Chapter Fifty-Three: Placing All Hope Upon Your Sword

Are you kidding me? How could such a monster possibly be defeated by human hands!

Amy Ulysses struggled to steady herself—not on the ground, but upon the very body of the demon before her. She paid no mind to the swarm of fallen subterranean fiends around her, and, almost reflexively, raised her head to gaze at the immense shadow looming over nearly all her vision, at the nameless abomination that seemed to drown the world in darkness.

It was as if a hidden boss from a novice’s dungeon had suddenly appeared—a terrifying creature that should never have emerged within the fireseed’s radius. If it were one of those who wielded lightning, flame, or frost, perhaps they could contend with this monstrous target, but for him, this colossal being with no clear weak point was the worst possible match. With only himself and the sword-bearer—no, even with a hundred or two hundred men—mere swords and blades would barely leave a mark.

They had to retreat—while retreat was still possible.

The Scion of Glory had no intention of sacrificing himself in vain. Though high demons were ferocious, they could not be more formidable than the Lords of Darkness. Given the uniqueness of his powers, he had once managed to escape the grasp of a black sorcerer like Alfred. Against a high demon—one lacking sentience and ranking near the bottom of the apex predators—even after a fierce struggle, he was confident he could escape if outmatched. To go mad together with the girl who always trusted him was not unthinkable.

But this enemy before them was his absolute nemesis. Even if he exhausted every last ounce of strength, to this monster, it would amount to little more than a mosquito’s bite—they were simply not on the same plane of existence. No wonder his instincts had flared in warning: from the very start, the "ground" they stood on was not true earth, but the demon’s very flesh. The gravel he had touched was perhaps dust gathered over its centuries of slumber, or flakes of skin shed through its bodily processes. The ravenous fiends ravaging the Ildan mines were nothing but parasites living upon its body, perhaps even its immune system.

After fighting for so long, they hadn't even realized where their true enemy lay—a grave miscalculation.

The boy surveyed his surroundings, and in the newly cleared expanse, he found the sword-bearer, who had also paused her slaughter. Gauging the distance, he resolved to join her—while the underground creatures had yet to regroup. He moved at once, striding across the undulating flesh as if over waves, and when only a single “wave crest” remained between them, he called out:

“Mia—”

“Ulysses.” At almost the same moment, the sword-bearer of the Order spoke his name.

For a brief instant, the young Scion of Glory felt a pang of awkwardness, and the words he had meant to say were entirely blocked by the girl’s own: “Protect me—please.”

“Protect you?” Amy arched a brow. “What are you planning to do?”

“To purify the unclean.” The sword-bearer’s voice was calm and resolute, as though she faced not a mountainous demon, but a mere bug she could crush with ease.

“You—” The boy hesitated, swallowing back the words “seeking death,” and instead asked, “You have a way to kill it?”

“Overdrive.” Mia nodded, naming the second power her stigmata bestowed. “My overdrive has no limit—in theory.”

If nothing else, those last three words hardly inspired confidence…

Though he thought this, Amy Ulysses did not refuse. After all, he was a Scion of Glory, a descendant of the ancient bloodline, born noble and accustomed to all manner of privilege. When confronted by a threat capable of shaking Hemtica’s very order, retreat was not an option—well, not if it meant certain death.

“Alright.”

After a brief silence, he responded, then turned to stand behind the girl, facing the oncoming horde. In his dark eyes, a flickering, fragile shadow appeared—one that seemed ready to shatter at any moment. It was not a reflection cast upon his retina, but something hidden deep within his being, some force he had long neglected. At this moment, as he discarded all hesitation and let his fighting spirit blaze, the tip of that buried iceberg revealed itself.

Yet, the boy himself was utterly unaware.

All he could see was the monstrous army before him.

Yes—an army.

The man-eating fiends of the underworld possessed a hive-mind learning ability far beyond human imagination. Every bit of experience gained by an individual was instantly shared with the entire swarm. Their adaptability far outstripped what the boy had anticipated. Even during the brief exchange between him and Mia, the creatures began to gather—not in a disorganized rush, but advancing in lockstep, like a disciplined army surging toward his position.

There was no blocking them, no dodging them!

When the collective power of the swarm converged, the Scion of Glory had no confidence he could withstand their assault.

This was no rabble—it was a true battle formation, a real army! Even with his extraordinary physique and near-prescient instincts that bordered on cheating, he could perhaps carve bloody paths through their ranks, but he could not halt their advance or protect the sword-bearer preparing her decisive strike in the midst of the horde. Therefore, he had to bind them—at any cost, hold them back!

The boy narrowed his eyes, his resolve hardening as never before.

Then—

He slashed open his own hand, letting crimson blood flow freely.

“I’m right here!” He raised his bleeding left arm high, announcing himself to the monsters atop another “hill,” then strode forward. His slender frame seemed charged with unimaginable power, a fiery light burning in his obsidian eyes. “Your enemy is right here!”

The revered blood of the Ancients was in itself a symbol of order, and to all the demons and fiends spawned from the chaos of darkness, order was an irresistible lure—so potent that even the high demons could not resist. Like moths to flame, they would plunge into the fog, lose all power beneath the light of order, and be hunted, slaughtered, even devoured by humans—let alone this tribe spawned from the high demon itself. To them, he was a bait so potent it would drive them all mad. All he needed to do was reveal himself, and an endless battle to the death would ensue. Though it was hardly a comforting thought, he had absolute faith in the potency of the ancestral blood in his veins.

As expected, the monsters’ crimson compound eyes were wild with frenzy.

Even—

The nameless giant demon beneath their feet grew restless. Countless scarlet eyes opened like searchlights, sweeping through the fathomless dark. Yet Amy Ulysses was far too insignificant for it to notice. No matter how it hungered for the pure order in his blood, it could not detect the tiny creature upon its body. All it could do was thrash and shift, turning the “ground” beneath the boy, the girl, and the monsters into a storm-tossed sea.

The sudden upheaval halted the Scion of Glory’s stride. He steadied himself against the rolling earth, his gaze lingering briefly on the monsters thrown into fresh chaos, then shifted to the sword-bearer. He knew full well that the outcome of this battle did not rest with him. At most, he could delay and influence events, but the decisive blow could only come from one person—Mia.

Would the demon’s agitation hinder her?

He wondered, then looked back—and was relieved to find his fears unfounded. Overdrive was the power to manipulate air pressure and summon winds that could rend all things. With this mastery, the sword-bearer, gripping her silver greatsword high, broke free from the earth’s gravity. She hovered in midair like a holy angel from the legends of the Order, her entire sword enveloped in a mantle of wind. From afar, it seemed she wielded not a blade, but the very storm itself.

—Overdrive, overdrive, overdrive!

At the tip of her sword, a faint vortex formed, the roar of air being sundered so fierce that even he could hear it. The destructive might she now controlled far surpassed that first strike he had witnessed, a force so savage it would chill the heart of any observer.

But—it was still not enough!

Power enough to startle the world would not so much as shake this mountain-like demon. To defeat, even slay, this high demon, this level of force was far from sufficient!

The sword-bearer clenched her teeth, the stigmata on her hand blazing with unprecedented radiance.

—Overdrive, overdrive, overdrive!

Suddenly, a hole tore open in the darkness above. Wild winds swept up the girl’s hair, bright as the dawn, her ashen robe snapping in the gale. At last, with a rip, the coarse, ill-made garment of the lower districts could no longer withstand the tempest. It shredded into a flurry of butterflies, revealing beneath a combat nun’s habit—white with gold trim, simple yet elegant in design.

Yet through all this, she remained oblivious.

She only gritted her teeth, only drove her stigmata ever harder.

Sword-bearers had their limits. Unlike those born to the ancient blood, they possessed no innate talent. Their ability to battle the Scions of Glory and clash with demons lay solely in the stigmata implanted within them. With these, their bodies could surpass human bounds, and with them, they could command wind, lightning, frost, flame. Yet the stigmata were not native to their flesh. Even with good compatibility, rejection was always possible. They could never wield their power as freely as a Scion of Glory, and there was always a threshold to how long they could safely sustain their abilities. To push beyond was to risk rejection, defeat without a fight, or even utter collapse from within—never to rise again.

But the girl had no other choice.

To kill it, to slay this high demon, she needed such resolve!

This was the resolve of the weak—and their strength.

It was, above all, the determination to kill.

Like a knight from myth who commands the storm and descends upon the earth, the girl lifted her slender, swan-like neck. Her emerald eyes blazed with finality. She made no sound, no unnecessary gesture, but there was no doubt: by her action alone, she declared to the world—

Winds, heed my command!