Unsurprisingly, every one of Belle’s exploits so far had drawn her all sorts of attention. Especially for Solists who were marked as low-ranking for no reason other than their lack of pedigree, her achievements were worthy of the highest praise. They saw Belle as much more worthy than any of the high- or medium-class Solists, who had powerful swords from two or three generations ago but absolutely no skill to back it up. What’s more, Benet and Guinness went around telling others that Belle had a calm, cool, and collected approach that cared little for class or pedigree, which made her even more popular among her peers than more prominent Solists.
The back line switched place with the vanguard, and the fighting resumed, with neither the top dogs nor the underdogs seeming to hold the advantage. Guinness’s forces clashed with Mist’s. For a moment, the two sides were locked in a stalemate. Metal clanged against metal in a loud, sonorous chant as both armies rapidly secured ground, Schwertmusik ringing out as the battle ebbed and flowed.
Belle gradually moved out of the rear guard’s right wing, sprinting through a strip of the wetlands unoccupied by either side yet. Her body had been so sluggish before, but it had regained its resilience once the Schwertmusik started. She ran, holding up her sword.
Several rivers had once run through this area, but it had been converted into a wetland when farmland was expanded. Belle managed to find her footing despite the mud and swept through the enemy’s main force. After making sure that Benet’s barrier had frozen the surface of the muddy ground, she advanced farther in.
The enemy instantly tried to flank Belle from both sides. Belle’s sword smashed into a force moving in from one side, easily knocking them away. None of them were actually cut, instead having their swords and arms crushed by the impact, or otherwise launched all the way into the air.
Seeing Belle knock out multiple enemies with one blow, the Solists on her side cheered loudly. In the blink of an eye, Belle had set out again, securing more ground for her side—but she didn’t stop there. She raced deeper into the wetlands, something within her body writhing with heat, spurring her on. Some part of her mind felt numbed, rejecting all thought. The faster her movements became, the more tantalized and impatient she felt.
My body’s duller than I expected… That’s all this is…
All of a sudden, her sword felt heavy. The enemy charged at her. Belle swung her sword about like a bludgeon made of steel, and despite her lack of sympathy with the blade at that moment, the sword successfully swept through the enemy Solists, brushing them away, bones crushing and snapping.
Yet not once during this battle did her sword howl.
At some point, Belle had run into the enemy barrier on her own. Her body felt weighed down. The slime-like mud coiled around her legs, dragging her in, but Belle pushed through, dragging herself forward.
She had the distinct feeling she’d once fought a battle just like this.
Wandering into the dark, on and on, without end…
The moment she remembered the atrocity at the start of the battle for the Catacombs, her mind went numb again. Something terribly hot and unpleasant brewed in the pit of her stomach. Her thoughts couldn’t keep up with her emotions, and Belle’s expression turned pained and wretched.
Suddenly, her legs became very light. Looking down, Belle saw that a sheet of thin ice had formed over the swamp, serving as a bridge. It was Benet’s barrier, and it carried her along. Belle swung her sword, which felt awfully heavy. Her arms and legs felt so sluggish. And then her body lurched. Even the ice produced by the barrier couldn’t withstand Runding’s weight, and it shattered under her feet. The bog once again wound around Belle’s ankles, deeper than it had been last time.
She felt heavy. Vexed. She couldn’t understand where this lethargy was coming from. She screamed out, trying to resist it, a roar of something that was an indistinct mix of anger and sorrow erupting from her throat, and like an animal, she howled and thrashed and struggled.
Can I cut…?
Those words suddenly flashed sharply in Belle’s mind.
Is it okay…if I cut…?
Belle’s eyes glinted with a manic light.
“Yes, you can cut them!” she bellowed.
Belle had smashed every enemy she could lay eyes on—but not one of them had been cut. It was like her sword had been reduced to a metal bludgeon.
Cut…!
All she had been doing was shouting those words, like she was delirious with a fever. And yet what object was she holding in her hands? For what purpose was she swinging this lump of metal around?
Why do I feel so powerless…?
The Guidance, which she had stashed away deep within her heart, explained what was happening. Her sword had forgotten Belle’s resonance and was trembling with sobs. It wasn’t a howl.
I need strength! Power…!
If she only had that, she could resolve any problem. She keenly felt and believed this. And without grasping the answer to what strength really was, she kept cutting her way deeper into the enemy’s ranks. A few of the troops were forced to retreat, overwhelmed by Belle’s charge, but she caught up and smacked them from behind, sending them flying, regardless of whether she hit their swords or their bodies.
Then she paused, looking around. Her allies were nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t tell which way she’d come from. A flurry of arrows whistled through the air, raining down on her, which she promptly blocked with her sword, but a few of them landed in the bog right by her feet.
She could see the enemy archers in the back lines and lunged toward them, gripped with anger. But she couldn’t jump as far as she usually could with her sword weighing her down. Upon landing, Belle crushed a few of the archers’ swords and instantly tried to hop away. It was too dangerous to stay there.
Shit. What the hell am I doing? Belle thought in confusion.