He channeled the fighting spirit that surrounded his body into his right hand. As that hand filled with energy, it trembled so severely that he had to grip it with his other hand.
“Don’t hold this against me,” Berkens muttered as a Berserker leapt at him. Berkens thrust out his glowing fist.
His knuckles penetrated flesh.
The Berserker’s body, now as hard as armor, managed to stop Berkens’ blow. But that was all it managed to stop—the next moment, a substantial portion of the body’s cells died. The spell inside the Berserker’s brain immediately tried to repair the damage, but then it suddenly stopped.
Berkens stared at the faltering Berserker. If his guess was correct, the Berserker’s spell couldn’t determine whether its body had been burnt, slashed, or crushed. Neither the spell nor the animal instinct of the Berserker’s body could understand the damage it had just received.
There was nothing to understand. Part of the body had simply died.
It was the pure will of destruction, channeled through Berkens’ fighting spirit. Without wills of their own, the fighting Berserkers couldn’t comprehend the “will” to destroy. The Berserker couldn’t defend against it, and so it dropped to the floor like a stone.
Berkens licked dry lips. “I guess it works,” he breathed as he prepared for the next opponent. His eyes focused on the next Berserker, then widened when he noticed something.
“Huh?”
The remaining Berserkers had completely stopped moving.
Shannon panted, his sword drawn, his eyes boring into the Berserkers. But the men had stopped. Shannon furrowed his eyebrows suspiciously.
“What the hell is this?” he wondered out loud.
Suddenly, a red vapor began spraying out of the Berserkers’ bodies. It took Shannon a terrible moment to realize that the spray was blood.
One by one, the men who had transformed into something inhuman dropped into large puddles of their own blood. Their bodies continued to break down until all that was left was a slimy, muddy substance.
Shannon swallowed. I guess they reached their limit, he thought slowly. Although the Berserkers had healing powers, the body’s resources had limits. They eventually lost the ability to heal and succumbed to the torture they’d been put through.
An unfinished spell, Raquel had said. Disposable.
Shannon closed his eyes and angrily turned away.
“… heavenly Mauser.” Gazing at the Berserkers on the floor, Berkens made the holy sign with his finger.
“Though they were of a different faith than ours,” he murmured, “kindly deliver their souls to peace.”
As though relieved at the words, the Berserkers decomposed into a shapeless, melted mass.
Reynard stood on the terrace opposite his room and gazed out at his magic field. This particular terrace was much larger and higher than the one on his room; he wanted as good a view of the magic field as possible. He could activate the spell from any location, but he felt there was only one suitable location from which to complete the mission he had built for a decade.
“Excellent.” His psychotic smile twisted his features. The islanders were already placed in their boosters, so all that remained was for him to send the activation order via a communication spell. The spell would unfold by chain reaction, causing the strategic level attack magic to take effect automatically.
“Please…”
Reynard looked to the sobbing girl behind him. Elfitine had her head buried in her hands, her body trembling as she pleaded with him. “Please, Sir Ganvas … please return to your kind self!”
Reynard chuckled. “You fool,” he said darkly. “What part of this don’t you understand? What you were seeing was a facade—a fake. I’m the real Reynard Ganvas. You were following the orders of someone who never existed!”
Laughing maniacally, Reynard grabbed Elfitine’s arm and yanked her closer. He gripped the collar of her shirt in both hands.
“Well, Elfi,” he cooed as he ran a finger over the fabric. “Are you still feeling romantically inclined? Why don’t we enjoy ourselves in the short time we have until we die?”
Suddenly, Reynard’s hand froze. His entire body froze. He couldn’t tell what it was, but something like a scream flashed across his mind.
Elfitine’s eyes widened. “Sir Ganvas?” she breathed.
Reynard felt something wet in his eyes and on his cheeks. But… that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t bleeding, and nothing had dripped onto him. For him to feel that wetness would mean he was…
Crying.
“Huh…? What… why am I…?” Reynard could barely speak. Tears didn’t make sense—he was filled with exhilaration on that fateful day. He had never felt so good in his life. He was about to burst with his ecstasy.
So why was he crying?
“You should have kept your mask on,” a voice called from deep inside the tunnel.
Reynard, his body still trembling in shock, turned to face the voice. A tall figure emerged out of the darkness, his outline blurred in Reynard’s tear-filled eyes.
Shannon Casull. He strode forward with clear conviction in his steps.
“You? Wh-what happened to the Berserkers?” Reynard was afraid. He didn’t know what was happening to him.
Shannon ignored Reynard’s question. “Everyone wears a mask,” he said instead. “It’s how you can hide yourself from your problems. But if you decide to wear it, and keep wearing it, that mask can become your real face.”
“No…” The tears kept flowing from Reynard’s eyes, and he couldn’t make himself move. He just stood there, staring, as Shannon stepped onto the terrace.
“D-don’t come any closer!” Reynard cried. “Or I’ll…”
Shannon glared at him. “You’ll what?” he asked darkly. “You can’t fight me. Now you’re the fake.”
Reynard trembled. “No!” he shrieked. “I’ll… I’ll…!”
And then he started to move. But not in an attack, like he wanted—he just slowly released Elfitine and started walking toward Shannon. Reynard was terrified.
He wasn’t moving. His body had broken free of him and was moving on its own. It was following another will. The will of the mask, Saint Reynard.
Reynard started sputtering in confusion, but was interrupted by other words. He spoke from the same mouth with the same voice, but his words didn’t match up with his thoughts.
“What’s happening?! Why am I… kill me, Shannon. I can’t… no! Don’t say that!”
Mere steps away from Shannon, Reynard stopped and threw open his arms. More words spilled out of his mouth—more terrible, conflicting words.
“Kill the murderer, Shannon. I was only a mask… no, shut up! Are you me?! Shut up!”
Somewhere in the background, Elfitine cried out.
Reynard shouted as if in prayer. “Kill me!” he cried. “Before I disappear into this man’s consciousness again! Kill me, Shannon!”
“Sir Ganvas!” Elfitine screamed.
Without a word, Shannon unsheathed his sword.
“Ow!” Pacifica groaned. That attack had hurt.
The pale blue light of Einherjar cradled her body, blocking any attacks on her and amplifying any blows she delivered. Unfortunately, the “armor field” around Pacifica’s body was not the true Einherjar; Raquel had explained that she had adjusted it, making it require significantly less capacity to activate at the cost of being less effective. She had said she needed to save some energy for her communication spell.
Pacifica had figured that being able to simultaneously activate two spells like that was probably pretty impressive, so she hadn’t complained about the weaker armor.
“Raquel?” Pacifica called as she took a quick look behind her. But Raquel still remained with one hand on the booster, probably focusing every nerve in her body on the communication spell. She had said she needed to destroy the core of the gigantic magic field before Reynard sent the activation order.
If she doesn’t, Pacifica reminded herself, we all die, right? The girl swallowed and prepared to take on the next Berserker.
Like Shannon, Pacifica had learned basic self-defense from their late father. Since her skills were too basic for ordinary combat—and since Shannon said that weak techniques in a battle were more dangerous than going in blind—Pacifica normally didn’t do any fighting. Pacifica had always been wretched at fighting, and knew better than to take on someone more talented.
But with the Berserkers, her rudimentary technique was somehow helping her get by. Her opponents were powerful but devoid of will, so their attacks were uncreative at first. And Einherjar, even in an imperfect form, was an important aid. The biggest problem with the Berserkers rested in the transformations of their bodies—with every blow they took, the Berserkers seemed to memorize the speed, strength, and angle of the opponent’s attacks in order to transform their bodies into whatever made the best personalized defense.
That meant that Pacifica had managed quite easily at the beginning of the fight, but grew less effective over time. She eventually had so much trouble blocking the improved Berserkers’ blows that she had to resort to defending her sister with her whole body.
“Ow!”
Yet another fist connected squarely with Pacifica’s face. Without the magic, the blow would have knocked her brains out, but even with the magic, the impact still hurt. Pacifica stumbled back a few steps and planted her feet.
“Damn you!” Pacifica gritted her teeth. Forcing herself to ignore the pain, she grabbed her opponent’s arm and twisted it as hard as she could.
To her surprise, the Berserker’s arm broke effortlessly above the elbow. Even though it had lost its personality, the Berserker still seemed to feel pain, because her attack made him back away.
Pacifica figured she had twisted in an unnatural direction or something. She clenched her fists confidently. “Not bad!” she declared.
The victory was short-lived. Before her very eyes, the Berserker’s broken arm started to move, with the break acting as another joint. The Berserker had essentially gained a second elbow.
Pacifica’s jaw dropped. “What?! Ew!”
The Berserk’s bizarre new movements no longer resembled a human’s. Her knowledge of basic self-defense didn’t help against an attacker that had a creepy multi-jointed arm.
Great, she thought in frustration. What am I supposed to do now?!