Chapter 31

This is the very wish that the Supreme God holds for people and has entrusted them with—Law and Order. “Do you respect and value only what is strong?! Then you are nothing to me—” That’s right. To her. To you. To all of you. To all things and people. “—but a hindrance to our adventure!” Flare illuminates the three thousand worlds with blinding light. An explosion of brightness, as if the sun was shining on the surface, but summoned by the holy sword. There is no sound, no sight. Only a pure breeze blowing. “……Ah… Urgh…?” A feeble voice sounds. You know exactly whose it is. Blinking eyes blinded by the light, you call her name—not her number but her name. Female Warrior heaves herself up from the ground, supporting herself with her oaken spear, rising slowly. She touches her neck where it should be slashed and looks at you, disbelieving. “It…it healed…” The wounds inflicted by a critical hit and Fusion Blast have simply disappeared. You reflexively touch the scar on your own neck. There’s still a mark—but that’s all. Like Female Warrior, you find that none of the wounds you sustained remain anywhere on your body. “Ha! Ha-ha…! Now, this is somethin’ else! I think I might just become a believer in your Supreme God!” Half-Elf Scout is practically jumping for joy. His butterfly-shaped knives sparkle in his hands. “Faithless, you are,” Myrmidon Monk says as he pulls himself to his feet. “I’m a Trade God myrmidon, and always will be. “O my god the roaming wind, turn back the currents of the air, overlook the fall of the dice.” A murmured prayer, and indeed, this seems to be what has happened. You were in the direst straits. You yourself were the only one left who could fight at all. Your party was nearly extinguished. Now look at us. Everyone rises to their feet. Everyone lives. “How—?” your cousin calls, then dissolves into a fit of coughing. Finally, she manages, “How’s…the situation…?!” Take a gander. The enemy’s strength has been much diminished. His minions, too. His weapon. His magic. Meanwhile you, your party, are fit and ready. “Phew…,” breathes Female Bishop, who borrowed, even if only for the merest instant, a weapon of absolute power from the Supreme God. “I’ve done…the best I can…” Her smile is as weak as her voice, thin and spent. She brought a god down into her body. You can only imagine how much that must have shaved away at her own soul, but still she stands. She is standing, supported by the sword and scales on one side and your cousin on the other. “I can…keep going!” You respond in the affirmative, and then the party forms up. Your cousin has her short staff in her hand, directing things on the back row, watching for any chance to cast a spell. Myrmidon Monk holds his machete in a relaxed reverse grip, his jaws clacking, reading the wind so that you might have the protection of the Trade God. Female Bishop, the Sword Maiden, leans on the sword and scales and steadies her breathing, her unseeing eyes surveying the battlefield. Half-Elf Scout gives a slight smile, and with a knife in each hand he drops his hips and searches for any chance to strike. Female Warrior looks at the partner beside her, and a smile like a flower blooms on her face; she twirls her spear and stands ready. As for you, you face the enemy squarely, ready to lead your friends into battle. You thrust forward with your katana. It’s the same as always. Nothing different at all. No, not one thing. You’ve delved the dungeon. You’ve entered a chamber. You’ll kill the monster, take the loot, and go home. “What’s all this…?” Before you, the man in black—no, the Dungeon Master—holds his broken sword and stares you down. He rests the shattered red blade on his shoulder, the remaining shadow closing around him, and then he gives another deep chuckle. Whatever he is now, it’s no longer human. If a devil stands before you, then you’ll kill a devil; if a god stands before you, then you’ll kill a god. So long as you move forward. It’s not because you don’t like him or because he’s in your way—nothing like that. It’s simply to prove your own skill, to show your own achievement. In that sense, it might be easy enough to pass this off as cleaning up someone who’s become no more than a sheath for a dark and supernatural blade. The man who stands before you, however—his eyes glitter. He can see no future but one in which he slices you all down. It’s clear that he’s more than just a fool at the mercy of his weapon. This is someone who was drawn to the otherworldly blade, served it faithfully, and earned it as his eternal companion—a fearsome swordsman indeed. A warrior demon. In front of you is more than the wielder of an enchanted blade. He is a sword master—that is the only term for him. It is no longer his weapon that deals death, but he himself. Because he wishes to strike people down with his sword, the world will be destroyed. Such is what he is. Such is what he has become. He knows only battle—only taking victory, only subduing the enemy, only killing the foe. And yet you spot in his eyes a hue of hesitation. “You almost sound like…like you think you can win!” You answer clearly: no. What did he say? It sounded like nonsense to you. You, all of you… …are adventuring! “Shaaaaa!” The man in black who has become an enchanted sword master unleashes more bolts from his red blade, enough to fill your vision, and each obviously containing instant death, or true power equivalent thereto. You rush to meet them. Zwish. You race along the flagstones of the chamber, right, then left, moving at will, striking out with your blade. You no longer quite feel the utter oneness that you did before, but still you are free. Swsh. The man closes distance with you, moving like a shadow. He does, indeed, need to be nearer than before. At that moment, something soft comes flying past and wraps itself around your blade. It carries the faint fragrance of beeswax. “Arma magna offero! Gift magic to weapons!” With your cousin’s incantation, a pale bluish light of force glows around your blade. There’s something you must do even before you take the time to be grateful. Give me strength! Give me strength! Give me strength! You twirl your blade in a circle, deflecting the red blade, parrying it, sliding along it, cutting back, driving forward. In the darkness of a room that is no more than wire frame, red and blue perform a dizzying dance, sparks flying. Ha! You laugh. The otherworldly blade, broken. Your own katana, missing a chip. And here they meet, master against master. It’s fifty-fifty, indeed. Your skill, your body, and the roll of the dice will determine what happens… No. “Nice work, Captain!” “You’ve got it!” You drag your sword up, trusting strength alone, then pull backward, almost rolling, trying to gain some distance. From the left and the right, two shadows race in. Three silver flashes. Knives and a holy spear travel in great arcs as they meet the red blade head-on and bounce back. “Hah! Haaah!” Too light. The otherworldly blade—still deadly sharp, though broken—or perhaps the man in black, repels the other two attacks easily. But in that instant, that beat, you are able to catch your breath. You take a breath in, let it out. You brush the wax that slickens your blade with the palm of your hand, stretching it, and then you start forward. “Gah! He’s tough stuff! I mean, we expected that, but still!” “Yeah! He’s got us beat, and it’s six-on-one!” Half-Elf Scout and Female Warrior cry out as you pass by. The enemy’s magic blasts are holding them at bay. You stand before them, entrusted with the rest. Right, left, up. The deadly spells come at you from every direction, but you repel them with swift strokes of your blade. You feel as if you’re letting your body simply move as it wishes, as if your heart’s impulses are your skill—or as if, perhaps, you’re simply lucky. Whatever. This is another one: another deadly assault you’ve survived. You’ve protected everyone, gotten closer still to the enemy. Again and again, the red blade strikes, and you repel; each time it withdraws, you fill the space with your own weapon. “Hey! What should I do?” You hear clacking mandibles. “Healing? Support? Don’t care either way!” “I’m thinking!” your cousin shouts back almost in a scream. What you’re more grateful for than anything at times like these is that you are not alone. In the midst of the vicious sword fight, it’s all you can do to focus on the opponent in front of you and the other frontliners to your sides. But you know there is someone in the back row keeping a vigilant eye on everything, assessing the situation and giving instructions. Ought to say a proper word of thanks to her before I die. Sorry for the trouble, cousin—she’ll have to handle it. Thus you call to her as you square off with your enemy; you hear her taking a breath and, faintly, biting her nails. That’s all the attention you can spare for what’s going on behind you. You know only what reaches your ears. “Ah…” That includes harsh exhalations, followed by Female Bishop whispering something. Your cousin listens, asks something in return—then raises her staff and shouts, “Heal her, support us—in other words, both!” “You’ve got it!” Myrmidon Monk’s prayer to the Trade God becomes a pleasant breeze, blowing toward Female Bishop. The blessing probably doesn’t do much to restore her enervated soul, but it can give her back some of her energy. The sword and scales ring out, alerting you that Female Bishop has gotten to her feet. Your cousin shouts to you, “Let’s do it again!” You know exactly what she means—how could you not? You’ve spent longer with her than anyone. What can you do that the enemy cannot? There is something. Yes, yes there is. You shout back to her to do it. That tells the other two in the front row with you what’s happening. They know you well enough to understand. “Right-o, we’re on it!” “Yeah, sounds pretty good!” “What in the blazes—?” He’s the only one who doesn’t get it. Then again, even you and your party hardly understand everything. You don’t need words. Your cousin has had an idea. You’ve chosen to go with it. All that’s left, then, is for everyone to help out. That’s all there is. And it’s enough. “—are you talking about?!” You parry his strike with your sword. There’s a crack as the blades come together, and you find yourselves locked in a stalemate, each pushing against the other. The man in black shoves mightily, trying to cut clean through you. Your katana creaks—but it doesn’t break, doesn’t bend. And therefore, you… “Hrn?!” …abruptly relax. The otherworldly blade that was pressing toward you whips upward as the man stumbles. In that instant, you raise your sword with all the strength you can muster. “Gnnggh!” The man groans and leaps backward, hoping for a moment to regain his lost footing. Of course. If this were a one-on-one fight, that would be a safe move. But it isn’t. “…Heh-heh!” Female Warrior’s laughter, somehow simultaneously innocent and alluring, tickles your earlobe. She brings her lips to the tip of her holy oaken spear, gently, still smiling. Then she kicks the butt of the spear, twirling it once. It seems to dance in her hand. “Watch close,” she whispers, her voice like honey. “Here I…go!” You hear the snap of her sabbatons. It’s like the Valkyrie’s own javelin; the spear becomes a beam of light racing through the darkness. By the time he sees it, it’s already too late. He can no more avoid it than he could a strike of lightning. “Hrraaaaahh!” The man in black, disbelieving, coughs up fresh blood, and only then does he register the spear that has pierced him through the belly. There’s a clang as the spear strikes the wall, pinning the man against it. “You…you bastards…! I’m not…done yet…!” He claws at the shaft of the weapon with blood-slicked hands, trying to pull it out, but to no avail. The blessed oaken spear bears the grace of the Trade God. And here, a believer in that god stands. “O my god of the roaming wind—” A breeze starts up. It comes from nowhere, here in this deepest place in the dead space, and brushes your cheek. The pure wind blows away the shadows that lie over the chamber, dancing around the two young women, Female Bishop and your cousin. They hold hands like sisters, standing there. “—carry our hearts there and their hearts here!” When Myrmidon Monk’s blessing is complete, the Transfer Mental Power miracle occurs. The young women, exhausted from using so much magic themselves, are revitalized by the support of Myrmidon Monk’s non-human heart. A short staff is held up, the sword and scales are raised aloft. Three words of true power, intoned together in the service of one spell. “Ventus!” Wind! “Lumen!” Light! ““Libero!”” Release our prayer! The two voices overlap with one another, filling the room along with the light and the wind. The result is an overwhelming, destructive heat, unleashed directly… …at you. You catch the blue-white fireball with your blade. It takes the heat into it, a spark burning. The explosive force envelops you, threatens to fling you backward. You let your feet slide, brace yourself against the flagstones. You even out your breathing. Take the burning air into your lungs. Keep a firm grip on your katana. One more breath. Suddenly, you think you can hear the sound of dice being rolled in the heavens. The gods are holding their breaths, leaning over the board; you can feel it. At this moment, this is the center of the Four-Cornered World. ‘Eeeeeyyyyaaaaaahhh!!’ You howl as your nameless blade traces a silver arc, slicing through the chamber. A ball of energy, neither phoenix nor dragon, tears through the dungeon in the blink of an eye. The man in black brings up his broken blade to ward it away, but it’s a useless gesture. As you know. This man cannot cut magic. “Hrrraaahhh?!” The man reels backward, spraying blood as black as ink. You feel something as you cut. Not just the bones and flesh of the man—the Dungeon Master. You slice through the shadow that lurks behind him. It is the feeling of death under your blade. A trace of heart, however, still remains in him. You lock eyes with the man. Even soaked in gruesome gore, his eyes still shine, still burn. He glares at you. His mouth opens, twisting in a leer; his lips move to pronounce some curse upon you…