Capítulo 97: The Sixth Campione Descends Upon the World
His desire to improve with the sword had stagnated.
Feeling empty inside, unable to grasp anything substantial, the young man named Doni gazed up at the starry night as he jabbed his sword absently at the low wooden post before him, like a child at play.
He yearned to cross swords with the strongest, but despite having left Saint Raffaello after mastering all her techniques in just one month, he had yet to learn her essence.
No heart, no thought, no mind.
For him, the ultimate secret of swordsmanship—the complete absence of thought—remained out of reach.
Maybe he should seek out another master swordsman for a match. But where, other than Raffaello herself, could he find a grand master?
A radiant image lingered in his mind, that legendary figure on the faraway eastern continent—the Godslayer ruling China's martial realm, Luo Hao, the Grandmaster of the Holy Cult of the Five Mountains.
Would he have to climb Mount Lu again?
As he thought of that esteemed figure's legend, his feet carried him unconsciously toward Chinatown.
...Ahhh.
The dazed knight greeted some vaguely familiar faces but couldn't remember a single name.
While eating, he ran into an acquaintance who was an antiques dealer. The merchant, who had some knowledge of the arcane, was on his way to Turkey for business. Conveniently, he hired Doni as an escort.
Then… Doni encountered him—the youth with blood-red hair, as if bathed in dragon's blood.
"You are a dragon!" the youth shouted, and Doni's consciousness faded.
Milan, Italy.
Kurumi returned with her two young companions to this city.
What was once a well-preserved medieval monastery now lay in ruins.
The towering white spires had been cleaved in two, and the Bronze-Black Cross's flag had lost its vibrant color. Starting from the monastery's central courtyard, a jagged cross-shaped trench ran through the Bronze-Black Cross headquarters, slicing it into four sections, as if cut down from the heavens by an immense, scorching blade.
Although days had passed, the lingering power of that blow still made people tremble.
Gods, after all, were beings beyond human resistance.
Standing in the monastery's forecourt was a silver-haired girl, her presence like a moonlit spirit come to earth, trembling from head to toe.
Knights bustled around, repairing damage and salvaging relics, struggling under the weight of heavy white stones as they sidestepped her, hurrying into the monastery.
Liliana's breathing was shallow and shaky as she knelt down, dipping her hand into the blackened soil of the gash.
A scorching, venomous aura instantly invaded her tender skin. Her right hand blackened and burned with visible speed, as if molten lava coursed through her veins, spreading from her fingertips upward.
Despite her hardened spirit and resilience—qualities like tempered steel—Liliana seemed oblivious to the pain, clenching her hand tighter around the soil.
"Liliana!" Erica cried out in alarm, panicked.
Though she usually found amusement in teasing Liliana, enjoying the way her steadfast, honest friend flushed in embarrassment, she knew deep down that Liliana was her dearest friend.
The two were bound by fate, known together as the Twin Roses of Milan.
Click.
The world suddenly took on a dark red color.
In an instant, Kurumi appeared in front of Liliana, the massive golden clock behind her ticking to the hour of IV.
The fiery toxin continued to climb up Liliana's arm, burning like dragon's breath, consuming her body bit by bit.
This was why the Bronze-Black Cross hadn't dared remove the humiliating cross-shaped scar—it had to wait until the fire poison faded on its own.
A shadowy pistol, formed from Kurumi's black-red aura, aimed directly between Liliana's brows.
Yet, in that moment, Kurumi hesitated.
The young girl looked up, gazing at her with those doe-like eyes, unyielding and intense, a fiery red emerging like dragon scales on her flawless face from the right side.
Her blue-green eyes burned with fierce determination.
She wanted to defend the honor of her order, to show that damned saint what she was made of.
She seemed to be pleading silently, her wide eyes bright and misty, like a small deer.
With a sigh, Kurumi thought how unappealing this girl could be—offering herself as a pawn, seeking divine intervention to strike down her foe.
Kurumi knelt, looking Liliana square in the eye.
The scalding veins of fire had crept up to her neck.
Kurumi reached out to ruffle the girl's hair, speaking gently.
"Guess I've no choice."
She lowered the pistol, allowing it to dissolve back into shadow, the golden clock sinking into darkness once more.
The world resumed its normal colors, the sounds of bustling returned, and an elderly man known for his severe treatment of Liliana rushed over from the courtyard.
Brushing Liliana's hair aside, Kurumi softly pressed her thumb against the girl's forehead.
"If you want to defend the honor of a knight so badly… then why not do it yourself?"
"I... I'm not strong enough." The searing pain raked through Liliana's whole body, her voice dry and cracking as though her throat had been scorched.
She was a prodigy, yes, but only a prodigy.
Fortunately, she was blessed with incredible luck.
In the world of Heretic Gods and Godslayers, luck often held more weight than strength.
"No... you're strong enough." Kurumi smiled, and under her touch, a bright silver glow began to form on Liliana's brow.
"Just a mere saint." Kurumi's face was filled with disdain, as though declaring—
Trash. All trash.
Atop the Tower of San Gimignano.
A blond youth sat with his legs sprawled apart in a most unrefined manner.
Resting his chin on his hands, he muttered as if talking to himself.
"I wonder where that Heretic God has gone. The Netherworld? I was sure I'd sensed them here before…"
Even though he had emerged from myth, a Heretic God always carried a mission.
Make an offering of 500 yen to Yato, and he'd grant you a wish, so they say.
This god had descended for one purpose—to cut down the Heretic God… although, so far, he hadn't found a trace.
Still, he sensed something—an approaching presence, powerful and ominous.
"For the greater good, what's a little self-sacrifice?" The youth muttered as he polished his sacred sword, the mirror-like blade reflecting a different face altogether.
A face framed with dark, blood-red hair, and eyes that gleamed a fierce, golden slit.
"Then... you'd be free."
Though he uttered grand words, he knew well the truth—that even gods varied in power.
But, perhaps, the outcome wasn't set in stone.
After all, he did possess a divine power that guaranteed victory.
...
A sudden pulse of intense fighting spirit echoed from afar, startling the youthful god, who tilted his head in surprise.
"A… a little girl???"
From the hills covered in cypress trees, a young girl advanced with footsteps as unyielding as steel, approaching from beyond the horizon.
Even separated by thousands of meters, the golden-haired youth sensed the surge of her fighting spirit.
This youthful human body, given to him, thrilled with the desire to confront this young knight. It was an instinct embedded deep in this body's blood—a craving for combat against the strong.
With a sigh, the young god with golden hair sheathed his broad longsword.
"Today is April 23rd," he murmured.
Today was the day he least wanted to battle.
And this opponent was the one he least wished to face.
With an air of resignation, the young god leaped down from the tower and dusted off his robe, marked with a red cross.
This fight was unavoidable.
He moved through the bustling crowd, invisible to everyone around him.
Watching the joyful faces of those holding crimson roses, he felt a swell of pride.
"This... this is the world I protect with my blood and life!"
He stretched out his arms, plucking a rose from a passing flower stall as though embracing his descendants. With resolve, he turned to meet the young girl advancing toward him.
He couldn't help but feel fortunate not to be a god of Celtic mythology, bound by the power-breaking vows of Geis.
He was the guardian saint of England, Georgia, Moscow, Catalonia, Malta, Italy, Lithuania, Ethiopia, the Boy Scouts, and soldiers alike.
He was the dragon-slaying knight.
The martyred saint of Christendom.
And the one approaching, carrying her will to battle like a drawn blade, was Italy's young knight—Liliana.
The young god did not underestimate her because of her youth. The girl's will was even firmer than that of the soldiers of ancient Rome.
The chill of fate already draped over his heart.
Drifting like the wind, he moved to an open field outside the city, locking eyes with Liliana.
His body instinctively shifted into battle stance, and the young god smiled approvingly.
"To think, Epimetheus's child could achieve such strength at such a young age."
Epimetheus's child, son of Pandora, Demon King, Campione, Godslayer—many titles belonged to those who accomplished the feat of slaying a Heretic God.
"I lack such talent," Liliana replied solemnly, her delicate face focused as she rejected his compliment.
With a faultless elegance, she exuded an aloofness that made others hesitate to approach.
"It is only by my lord's grace that I was able to obtain this power."
Liliana's gaze shone, still warm with the memory of Kurumi's presence. She had gained this power by offering everything she had to her lord.
"I am one who wields victory," she chanted internally as a fierce wind swept around her.
"No need for modesty, young future Godslayer," the young god laughed heartily, gripping a strange dragon lance in his right hand.
"I understand better than anyone the helplessness of humanity before a god. Your journey was surely arduous; your fate, undeniably strong."
"To slay a god, mortals possess only one weapon—destiny."
Had Erica been standing before him, she would surely have said dryly:
"No, you're overthinking this."
But he faced Liliana, and her only answer was silence.
The dragon lance he held was roughly two meters long.
As a spear, its head was oversized, more like a massive spike, while the shaft was short, not even half the length of the point.
It looked almost like a sword in his right hand.
This was his ancestral lance.
In his left hand, he held a broad-bladed longsword—the legendary holy sword Ascalon.
He made his solemn oath.
"I am one who defends the weak!"
"I am one who confronts evil!"
"I am one who achieves sanctity!"
The young god chanted these words, readying his stance.
Drawing back the holy sword, he leveled the dragon lance at Liliana and charged.
There was no need for secrecy; drawing Ascalon alone declared his true identity.
"Saint George."
Liliana recognized the figure before her.
The dragon-slaying knight, the martyr saint.
Saint George… Georgios…
He bore many names, even including Saint Michael.
The girl gazed calmly at the saint's swift charge, her eyes as tranquil as a still lake.
Raising her left hand to the sky, Liliana began chanting her incantation, though somewhat awkwardly.
"My wings, turn to steel and take the form of a phantom blade!"
"—IL Maestro, grant me your strength!"
Silvery light descended, gradually solidifying.
A long blade, nearly as tall as the girl herself, resembling a naginata, appeared in her grip.
Its hilt was almost as long as a knight's lance.
This was the creation of sublime beauty, said to produce melodies of unmatched harmony.
It was also one of Saint Raffaello's paired swords, known as Il Maestro.
Liliana swung the long blade in a series of graceful arcs, launching strikes at the golden-haired saint.
Her movements were as delicate as a breeze that stirred the ends of her hair.
If there was any flaw, it was her unfamiliarity with wielding a sword in her left hand. The young god cast a glance at Liliana's right arm.
The sleeve of her robe had long been torn, exposing her rounded, slender shoulder and pale arm.
It appeared normal, yet it stirred a sense of reverence within him.
…
Liliana swept her long blade upward, deflecting the dragon lance.
Saint George moved without haste, raising his holy sword in a smooth horizontal arc.
For a warrior, wielding two such distinct weapons might present a challenge.
But the young god was, after all, divine.
And his opponent was a Godslayer.
At least by result, Liliana was indeed a Godslayer.
The sixth Campione to descend upon the world.
Upward slash, horizontal slice, straight thrust, downward strike…
Without pause, the naginata-like Silver Maestro drove a relentless assault at Saint George.
Sword and spear clashed, sending waves of energy into the sky.
From a distance, Kurumi and Erica watched the battle unfold.
Liliana was a keen knight. In this close-quarters blade fight, her best strategy was to stay close, denying the saint room to maneuver his lance.
The girl maintained close contact with Saint George, pressing her attack while he could only parry with his left hand and holy sword.
In such close range, his long, spiked dragon lance was unwieldy.
After a sequence of blows, they collided again, sparks flashing from their clash of energy.
Wielding the dragon lance as if it were a massive sword, Saint George swept it horizontally, while Liliana bent backward in a deep bridge, her flexible, slender form arching as the lance swept past the tip of her nose.
Saint George twirled the lance in his right hand, simultaneously lunging forward with the holy sword in his left, aiming for her abdomen.
"It ends here!"
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