Count Dragunov ground his teeth as he stared down at the battlefield below.
The Cyclops—purchased at ruinous expense—lay motionless on the blood-soaked earth.
Meanwhile, the enemy’s morale, which should have shattered like glass, soared beyond all reason.
And there, standing among the corpses, was the source of his fury.
“Storm Aura,” Count Dragunov whispered through bloodshot eyes.
The lingering traces of that power, the distinctive wounds carved by tempest winds—there could be no doubt.
That was the culprit. The architect of his House’s destruction. The sworn enemy who deserved to be flayed alive, burned, and torn apart—though even that wouldn’t satisfy the debt owed!
Rummmmmble—
Count Dragunov’s Aura exploded outward like a breaking dam.
The earth groaned and cracked beneath the weight of his rage, turning the battlefield into a wasteland of fractured stone.
Thump. Thump.
His eyes blazed with murderous light as he hefted his greatsword, channeling his signature Earth Aura around the massive blade until it hummed with lethal power.
The sword descended in a perfect vertical arc.
<Earthbreaker>
KRAAAAAAAAAK!
The ground split like an egg, a fissure racing toward the walls with the speed of lightning. Sword energy rode the fracture, hurtling toward the bastard who stood below.
“Eh—?” The fool looked up with vacant confusion.
Too late to dodge. Insufficient Aura to block—not after exhausting himself against the Cyclops.
“Die,” Count Dragunov pronounced, as if decreeing fate itself.
He would tear that wretch limb from limb. Feed the pieces to wild dogs. Mount his head on a pike and display it on Berg’s own walls as a monument to vengeance.
Count Dragunov’s lips twisted into a cruel smile as he anticipated Lancelot’s death.
His expectations crumbled to dust.
Whoosh.
CLAAAANG!
Someone leaped between them, deflecting the sword energy. The redirected attack struck the outer wall, obliterating half the fortification in a cascade of stone and mortar.
Crash—rumble—
Through the settling dust, Count Dragunov peered with bloodshot eyes at the figure who had blocked his strike.
A middle-aged man with graying hair and steady eyes.
A face burned into his memory like a brand.
“…Berg.”
His sworn enemy. The root of all his tragedy.
Venda Berg, head of House Berg.
“Count Beeeeeerg!” Count Dragunov’s voice cracked like a whip as his Aura scattered in wild, uncontrolled bursts.
KRAAAASH!
Boulders touched by his power crumbled to powder. The earth buckled and heaved, sending tremors through the battlefield.
“I’ll slaughter you!”
Crack!
Count Dragunov roared as he charged, his greatsword trailing destruction.
“S-stop him!” Berg soldiers moved to intercept… but they might as well have tried to halt an avalanche with their bare hands.
Slice—
The soldiers fell in pieces, their blood painting the fractured ground.
Count Dragunov closed the distance in heartbeats, raising his greatsword overhead before bringing it down like a falling mountain toward Count Berg’s skull.
Count Berg lifted his spear to meet the blow.
CLAAAANG!
Steel met steel with a sound like thunder, generating a shockwave that rippled through the air.
Huff.
Count Berg exhaled softly, his knees buckling under the tremendous force, though he bore no serious injury.
“We meet again,” Count Berg said with steady calm. “I heard about your loss. You have my condolences.”
“How dare you mock me with false sympathy!” Count Dragunov’s bellow shook the very stones.
How could this vile cur commit such atrocities and speak so casually? Was this not the cruelest mockery imaginable?
Count Dragunov poured his Aura into the greatsword once more. His Earth Aura rippled outward, making the ground itself writhe like a living thing.
Rumble. Crack.
Stones rose into the air while sand swirled around him in miniature whirlwinds.
<Crushing Mountain>
This was a secret technique perfected by a master swordsman who had devoted his entire life to its creation.
The very weight of the earth concentrated above his blade, pressing down with inexorable force.
Groan—
The greatsword pushed against the spear, driving steadily downward as hairline fractures appeared along the spear’s shaft with ominous crackling sounds.
Count Berg gripped his weapon and let out a soft grunt of effort.
“Hurgh—”
He seemed to struggle against the overwhelming pressure.
Seeing this, Count Dragunov’s eyes gleamed with savage satisfaction. “Hold that spear tight, Berg. The moment you let go, you’ll be torn to pieces.”
“Hmm. Thanks for the warning. Though isn’t your concern a bit premature?”
Thud.
Count Berg released his spear and rolled across the ground with fluid grace.
SLAM!
Unable to overcome its momentum, Dragunov’s greatsword buried itself to the hilt in solid stone.
“Sly old dog!” Count Dragunov howled his fury to the uncaring sky.
Count Berg snatched up another spear from a fallen soldier and channeled his blue Aura. Fierce winds gathered around the weapon, taking the form of a miniature hurricane.
He raised the storm-wreathed spear and assumed a thrusting stance aimed directly at Count Dragunov’s heart.
“I never imagined it would come to this.”
“Shut your mouth!” Count Dragunov wrenched his greatsword free and charged again.
<Crushing Mountain>
The massive blade descended like divine judgment.
<Gale Drive>
The tempestuous spear thrust forward with surgical precision.
BOOOOM!
Another tremendous shockwave swept across Berg’s ramparts, reducing the fortifications to rubble.
Soldiers from both sides ceased fighting, struggling simply to maintain their footing.
Silence fell like a shroud.
As the dust storm cleared, both men’s forms were revealed.
Count Berg bore a massive diagonal gash running from his right shoulder to his chest, blood streaming from the wound in crimson rivulets.
Count Dragunov appeared outwardly unharmed, but his labored breathing told a different story.
Then—
“Kugh!”
Count Dragunov staggered and dropped to one knee as dozens of cuts opened across his body, blood erupting from wounds that seemed to appear from nowhere.
Slice—slice—slice—
Count Dragunov struggled to stand, gasping for breath.
“Grrrrrff!”
Everyone expected Count Dragunov to yield. His movements were labored, his Aura nearly depleted from the devastating exchange.
Instead, Count Dragunov wept tears of blood, unable to contain the rage burning within him.
Ah… my son must have suffered this same agony. He died experiencing such pain and terror.
Empathy doubled his grief. Experience magnified the pain a hundredfold.
He would kill them all—even if he had to burn his very soul.
Hadn’t he told his soldiers as much? That trading one’s life for even an enemy’s hand would be profitable.
Having spoken such words, how could he possibly surrender?
“Come with me!”
Count Dragunov raised his head to the sky, blazing with vengeful fury, his eyes flashing with murderous intent.
ROAAAAAR!
Count Dragunov unleashed a tremendous roar that shook the heavens themselves.
<Behemoth>
He called upon the secret technique passed down through House Dragunov alone—and a suicide art that guaranteed its user’s death.
Count Dragunov activated the forbidden skill and hauled himself upright.
His blood circulation accelerated to inhuman levels. His vision sharpened to supernatural clarity. His reflexes heightened beyond mortal limits.
Aura flowed through him like an inexhaustible river, and each step he took exploded with thunderous force.
Crack!
Count Dragunov gripped his greatsword and closed the distance in an instant.
<Earthbreaker>
KRAAAASH!
The earth split along the sword’s path, massive waves of stone and soil sweeping away everything in their wake.
Berg soldiers began fleeing in panic while Dragunov’s knights pursued with drawn blades, their eyes bright with bloodlust.
Countless warriors perished in the chaos, but the knights paid no heed to casualties.
Only revenge mattered.
They had become vengeful spirits consumed entirely by that blind obsession.
“Kill them all!”
The knights began massacring anyone within reach.
Ron Berg and Dreck Berg moved to stop the slaughter, but the tide of battle had turned inexorably against them.
“Damn it…! What kind of war is this?” Ron screamed.
He was right—this was no longer organized warfare. What kind of battle featured dozens of knights fleeing from a single berserker?
Especially a Master-level knight prepared to die.
“Everyone retreat now! Forget the fucking formation—just run!”
Ron Berg ground his teeth and bellowed orders, directing the fleeing forces toward whatever safety they could find.
But perhaps such a sight displeased Count Dragunov.
His eyes slid over to focus on Ron with predatory intensity.
“…So you’re his son.”
The spawn of one who deserved death. The one who’d seemed friendly with that assassin he’d encountered.
Count Dragunov’s eyes glinted as his lips curled upward in savage delight.
Complete revenge was nothing more than this.
“Yes, you should experience it too—the feeling of watching your child die!”
Crack.
Count Dragunov kicked off the ground and approached Ron Berg with inhuman speed.
Ron wore a panicked expression as he hastily grabbed a spear.
It was hopeless from the start. An Expert-level warrior couldn’t hope to block a Master’s attack, especially one enhanced by a suicide technique.
Count Dragunov’s berserker state made his assault too fast for Ron Berg even to perceive.
“DIEEEEE!” Count Dragunov raised his greatsword and roared.
<Earthbreaker>
Whoosh—
KRAAAASH!
A massive wave of sword energy rushed toward Ron Berg like the wrath of gods.
In that moment—
Thud.
Lancelot shoved Ron Berg with all his might.
* * *
The greatsword swept past, carving through him instead.
A massive wound opened across his torso, blood erupting like a crimson waterfall.
“You crazy fool!” Ron Berg shouted.
But whether from fading consciousness or overwhelming pain, Lancelot couldn’t hear properly.
Am I dying?
Lancelot clung to his dimming awareness.
He’d moved without thinking. His body had acted on instinct—who was there to blame but his own stupidity?
Damn. I’m going to die without ever seeing the Demonic Realm.
Lancelot let out a faint laugh despite the agony.
Still, it hadn’t been a terrible life.
He’d thought he’d only ever wield swords, but thanks to his captain, he’d mastered spears too.
He’d never expected to reach Aura Expert, yet he’d climbed to its highest levels.
Not seeing the Demonic Realm was disappointing, though.
What was his name? The Demon God? I wanted to crush the boss of those bloody Darkspawn.
It wasn’t really personal hatred. He just despised the creatures that tormented the North.
Bad enough that the central nobles mocked their barren lands—did the monsters have to add insult to injury?
Come to think of it, was it Lady Lea who taught me to think this way?
His benefactor, who’d rescued him from the brothel districts and given him purpose.
He’d sworn to serve as her knight for life, but had somehow been dragged to this point by that strange captain of his.
I’ll be a son of a dog if I ever meet the Captain in my next life.
Lancelot let out another weak laugh.
Now that he considered it, maybe he’d had more fun these past months than during all his years serving Lady Lea.
Hah. My time’s really up if I’m thinking about that maniac and laughing.
“…What’s the situation here?”
Well, look at that. Now he was hearing things too.
But for the last sound he heard to be his captain’s voice—that felt appropriately awful.
“I asked what the situation was.”
Hmm. Why does it sound so real?
Lancelot cracked his eyes open to peer ahead.
Blood-soaked ground stretched before him, and standing in the midst of carnage was a man.
The very person he’d been thinking about.
Lancelot grinned hazily and barely managed to speak.
“You’re... goddamn late... y’know…”
His captain, Louis Berg, had finally arrived.