Chapter 85: The Duel in Pursuit

This sword.

Wilson stared at the ancient short blade, its surface mottled with red and black, held in the hand of the Bringer of Glory. It was difficult to imagine that such an unremarkable weapon could unleash such terrifying power, utterly overwhelming the nightmare that had haunted the lower districts for nearly a century, driving it helplessly toward its destined end.

Was this the relic of those madmen who pursued truth during the era of the ancient kings?

No, it didn’t seem so. Alchemists, though capable of using demon remnants to craft all manner of wondrous artifacts, even those alchemists who stood closest to truth could never create a blade that could erase high-level undying demons from their very roots—a sword of death. There was no inherent superiority in its abilities, no special powers infused into the blade. It was simply, cleanly, a single strike. Yet under that strike, not only did the murderer’s mist vanish without resistance, even his atmospheric control shattered like glass.

If one were to describe it, it was as if earth met stone, water encountered ice; before a higher force, both his abilities and the murderer’s innate talents were denied at their source.

Such power... was it the mark of the chosen?

The young man from the House of the Lost narrowed his eyes. Now, thinking back, it seemed Ignatius knew something from the very beginning. He had always regarded Amy Ulysses differently, ever since the boy set foot in the lower districts. He ordered Wilson to approach this fallen heir of glory, and even broke his usual secrecy, meeting the unknown youth in person.

There must be a fearsome secret hidden within the seemingly ordinary surname Ulysses.

But... what did it matter to him?

He had never sought secrets nor merely survival. His goal was to create opportunities.

Thanks to the Bringer of Glory and his unfriendly companion, Wilson managed to snatch a brief respite from the murderer’s pursuit and invoke the name of Obadiah—before he was forced to reveal his trump card, the transformation into a dragonkin, that peculiar entity from the deepest night had already hidden itself in the cracks of the world.

He could leave this deadly battle at any time, if he wished.

But since he had sworn, in his father’s name, to kill, he would not retreat. After all... he too once bore the name Ferdinand.

Now, unbound by oaths, he could withdraw from the fight, escape this pointless struggle at will.

Yet crisis was always relative. Both Amy Ulysses and the sword-wielding companion beside him were invaluable assets. The Dark Guild had already proven with its own destruction that, if harnessed properly, this power could rewrite the very fabric of the lower districts.

Though he felt little true allegiance to the House of the Lost, it had been home for over a decade. To claim he had no feelings at all would be false. He wished to do something for the place that had nurtured him—especially now, in these unsettled times. Since the Dark Guild’s downfall, the once stable three-way balance had collapsed entirely. Intelligence reports revealed that Emperor Michelangelo and the Mask seemed intent on unifying the lower districts under a single voice—a harbinger of mortal conflict.

Granted, the traveler returning from darkness, Ignatius, was the ultimate fighter in the lower districts, perhaps in all of Hermetica. Even the murderer of Misty Night, who once intimidated an era, and the enigmatic King of Shadows, were wary of him. Yet he was old now, his body failing, his control over his abilities no longer as effortless as before. He might still hold the title of strongest, but he was no longer invincible.

The death of the murderer of Misty Night was undeniably a boon for him. It meant not only the cleansing of the shame forced upon him by his demonic aspect, but also... Michelangelo would be less likely to strike against the House of the Lost. Though Wilson loathed to admit it, disregarding Ignatius, in terms of conventional strength, the secretive House of the Lost was simply not in the same league as the overt rulers of the lower districts. If conflict erupted, even a victory would come at a terrible cost—a pyrrhic triumph with no true winner.

To avert this war, the other catalyst—The Mask—must die!

Unlike the Bringer of Glory, who had no concept of the power balance in the lower districts, Wilson knew well how terrifying the King of Shadows was. If Ignatius was the House of the Lost’s ultimate force, and the murderer of Misty Night the Dark Guild’s final weapon, then the Mask was the blade that allowed Michelangelo to become emperor.

Wilson alone could not hope to shake the King of Shadows’ position.

Thus—

He needed Amy Ulysses’ help.

The former information broker had no desire for prolonged battle. Though the boy’s short sword seemed ordinary, the youth who had witnessed its ferocity dared not underestimate it. He fought while retreating, his dragonkin form granting him greater strength and speed than the boy. Though lacking somewhat in combat skill and experience, he had the advantage in a straight fight.

But victory was not Wilson’s aim, nor did he wish to defeat or kill the boy before him.

His tactics were conservative, like a stubborn old turtle, impossible to pin down. Combined with his retreating, evasive style, there were few true exchanges—usually just a symbolic clash of weapons before he withdrew, starting a new cycle of pursuit and escape.

Almost there...

He wondered how Simon was faring.

Catching a glimpse of dense woodland in the corner of his eye, stray thoughts flickered through Wilson’s mind.

Meanwhile, Amy Ulysses, following close behind the dragonkin, sensed something amiss.

—Here... is Paul’s estate?

The Bringer of Glory narrowed his eyes instinctively.

He was no reckless fool, and had already noticed the information broker’s odd behavior during the fight. But often knowing alone meant little; without clearer, more direct intelligence, any change or action on his part would be meaningless.

He waited, for the moment when the other’s intentions would be revealed.

And now, it seemed that moment was near.

No matter—it was impossible for him to escape.

As a dragon incarnate, standing atop myth itself, the dragonkin transformation was undeniably powerful—not only enhancing his physical abilities in every aspect, but covering him head to toe in impenetrable scales. Barring compatibility or restraining factors, this power was far more practical than the murderer’s mist or the sword-bearer’s augmentation; only the Eye of Truth and the Omen of Death could surpass it. Even the black sorcerer Alfred, who nearly cornered him to true death, could hardly compare with a single aspect.

Yet, he possessed the Omen of Death—a power beyond reason. For many, life itself was a precious, singular gift; for him, it was a chip to be weighed on the scales of victory and defeat. From the outset, this battle had never been fair.

Besides, battles are always decided by life and death, never fairness.

The Bringer of Glory half-closed his eyes, cold killing intent hidden beneath his lashes, carefully seeking the chance for a fatal strike. But as he expected, the information broker who had witnessed the murderer’s demise left him not a single opening.

Fight and retreat, retreat and fight, like a fish darting through layered waves, always avoiding possible danger.

Amy Ulysses felt no discouragement; the dragonkin’s tenacity was expected. Failing to assassinate him with the short sword meant his chances of victory were now slim—but not nonexistent. After all, he was not fighting alone.

The sword-bearer, Mia, would not be defeated by mere rejection. Beneath her cool exterior was a heart as fierce as a volcano.

She would come.

The boy believed this without doubt.

It was not blind faith, but a basic trust in a comrade to whom he could entrust his back.

Time always crawls in anticipation. Before today, the Bringer of Glory and the information broker had no grievances, perhaps even a scrap of camaraderie. But now, Amy Ulysses had no reason to show mercy—never mind the innate enmity between high demons and children of order; in terms of interests, he could not spare this enemy who knew his secrets.

So, strike now—kill him.

His gaze swept over the nearby girl, whose expression had softened slightly. The Bringer of Glory drew a deep breath.

Then—

“Westia Soren!”

With a sacrifice from the blood of the earliest children of order, the sword of light and flame that once cleaved through darkness was gripped anew. Before the words faded, he lunged forward, swinging the blade in a simple arc, slicing through the air and unleashing a surging wave of heat.

But no matter how grand the display, missing the enemy rendered it pointless.

Wilson had never relaxed his vigilance. As the boy ignited the blade, he showed no hesitation, no decorum. Curling himself into a ball, he rolled across the ground, deftly evading Ulysses’ overwhelming attack.

Not a bad reaction.

The Bringer of Glory assessed inwardly, did not pursue, merely watched the dragonkin information broker retreat, then extinguished the bloodthirsty sword of light and flame, exhaling a heavy breath.

But—

He shifted his gaze toward the sword-bearer, toward the silver cross in her hands that stirred the clouds, toward her delicate fingers, wrapped in restless air, descending.

Sorry, this path leads only to the ninth circle of hell.

Wilson, who had just managed to climb to his feet, now sensed imminent danger. He remembered vividly the girl’s earlier sword that punched a hole through the clouds. Though he expected her to team up with Ulysses once she had recovered, he never anticipated she would arrive so quickly, so fiercely, so untimely.

Yes, untimely.

Compared to the predictable power of the frenzied winds, the more dangerous threat was the Bringer of Glory’s sword of light and flame, which could kill the mist-form murderer in a single strike. Even with suspicions about the sword-bearer, in the face of mortal peril, there was no room for hesitation or choice—he could only address the immediate danger.

Now, the time to pay the price had come.

The information broker thought with a hint of bitterness, but was not overly pessimistic. Compared to the unknown terror of the sword’s light and flame, the girl’s command of the wind, though formidable, was at least understandable and manageable. With his atmospheric control and dragonkin transformation, he was confident he could withstand the onslaught, perhaps suffering some injuries, but nothing fatal.

He believed so, and acted accordingly.

—Atmospheric control.

As danger drew near, he activated his ability.

Despite its grand name, atmospheric control was more aspiration than reality. At present, aside from creating a vacuum, he could only influence the air to a limited degree. Facing the frenzied winds at close range, his effect was scant. Almost as soon as his ability took hold, a tornado laden with sand and dirt swallowed him, roaring forward, smashing dozens of thick trees before finally calming.

But that was all.

The dragonkin’s protection proved stronger than expected. Though the flying wood chips and stones struck hard, they still could not compare to the murderer’s curved blade, failing to break through his defenses. The only real issue was the loss of bodily balance—an experience Ulysses understood well. He once described it simply and vividly: it felt like being tossed into a washing machine or centrifuge, spinning for a while, emerging dizzy and disoriented.

Of course, what exactly was a washing machine or centrifuge? The boy had long since stopped caring.

Wilson could never have guessed the Bringer of Glory’s experience, nor had he expected such a situation. It took him a while to regain his bearings and stand, but before he could find his direction... his already blurred vision was flooded with dazzling light and flame.

Damn!

Even before his mind cleared, the dragonkin instinctively sensed the danger. Without hesitation, he fell backward, his head striking something hard, restoring some alertness. As the next attack loomed, he contacted Obadiah’s castle, crushed the transparent orb in his hand, and called the demon’s name.

“Obadiah—”

He spoke, and flames ignited out of nowhere, like a gaping maw, swallowing him whole.

He was barely three milliseconds too late. The sword of light and flame struck only empty air.

“Gone.”

The Bringer of Glory scanned the area, recalling the last image he saw, dark eyes full of doubt, but finally confirmed with certainty.

“—No, he has vanished.”