The blue, shimmering jewel displayed a fiery scene that felt like the end of the world.

In front of Priscilla, who was chained and suspended in the underground dungeon, the pale, undead Sphinx showcased the intense battle erupting in a corner of the Imperial Capital.

One side assimilated the core of the Empire into themselves, while the other faced a formidable presence, refusing to concede an inch in an epic confrontation that could only be seen as a passage from myth.

This was surely how the ancient songs and tales had come to be.

“—But that only applies if there are those who speak of what they have seen and heard.”

“Don’t intrude upon the emotions of others, especially mine. Such rudeness will only annoy me.”

Priscilla responded to the softly spoken words of the opponent she faced while gazing at the same scene in the jewel.

Weak. Yes, it was a weak voice. Not devoid of heat, but weak. Sensing this, Priscilla frowned and looked at her opponent through the jewel.

The undead facing her—the Sphinx, claiming to be the leader of the “Great Calamity,” had made a deliberate visit to show Priscilla the tragic state of Arakia, someone deeply connected to her.

While Priscilla was confined, it was unknown what the Sphinx had whispered to Arakia. However, the results were reflected in the jewel, and the purpose was right before her.

Arakia was close to bursting from the immense weight she was bearing, while the Sphinx observed Priscilla watching Arakia’s suffering.

In her golden eyes, mingled with deep black, was an undeniable curiosity and anticipation.

The Sphinx was hoping—hoping for Priscilla’s heart to waver at Arakia’s tragedy.

This was without a doubt—

“—Your obsession with me.”

Meeting Priscilla’s gaze, the Sphinx smiled silently with her lips.

This was an affirmation, a manifestation of joy. The obsession the Sphinx harbored for Priscilla was indisputable, encompassing even the trigger for the “Great Calamity.”

While the origins of this obsession remained a mystery, all actions driven by such fixation were worthy of contempt.

“To have what is given taken away. That is, by my experiences, the most emotionally damaging act. What do you think? Just checking.”

“You’re rather pleased, I see.”

“Indeed. I affirm it. Just as you say, I feel elated. I expected things to go as planned… I should have known the satisfaction of achievement earlier. Had I done so, perhaps the outcome of the ‘Subhuman War’ would have been altered.”

“——-”

“—However, that means I can’t be given or receive anything.”

Peering into Priscilla, the Sphinx, who had been speaking grandly, lowered her gaze, one hand pressed against her chest as if biting back something.

Sensing a unique emotion directed toward her, a mix of joy and anger, Priscilla understood.

That sorrowful posture was what drove the Sphinx toward the “Great Calamity.”

“——-”

Ignoring Sphinx’s inner turmoil, Priscilla refocused on the jewel’s scene.

Unceasingly, a battle unfolded that could change the very nature of the world, clashing forces of sheer power representing the Empire and the unstoppable force of lightning.

Yet, amidst all this, Priscilla did not overlook something so weak it could disappear.

“Weak, fragile, timid, born innocently with nothing, and resisting being no one—will they leave footprints in a passage of myth?”

“What…?”

The Sphinx’s thoughts stirred as she questioned what Priscilla had seen in the jewel. However, Priscilla’s object of concern remained unverified.

Before she could confirm that, a tremor struck across the Imperial Capital.

“I take it that must be my brother.”

“Emperor Vincent Volakia?”

The Sphinx furrowed her delicate brows at Priscilla’s muttering, puzzled.

There was likely little chance of that in her mind. Priscilla, trapped in the dungeon, had no means of discerning the total strength the Sphinx had amassed.

The Emperor, who had once abandoned the Imperial Capital, now seemed to have found a way through the swarm of undead.

“The swordsman who ended my life is currently locked in a duel with Arakia… Even if the Volakia Emperor is wise, he cannot overturn a doomed situation. — No.”

While tracing a finger along her lips, the Sphinx attempted to dismiss the troubling possibility. Yet, midway through this contemplation, her black eyes narrowed.

Then—

“—An anomaly has interfered with Balga’s strategy?”

“Oh, had you an inkling?”

The Sphinx spoke as if struck by sudden realization.

She opened her mouth to express the thought that had crossed her mind but began to shake her head in denial. At that moment, Priscilla deliberately interjected.

To the Sphinx, who looked over in surprise, Priscilla smiled charmingly.

“Are you in a hurry to dismiss logic? If so, here’s a little advice from me. — What you’ve felt is called intuition.”

“Intuition…”

“Consider it your heart sensing the taste of the wind. How ironic for the dead, wouldn’t you say?”

With a derisive snort, Sphinx fell silent, contemplating Priscilla’s words.

She neither laughed off nor scornfully dismissed them, adhering to a characteristic nature—that very nature was ironically tied to her.

Eventually, she slowly lifted her gaze towards the ceiling—

“I shall acknowledge it. There exists an anomaly that could disrupt my plans. — Adjustments will be necessary.”

With the Sphinx recognizing her own shift, Priscilla also looked up.

Above was merely the blackened and dulled ceiling of the dungeon, faintly illuminated by the jewel’s light, yet still burdened by historical weight.

However, Priscilla did not gaze upwards merely to verify the filth-encrusted ceiling.

It was so her heart would not miss the moment to sense the taste of the wind.

△▼△▼△▼△

—The battle ignited abruptly, concluded with rawness, and resumed in a blasphemous manner.

Iris, besieged by countless identical swordsmen attacking from all directions, shattered their attacks after just a moment of surprise.

“How peculiar, yet still mere bluster.”

Iris, dressed in a gown, swung her arm, sending the blue-haired swordsmen—Rauan Segmunt’s group—flying like leaves, their heads, torsos, waists, and legs all swept away.

Yet, some of the Rauan managed to slip past the initial onslaught, closing the distance to strike at Iris, who simply held up two fingers to stop their thrust and elegantly dodged one swing, using the momentum of her raised leg to scatter the others away.

It was a stark display of superiority; no amount of them could stand against her.

That was the difference in power between Iris and the undead Rauan.

However—

“Next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next, next—here it comes!”

“——-”

The absurdity of being swarmed by an endless stream of foes froze her thoughts.

The men approaching Iris wore expressions as if they had taken destiny into their own hands—yet they were all part of the same Rauan collective, directing their blades at her.

Reacting reflexively to the swirling slashes, Iris repelled them, yet guilt surged within her as she faced the reality that her arrogance was the source of this tragedy.

She had aimed to subdue forcefully, to repel without taking lives, hoping to lessen the number of casualties, yet she had blinded herself to how deeply this would shatter the spirits of those stamped with the Empire’s mark.

The ultimate fate they bore stood before her now, manifested in the Rauan.

“I…”

Evading a swinging blade, Iris struck at the approaching faces with her pipe. Her slender leg kicked one man up, and she seized the airborne body, slamming it down against the nearby Rauan, scattering them once more.

Yet, no matter how she fought back, the Rauan continued to surge forward with relentless vigor.

“I…!”

Withstood by Iris’s strike, the body of the Rauan crumbled beyond endurance.

Shattering like porcelain, the Rauan scattered, but another one trampled the remnants, unmindful of the pieces around it, only to be promptly ground down again.

This was nothing short of an endless executioner’s torment.

Originally, some were indifferent to dismantling humanoid forms.

However, in most cases, committing such acts upon humanoids—living vessels—required profound resolve or acceptance, even a resignation that made it feasible.

Iris was undoubtedly at the extreme end of the latter.

Even now, no matter how adversarial they were, she couldn’t kill without feeling a pang of conflict in her heart.

Thus, Iris wielded the “Soul Marriage Technique”—an ability tied to her compassion for others, an ability she couldn’t master without that trait.

This power had catapulted Iris to the pinnacle of strength as one of the “Nine Divine Generals,” yet it was intertwined with the malicious miracle binding her soul to the Empire’s land.

Nevertheless, even against someone as extraordinary as Rauan Segmunt, even endlessly facing the cycle of destruction, with each blow her heart ached more.

Suffering unbearable pain, her mind was gnawed upon, stripping her bare.

With every life she extinguished, with every form she shattered, with every glimpse of the world she wrenched away, Iris found her own soul fracturing.

“I am—!”

Thus, her splintered soul found its end.

That was an unexplored realm—a domain unknown to the long-suffering Iris, to Sandra Benedict, who tragically perished after giving life to Priska, and to Yorna Mishigure, who trembled at the heartwarming reunion after centuries.

“—Ah.”

A raspy breath slipped from her red lips, blood sputtered out the next moment.

It splattered against the cheek of the wielder of the blade, while a tongue reached out to lick it away.

A smile crept forth. —An evil, swordsman’s grin.

“—Heavens’ Sword, the stairs have just touched my toes.”

△▼△▼△▼△

The drawn blade slipped past, grazing the bare shoulder of the lady.

A beat later, blood burst forth, splattering the gray streets, and Rauan had just unleashed his best strike since his existence—no, since he had become undead.

“Not even close to being over!”

Yet, insatiable desires coursed through his heart, no longer a pulsating organ, but flowing through his being, accelerating his evolution as Rauan.

The beautiful fox-woman opposing him was terrifyingly strong—an almost unbelievable adversary. The disparity in strength made it easy for her to shatter everything Rauan had painstakingly built.

By rights, upon defeat, Rauan should have been vanquished. But the abnormal circumstances threatening the Imperial Capital, the Empire, and the world halted Rauan’s end.

Placing that blade against his throat, he resolved to cast aside his meaningless, worthless life.

Only by throwing himself away could he grasp something within reach, believing that failing would only lead him to decay and death, and in that moment, Rauan’s vision truly opened.

“Ah, oh my! What a grotesque world I had been viewing until now.”

With his vision expanded, Rauan easily crossed the threshold he had so desperately sought in life.

Life was, after all, burdensome. Something given at birth brought a certain attachment, even for someone like Rauan.

It was only by casting aside everything that Rauan gained the lightness necessary to pursue the Heaven’s Sword.

This lack of obsession—that was the very qualification to ascend the stairs to the Heaven’s Sword.

“Look well, you foolish son. This is surely beyond you.”

This was the state of those who had lost their lives and finally reached a realm not to be grasped by even Cecilus Segmunt, who couldn’t transcend death.

The sword deity had mischievously placed the Heaven’s Sword in such a cruel location.

Rauan had won his gamble. —Thus, the inflated stakes were his to claim.

“Hahaha! Ha! Ha! Haha!”

Rauan’s laughter echoed as his blade began to reach heights previously unattainable.

No matter how fiercely Rauan swung his sword, Iris faced him and brought them all down. She leapt off the ground, unable to catch up with her speed, and struck down with her slender arm, leaving him unable to rise.

That overwhelming gap began to close at an astonishing speed.

—At this juncture, we recount the misfortune of one Rauan Segmunt.

Rauan had a dream. He had something he was always pursuing. A yearning that never ceased.

However, he could not encounter the opportunities or deserving rivals needed to fulfill that dream.

This was the tragedy of Rauan Segmunt, a man who lived in misfortune until his last breath.

—Here, we recount a miracle granted to Rauan Segmunt.

Rauan had a dream. He kept pursuing a singular desire. A thirst that never waned.

And finally, he encountered the opportunity and worthy rival essential to make that wish a reality.

Even in death, his obsession with the “Heaven’s Sword” did not vanish, reviving Rauan Segmunt as an undead, summoning forth one after another to create an endless cycle of the same existence, evolving into a monstrosity far beyond what he ever was in life.

Standing against formidable foes and witnessing skills far beyond his own, victories born from life-and-death struggles often lead to explosive growth.

The same miracle was poised to happen for Rauan.

Facing the powerful rival that was Iris, numerous encounters with her exceptional skill, and battles that literally broke him countless times—all this fed into his evolution.

Had Natsuki Subaru been present, he might have dubbed this phenomenon “learning through death.”

The undead’s abnormal fixation and desire to learn fused together, sharpening Rauan’s sword.

This was a sword technique for killing—a skill belonging to Rauan Segmunt, the “Zombie Swordsman.”

“Ugh…!”

Surrounded before and behind, Iris struggled to respond fully to the onslaught of blades, her arms and side gashed, blood spilling forth as she groaned faintly.

Hearing that feeble sigh, Rauan shook his head in reluctance.

He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hear of the weaknesses of the strong.

Rauan felt gratitude towards Iris. Thanks to her, he had grown stronger. His dying was just a mere catalyst. It was all a necessity for him to reach the Heaven’s Sword. There was no need for Iris to worry.

Therefore, he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to be bothered by it—he wanted applause, not complaints, as the inferior overtook the superior.

Thus—

“Stop your crying, miss. You’re ruining your beautiful face.”

Iris raised her pipe to block the descending sword strike, her other hand plunged directly into Rauan’s midriff.

This was the end for Rauan. But it didn’t matter. Another Rauan would surge forth, closing the distance before the shattered one would explode.

Her raised foot crushed that Rauan. This left her with one arm and one leg pinned. Yet another Rauan approached from behind with a thrust, but Iris’s agile tail intercepted it, blood spurting from its base as the blade struck true. Iris’s expression twisted in pain. Not good. Not good at all.

“You too, die and revive, will you not accompany me endlessly?”

That would truly be a delightful future, yet likely impossible.

“——-”

As Rauan stepped forth, his gaze clashed with Iris’s, both aware of something beyond the immediate life and death between them.

It was neither victory nor defeat, nor life or death; it was a view of something much deeper, a past.

Glory never graces those who drown themselves in regrets of the past.

This was something Rauan lamented from his hollow, vacant heart—

“—Your life, allow me to take it.”

A flash of argent light surged forth, the most exceptional sword technique he’d ever wielded aimed at the lady’s delicate neck.

It was supposed to create the most aesthetically pleasing coup de grâce—but then—

“What?”

Blocked by something hard, dense, and impenetrable, the blade meant to seize a life came to a halt.

The strike meant to express gratitude to a formidable foe was interrupted, and Rauan opened his golden, black-streaked eyes wide in amazement.

It was not a powerful struggle against a mighty foe, nor the might of Iris standing on the edge of death; it was simply interference from an unexpected source.

“—Lady Yorna!”

An innocent voice called out, disrupting Rauan’s strike.

The strong blade had intruded violently, yet Rauan could never have anticipated such an event.

Even if she used her whole slender body to intervene, that strike should have laid her to waste. Yet—

“You all have the same face, but everyone move aside!”

Next, a ringing voice echoed valiantly, shattering the suspended tension in the air.

In that instant, an icy flower blossomed on the ground, engulfing the surrounding scenery, turning all Rauan, including all duplicates around, into mere nutrients for the flower.

Frozen, their movements stilled, Rauan glanced at his fate as he lost his awareness of what had just happened.

There she was—

“—Finally. Finally, I have the chance to meet you again.”

With a gentle voice, yet heavy with emotion, the horned girl embraced Iris in her arms.

Bloodied and kneeling, Iris was held close to the thin chest of the short girl, her blue eyes wide with shock as she soaked in the embrace.

The girl who held Iris turned her dark eyes toward Rauan and declared,

“The villain who threatens Lady Yorna shall be dealt with by me, despite my shortcomings.”

“`

 

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