' Vlachia."
In the midst of their exchange, he named the holy sword—and it vanished from his hand.
A supreme blade that could be sheathed in an empty scabbard and freely drawn forth again. He released it, and with his now-bare left hand caught Halibel's knee. Their gazes met—the werewolf's narrow eyes locking with Yugald's.
In a bitter irony, both the werewolf and the corpse bore golden eyes—and whatever Halibel saw in those pupils, he bit down on his pipe's mouthpiece with such force that his jaw clenched, and he threw his upper body violently backward.
The Sunblade, emerging from the empty scabbard, grazed the space just above his head.
The Sunblade sheathed in its empty scabbard could once again manifest from that scabbard to be drawn. Exploiting that sheathing-and-drawing mechanism, Yugald had unleashed a one-strike killing technique—used for the first time, and flawlessly dodged.
But Halibel, his posture broken, planted a hand behind him from his backward-lean and used the momentum to execute a violent backflip, evading the next slash, and the next, and the next.
Unable to shake that momentum, Yugald paused for a heartbeat to gather power for the next strike—then realized.
"——!"
Ahead of the backflipping Halibel lay the crater where Yugald had been driven into the ground.
And into that crater, a small shadow launched itself from beyond the battlefield—Grooby. Grooby Gamlet, who should have been retreating, was hurtling in, coughing blood.
His trajectory led straight toward the Demonsword, planted in the crater floor. His outstretched hand reached for it— "Fine coordination. —But I won't allow it."
The sudden interloper—there was no point calling it cowardly.
Yugald had been aware of Grooby's presence all along. That Grooby would rush to Halibel's aid at the last moment was only natural—they were allies. If anything, it was expected.
But Yugald would not allow it. He would surpass even this and claim victory.
"You will not have the Demonsword."
Yugald hurled the Sunblade he had raised toward Grooby as the smaller figure plunged into the crater.
The instant it left his hand, the fire-spewing holy sword's velocity surged yet higher, becoming a single streak of crimson lightning that shot past Halibel's flank and drove straight toward Grooby.
Even when released, the Sunblade could be recalled to his side immediately—that was its strength.
Once Grooby was impaled on the blade, he would call the Sunblade back and face Halibel. In fact, at this precise moment, being without the Sunblade made his body lighter in pursuit of Halibel—a fortunate miscalculation.
He had also considered the possibility that Halibel would counterattack in this window, and braced himself— "——!"
The thrown Sunblade drove clean through Grooby's small frame.
The crimson holy sword had pierced him through the right flank—a result of Grooby's attempt to twist his body. The blade sank deep, and Grooby's eyes went wide. He spat a clot of blood and let out a shriek— "You fell for it, you bastard."
He didn't.
Instead, Grooby grinned with a blood-smeared mouth and pointed at Yugald with his outstretched hand. Insolent—but something far more startling overtook it in Yugald's vision.
The Demonsword, which Grooby's hand had been just one step away from reaching, flew from the crater on its own—as if repelled, as if escaping his grasp—without ever having been touched.
"That damn sword *hates* me..."
A logic beyond comprehension—but such was the nature of demonic and holy blades.
The repelled Demonsword spun through the air and was caught by a hand covered in black fur. Its eerie, gleaming blade flickered.
——Halibel now held the Demonsword, and stood poised before Yugald.
"——!"
In a single exchange, Yugald recalled the Sunblade instantly, and the stomach of Grooby, now weaponless, erupted with blood.
But Yugald had reclaimed his weapon, and he raised it against Halibel, who now wielded the Demonsword.
Then, brought high overhead, the crimson flash descended—a strike that surpassed every technique Yugald had ever achieved in life or death, his single greatest blow— "You really are something else. If it hadn't been me, you'd have wiped me out."
"What magnificent arrogance. But given your extraordinary skill, I shall forgive it."
To Halibel's words delivered at close range, Yugald merely tilted his chin without changing expression.
The rising slash of the Demonsword—surpassing Yugald Vlachia's ultimate strike in both life and death—struck him, and his body was cut diagonally.
And it was Halibel's left chest that the Thorn Curse now coiled around.
That this was Yugald Vlachia's wholehearted praise for "Admirer" Halibel was something both who had crossed blades understood without need for words.