30 Years Have Passed Since the Prologue

Two hands obscured the Pope’s eyes, while the other hands flailed through the air. Even while seated in this barrack, he could overlook the entire battlefield.

Delicate white hands fluttered in the air. Every thread they grasped and embraced was soon his pieces on the chessboard. Each piece breathed and moved according to his gesture, conversed, and thought.

This omnipotent feeling.

Humans must never go extinct. They must move and pulse beneath his grasp. The intense heartbeat felt beneath every single thread. This alone was the driving force that kept him alive.

This place is not even the imperial capital, nor his nest. Naturally, his power was greater than this. But what does that matter? Even with a fraction of his power, a nation crumbled, and powerful monarchs and their vassals knelt.

Indeed, he was an entity created to dominate.

The hands that had been weaving through the air suddenly paused. The threads were cut.

There’s resistance. Who is it?

The pale face still smiled gently. Its face had no facial muscles to create expressions. Even in moments of displeasure, it could show nothing but a smile.

And its true face, the face of the crustacean with eight eyes, clacked its jaws sharply apart.

What is this?

A question arose. It soon turned its gaze. The will interlinked with the threads revealed the phenomenon. Now it could contemplate the situation unfolding in the military camp.

Numerous puppets were collapsing like puppets with severed strings.

*

– Crack!!

The steel armor shattered beneath the axe’s blade, producing a deafening sound. A knight fell off his horse. He writhed, spitting blood, and soon ceased to move, taking his last breath.

Knights were gathering. Beyond them, soldiers with spears held straight were rushing in.

It’s irrelevant.

Ivan swung the axe without changing his expression.

When facing an army, the Hero Party could choose one of three options:

To flee.

For Veolgrin to charge.

To send out Einar.

Veolgrin alone crushed the fortress and advanced. The legion crumbled in his grasp, thunder and lightning churned beneath his will.

Many lost their light before this ancient astrologer who could summon natural disasters.

In contrast, Einar moved much more simply.

He took a single axe and a single greatsword, wielding them on the battlefield. He did not tire, nor stop, nor show mercy—a relentless sequence of mechanical slaughter.

There was no sense of efficiency; it was an overwhelming manifestation of purposeless death. His abilities were straightforward. Fast, strong, and brutally swung.

Everything within his reach was shredded into pieces. When violence exceeding the purpose of killing penetrated the human body, it easily became fragments.

Just five minutes of such a sight could obliterate an entire squad. More fled in horror from that gruesome spectacle than those directly caught up in it.

Thus, his nickname was “Mountains of Corpses and Seas of Blood.” He stacked corpses into mountains and filled seas with blood. In the midst of that grotesque battlefield, the sight of a berserker, wielding weapons in both hands and shouting, was enough to instill primal fear in all foes.

He was the most suitable person when facing a legion.

Thus, now, Ivan gripped weapons in both hands. He had to face the legion.

– Thud!!

Soldiers’ heads flew, and outstretched spear tips shattered under the storm of axe and sword.

To put it bluntly, it was a tidal wave. That’s the only image one could conjure. When the pinnacle of martial arts must be established, Ivan’s intent was always grounded in “efficiency” and “rationality,” yet not now.

For near-perfect emulation. He forcibly accelerated his pounding heart, ignoring the screams of his blood vessels under severe pressure as he swung his weapons.

“—Sir!!”

Chasing behind him, Isabelle screamed. But her voice did not reach his ears. He had blocked out sound.

– Whoosh— Thud!!

Ignoring the incoming spear blade, as doing so would risk breaking his offensive, he scraped the spear embedded in his shoulder, shattering the spear shaft, and ignored the spearhead lodged in his muscles.

Blood burst forth with greater clarity than usual due to soaring blood pressure. His body screamed danger. But this too didn’t matter. He had blocked out pain.

And, the blood he let flow moderately could cool down his heated head. He had to believe that even if it was not rational. Einar would have done the same.

Imitating that day’s Einar, the wars of that era. Ivan did not stop charging ahead.

At the end, a long crack appeared among the legion. A crack made from piles of corpses. The remnants of the mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

*

Einar—?! But he couldn’t possibly appear here!!

The moving hands halted. The threads were severed. The threads of gifted humans he had saved for last.

Of course, the puppets could not fully demonstrate the abilities they usually possessed. There was nothing that could be done. Be it martial arts or magic, those caught in his grasp dulled in reason.

The sword dance wielded solely driven by desire could not replicate the martial arts they had built.

Yet quantity overwhelmingly surpassed quality. When a sufficient number gathered, regardless of how skilled the knight, they would surely crumble.

However, the quantity he had prepared, the quantity of puppets he was controlling.

Was being overwhelmed by the quality of a single person.

The trajectory of severed threads pointed directly toward his dwelling. Even while continuously pushing humans in to block them. It was abjectly.

A breakwater can withstand waves, but a tsunami will not break before it.

Like that. Like the coastline assailed by a tsunami. Like a mortal gazing upon a natural disaster.

In that moment, he realized it. That there were “humans” whom even demons called natural disasters.

Einar of the mountains of corpses and seas of blood.

The angel of death, Patricia.

The shadow blade, Enrique.

The thunder-summoning Veolgrin.

The iron fortress, Jill Ber.

And.

The despairing Maximilian.

Then, newly.

– The Slayer, Ivan…!!

By borrowing the eyes of puppets beyond the web, upon seeing the face of the approaching being, he tightly grasped the threads and stood up.

*

Isabelle was galloping madly, chasing after Ivan’s back. She could manage to fend off the approaching spear, but fighting like Ivan was impossible.

The enemy was a legion. Not a rhetorical expression but a stark description. The Bellacria legion was converging. With vacant eyes yet with clear intent to harm.

Thus, this charge of just the two had to naturally dissolve under immense pressure. It was common sense. Even if Ivan could successfully penetrate this, she could not.

It was not so much a lack of ability as it was a lack of experience. Though she had experience facing a singular strong foe, she had nearly none in facing countless hostilities.

But now, the pressure reaching her was trivial. Amidst the overwhelming legion, most of the pressure she felt was being relieved by the back in front of her.

Relief?

As that word crossed her mind, Isabelle unconsciously smiled wryly. It was not relief. To be precise, it was ‘crushing.’

Charging forward stubbornly, she was turning all she collided with into mush. Even with flames that seemed ready to extinguish at any moment, they still burned fiercely as she charged.

Feeling that it was dangerous, Isabelle gripped the reins tightly.

Because it seemed ready to extinguish at any moment. Burning like it was the final spark.

Thinking back, that man was always like that. Not giving the slightest leeway with even a single action. Putting his all into the simplest tasks.

So mechanical it could be felt. Like a magical device executing commands with precision. More akin to witnessing some artifact of magical engineering than a person.

Yet she knew.

That man cried when he ate the food of his homeland.

When mourning those who had left, he bit his lip, always haunted by the nightmares of the past, calling their names in a cracked voice.

When he looked upon those he called comrades, his eyes were surprisingly gentle.

That gap was so pitiful. That all his happiness seemed lost in the past.

Once, she had seen a taxidermied dragon in the palace of Tylesse.

A massive taxidermy of a dragon roaring at all who entered the palace. It seemed to fully reveal the king’s majesty. As a child, she had admired that figure.

But it was just a mock-up of something from the distant past. Rotting inside, filled with wax in the dead flesh and muscles. A relic left behind by a once-great tyrant.

The shape filled with intimidation was merely a reflection of the past. Its glory lingered solely in distant history. And the sentiment Isabelle felt watching it was not different from how she felt now, looking at Ivan.

Like a taxidermy, it left only memories with the old ones, now no longer capable of feeling the wonders and joys of the world.

She thought as she looked at Ivan’s arms. What past lay behind those countless scars? What kind of life had to be lived for such markings to be etched over those arms, legs, and perhaps the whole body?

And she could easily imagine.

Wounds heal but leave scars. They were the results of scribbles painted across the canvas of that man’s body. Thus, within the long struggle of his life, how mangled must his soul—his heart—be?

So.

He’s a hero. A hero who saves people. He must be the bravest, most loving person.

So.

She wanted to save that man.

She wanted to save that broken man, who could only find happiness in nightmares, filled with sorrow and grief.

To that man who had always saved her within crises and under threats. To that man who only gave of himself, she wanted to give too.

She wanted to show him happiness. Joy, warmth, delight, and laughter. She wanted to put a smile on that parched face.

Though she cannot save everyone in the world, at least.

She should no longer have to see that scarred back before her.

She wanted to stop the man who always walked ahead and say proudly, “Now I will stand in front of you.”

Forward. Further forward. A hero must seek hope amid despair. So, if you follow me, I can show you hope as well.

Walking ahead, carving out despair.

Further. Beyond hope. To a place where one should no longer live in grief—

“Sir—!!”

Isabelle deflected a blade that burrowed into Ivan’s body and drew near his side.

“Open your eyes! Look at me!!”

To awaken the taxidermied shadow.

Towards the man who had sunk into overwhelming darkness, blocking all senses and solely pushing forward.

*

And Ivan, now within the engulfing darkness, spoke towards the white figure.

“Cereno…Vika…?”

A woman in a wedding dress, smiling brightly, extended a bouquet towards him.

It was a cathedral.

He surveyed his surroundings. Countless spectators were firing celebratory shots and walking up to shake his hand.

He could see the Saint and Enrique, both shedding tears. Can a vampire even weep? They perhaps could. He just never knew since he hadn’t tried.

He spotted Sasha and Dmitri clapping their hands.

He saw Elizaveta showering flowers. What is she doing? Just how far has the dignity of the royal court fallen?

No, there’s no need for dignity here.

The late king was looking down on him. Who could dare to utter the majesty of the Krasilov royal family in front of him?

Rolling its severed head, Alexander laughed.

“Colonel, what are you doing? Spacing out.”

Laila Cerenobika chuckled while placing a wreath in his arms.

Kim Sunwoo murmured softly in a cracked voice.

“Thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Thinking I don’t want to wake up.”

“What are you waking from? What do you mean?”

Kim Sunwoo lowered his head at her question. His reflection was in a tuxedo.

He gripped the ceremonial sword that hung beside him. It was a familiar grip. Like an axe handle.

“Colonel?”

“Do not speak anymore.”

When he lifted his head, the smile that had been illuminating Kim Sunwoo’s face was no longer there.

Ivan spoke to the white figure in a sunken voice.

“Do not further insult my life.”

The figure in the wedding dress tilted its head and spoke.

“I can grant you what you desire most, Slayer. What I wanted was not this. Your role is not here. Take my hand. I have no reason to fight you.”

“I have.”

– Thud.

The ceremonial sword was drawn and sank like an axe into the figure’s neck.

“From the moment you began this act.”

The threads piercing his forehead ignited and broke.

*

“—Sir!! Aunty!! Can you hear me!?”

When Ivan opened his eyes, Isabelle was urgently shouting beside him.

His axe was caught by Isabelle’s blade and was shaking. Looking around, he found that the approaching army was no longer moving.

In the center of the clearing piled high with blood and corpses, Ivan and Isabelle stood, weapons aimed at each other.

“Get yourself together! For real! I’m gonna die!!”

“Isabelle.”

“Yes! The hero has appeared!!”

Isabelle gasped for breath yet laughed. She bore marks of webbing that had dug in and then rebounded off her body. Traces of magical corruption that did not fully take hold.

So it seems.

Desire’s grasp had no reach over a human who had never fallen into despair.

No, that’s not it. Ivan looked at Isabelle with new eyes.

“Were you a virgin?”

“…?”

There wouldn’t be a curse of lust upon a human who could not feel lust.

It was only natural. So that’s why I was affected. This is largely Elizaveta’s fault.

“Aunty you’re still not conscious. Good! Then this hero must help.”

Isabelle thrust her sword forward and growled.

*

   

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