It was because of this that Agnes was deemed a bit unusual. As she cried out, a portion of the enemy army turned to dust. The young mages who only knew the gentle version of her had no idea of her older title. It was why the mages in their sixties and above never picked fights with her. “Agnes of Perishing,” she was called. She was an eccentric mage who forced the concept of perishing itself on her foes rather than any natural phenomenon. Creatures without magical or conceptual defenses instantly died and turned to dust when Agnes inflicted her power upon them. This power was bordering into the absolute bounds of “perishing” incarnate, but it was by no means perfect; it could still be countered by magic. Still, no one would willingly turn against a mage possessing an ability like this.
The one who had trained her followed an orthodox school, but he possessed immense power. On the surface, he was an old, dignified mage, but on the inside, he was a playful geezer. The levelheaded Derry silently looked down at the demon army with cold eyes from atop the city walls, while the moist sounds of objects being crushed echoed across the battlefield. Anyone who could see magic or mana would recognize the gravitational whirlpools emitted from Derry’s six shining fingers.
The great old mage, who had come to be known as the “Crusher” after the great war, could manipulate gravity, the most primal law of this world. Combined with his skills of the Hadal layer, his magic allowed him to ignore most defenses and simply crush his targets, with the exception of a few dragons who possessed abilities that could completely nullify magic. These mere vanguard troops could not oppose him, and they were all crushed until they were liquid—no exception.
While the mages continued their assault from atop the walls, one of them stood out. Falke alone came down from the walls to face the demon army.
I can’t believe it. This is just like something my dad would do.
Falke’s father Sazaki, who was probably lying down in an alley with a bottle of alcohol in hand at the moment, had once said during the great war, “If you can get past me, you win. If I don’t let any of you through, I win.” He’d exterminated the demon army on the battlefield where he’d made that declaration, and in the end, not a single soldier had managed to get behind him in that fight—so the legend went.
The walls behind Falke had been built by legendary mages, including Lara, but they weren’t an absolute defense, so it would be best if the enemy never reached them at all. Therefore, Falke had decided not to let any of the demon army get past him. Not a single breath escaped his lips as his slashes went flying. His blade almost appeared to stretch as it smoothly sliced through a monster’s hideous body, then bisected the one behind it, and the one behind that one, and so on.
But he didn’t stop there. The five fingers holding his sword glowed, and the wind around him danced. Falke’s clothes swayed gently in the breeze, but any mage who didn’t know him would be speechless at the sight. With his body at the center, swords of wind spread out to form a circle. There were one hundred swords, all of them independent. He hadn’t simply activated a single spell, but had manipulated and deployed one hundred different swords one by one. To be frank, this wasn’t humanly possible, rather it shouldn’t have been without having a hundred brains. Yet Falke was perfectly controlling all of the swords.
Without even the need for a verbal prompt, Falke’s swords of wind flew just like their namesake and assaulted the vanguard troops. The swords severed, bisected, sliced, and cut. They slew everything in their path, not facing a shred of resistance. Every last enemy was cut apart as they danced through the battlefield. The fact that Falke could control all of the wind-woven blades meant that it was as though there were a hundred masters of the highest caliber present, recognized as full-fledged by Sazaki without parental bias.
The demonic troops, whose numbers had already been reduced by the mages’ onslaught, had no way to fight against the wind swords, and not only did they not manage to pass by Falke, they were unable to even get within direct range of the sword he was holding, and they simply died one after the other. In addition to controlling one hundred swords which were a match for one thousand foes, Falke also possessed secret sword techniques that could only be used with his own body. Although he followed a different school of thought from his parents, he undoubtedly stood at the top.
Of course, Falke wasn’t the only one excelling in this fight. The demon army that covered the earth was being bombarded by various destructive forces fired from atop the city walls, and the enemy forces kept dwindling. They were imprisoned in ice and smashed apart, pierced by earthen spears, blown to smithereens, and twisted by strange force fields, among other overwhelming means of destruction. This was the culmination of the efforts of those who’d trained their apprentices in the hopes that they would be able to fight if there was another crisis for all living beings after the war...even if they had died themselves by then.
“We won,” someone muttered. But perhaps that was a careless statement.
What?! A chill ran down Falke’s spine. It was a clear signal of danger, or more specifically, what one would feel when their life was in danger.
The next moment, space twisted, accompanied by a sound like breaking glass, and an object reflecting light started to appear.
“Rea...”
Dammit! Falke could scarcely make out the words from this sudden voice, but his intuition set off the loudest alarm so far. But that was a natural reaction. If this being—which was distorted and hadn’t properly formed yet—activated its authority, Falke would be erased from reality; but only if it could activate it.
“Raaah!” Falke dispersed the hundred swords of wind, and at the same time he gathered all of his power into his one beloved sword. The power contained within it overflowed, and its disguise was lifted. He accelerated again, again, and again, with the wind granting him even more acceleration. His sword transformed into a katana.
Falke’s father had once casually gone out, turned some ancient ruins upside down, and brought back a timeworn katana, which his mother had then restored with magic techniques; that legendary katana was now shining. It was a treasured sword spoken of in Eastern legends. One of the three highest-ranking katanas, a product of ancient times, had just made its appearance. Everything was complete. Its power was an orange exceedingly close to the red of the sky, which—
But there was no need to go into details. All of that latent power was nothing but superfluous. Only one detail mattered: The katana wouldn’t break even when Falke drew it with all his strength. As long as that detail remained true, it was fine. He was simple and straightforward, and as a result, he was fast, faster, the fastest; he was just fast, plain and simple. It was a childish theory of always taking the initiative to kill the opponent first.
“...lity?!”
Even though the monster had suddenly appeared, it had been too slow in everything. It had been slow in appearing completely, slow in activating its authority, slow in noticing that the almost red trajectory had separated its top from its bottom, and slow in noticing that the blades of wind that reappeared a moment later had chopped it into tiny pieces, sending it to its death. It had been slow in every last thing.
Falke, who had swung a single katana, then a hundred, regained his stance. He was undoubtedly the Blademaster’s son, his swings closest to the fastest shade of red. The glimmer of his sword signaled victory.