Chapitre 91: Accidentally Slaying Him Shouldn’t Be a Problem, Right?
A chill crept over the air…
It was that spine-chilling sensation, the sharp, cutting feeling that seemed to split the magicians' field of vision in two.
There stood a woman with pallid skin, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat and clad all in black. Her movements were stiff, mechanical, as if her settings had somehow been configured wrong.
Her face was devoid of any vitality, her deep-set eyes were void, hollow, reflecting none of the vibrant world around her. Though her gaze seemed unfocused, it remained fixed on Kurumi's direction.
She was like a corpse—were it not for the absence of a rotting smell, she would be indistinguishable from a reanimated body.
She looked toward the Royal Naval College at Greenwich, and within her empty, ancient mind, her powerful vision took shape.
Once, she had surely been an extraordinarily powerful witch, yet even in death, she had been defiled into this form.
A dark goddess, a crimson goddess…
The world was tinted in a desolate palette of black and red…
A massive, golden clock tower loomed between heaven and earth, its hands trembling, ticking backward…
Desperately, she tried to see more, but the scene grew increasingly blurred and hazy.
Black, near-dried blood trickled from the witch's hollow eyes. She kept looking, trembling all over… because she had no choice. It was a death command from the one who had robbed her of her dignity in life, her unstoppable master.
And then, she saw—
The sight of a jagged, sickle-like blade, and the black, gaping muzzle of a gun.
"Hey, hey... Miss Corpse. If I were you, I'd stay put."
A voice seeped out, carrying an oddly enticing charm.
The dead witch's chaotic eyes spun wildly, as if her vacant pupils might disperse like eggs in a mixer.
She froze, her gaze mechanically fixing forward once again.
Before her stood a girl dressed in an unusual black and red spirit garment, with bare, smooth shoulders and graceful collarbones exuding an enticing allure.
The girl's bewitching face twisted into an almost mocking smile.
"My, my~ Miss Corpse," she taunted.
"Is it really so hard to look at me~~?"
The witch's thought processes were even duller than they'd been in life, her actions slower and more robotic.
For Maria Theresa, this state was a gross insult to her name. Yet everything about her—her power, even her soul—no longer belonged to her.
She felt bewildered; the Heretic God she should've been seeing at the Royal Naval College was instead right in front of her.
And even in her sluggish state, she sensed it—danger!
The witch's form sank rapidly into the void, vanishing in a technique nearly lost for centuries, but still easily wielded by this reanimated corpse.
Kurumi seemed completely unbothered, lifting her skirt delicately as she, too, sank into a black and red shadow.
Run? Did she really think she could get away?
The light rail line stretched out from the center of Greenwich, its tracks descending underground.
With a thunderous rumble, the train shot past.
At the very rear of the train, a dark shadow appeared abruptly, a tattered black cloak flapping in the rushing wind.
The witch's cloudy, empty eyes stared forward.
That Heretic God... was terrifyingly powerful.
The witch's corpse trembled, as if glimpsing that ominous muzzle aimed her way once more.
Only this time... it seemed real, not just a vision.
At the train's end sat the goddess, her legs swinging lightly as her glossy legs in black stockings swayed in the dim yellowish glow of the tunnel.
Kurumi lifted her right arm, pointing an antique, flintlock-style gun directly at the witch's head.
The witch, whose flight had been swift, came to an abrupt stop, instantly widening the distance from the rapidly moving light rail.
Yet the specter of death clung tightly to her... Death? The witch's mind wandered.
Death...
Tap, tap—
The soft sound of footsteps echoed through the tunnel as Kurumi landed lightly on the tracks, touching down with an airy grace.
Her landing was a signal.
Swish, swish, swish, swish—
Four shadowy figures emerged from the sides of the track, each clad in ragged, cut-up tunics, with torn remnants of once-grand crests still faintly visible on their chests.
They wore helmets, looking like knights from the medieval era.
Each was a resident of the grave, with pallid faces, vacant eyes, and dilated pupils.
Swords in hand, the knights lunged at Kurumi from all sides, closing in for the kill.
But just as they had failed centuries ago when they charged at the Demon King, these fearless knights posed no threat whatsoever to Kurumi.
The black and red shadows cascaded down from the tunnel's ceiling and surged up from the ground, like ancient beasts, devouring the knights completely.
"Ugh."
Kurumi made a face of utmost distaste. "A waste of time."
Exuding an aura that froze everything around her, Kurumi advanced on the witch's corpse.
She pressed her flintlock gun against the witch's forehead, staring into her murky eyes as though gazing at something beyond them. Then, with a taunting smile, she pulled the trigger.
On the Balkan Peninsula, an ancient Godlsyaer sat alone upon his throne, then burst into laughter.
"Well, well, it's been ages since anyone dared challenge me," he chuckled, smug and defiant.
His sharp, emerald-green eyes glinted with a menacing, serpent-like gleam, and Marquis Voban's lips twisted into a cruel, savage grin.
Those reanimated corpses were merely one of his powers, Dead Servants.
With it, he could revive those he had killed, transforming them into loyal servants incapable of defiance.
A sinister energy radiated from his tall, slender frame, his short silver hair whipped about wildly as if he were some sort of monster.
"I don't particularly enjoy hunting mice... Only the strong are worthy of a hunt from Voban."
"If you disappoint me... your death will be most spectacular." He sneered.
It had been so long—so many years without a single soul daring to challenge him.
He'd once thought of performing a divine summoning in Austria, bringing forth a Heretic God to slay for amusement.
When he'd heard rumors of a clash between Heretic Gods in the Scilly Isles, Marquis Voban had wasted no time dispatching his minions to investigate London.
To his satisfaction, he had not been disappointed.
The Godslayer's eyes gleamed green, striking fear into any who met his gaze.
"Come… let me seize... your power!"
At the Royal Naval College, Princess Alice leaned against the railing, gazing out toward the Thames.
This place had once served as a watchtower, overseeing all the ships entering London from the sea.
She listened attentively as Kurumi recounted her tale.
Meanwhile, Liliana, with her fairy-like face, lay obediently nestled in Kurumi's arms, immersed in the goddess's sweet scent, utterly docile.
"Resurrected corpses crumbling like dust, you say?" Princess Alice's expression grew solemn.
Dead Servants—she whispered the name of the power.
"That's the oldest Campione—the Marquis of Voban. He's slaughtered numerous Heretic Gods... possesses multiple abilities... and is among the most formidable foes to face."
Princess Alice began to worry for London's safety. When gods fought, mortals always suffered in the aftermath.
"Oh? The oldest?" Kurumi's expression lit up with interest.
"Sounds... rather intriguing."
The last time she'd heard someone referred to that way, it had been that guy who loved perching on lampposts.
...
The late spring night sky was laden with clouds, and the silver crescent of a waxing moon peeked out, casting away the thick canopy overhead.
An old man, standing alone, gazed at the lonely, starless sky, his emerald-green eyes narrowing.
It was as if he held the world in his hands, standing at its peak, gazing down over the mountains, breathing in the heavens, where all who opposed him would perish.
This was Sasha Dejansdal Voban, the oldest living Campione, a Godslayer who possessed multiple powers.
Among the five remaining Campiones, he was undoubtedly the most brutal.
The marquis had a tall and lean frame, his silver hair neatly combed, a broad forehead, and deeply-set eyes. His complexion was pale, giving him an air of intelligence and sophistication, as if he had stepped off a theater stage. Yet, there was also an underlying, animalistic ferocity about him.
From his vantage point, Voban looked across the sea in the direction of Great Britain, his emerald, sinister gaze filled with the thrill and longing of an upcoming battle.
"Don't disappoint me... unknown god," he muttered, his thin, bony hand gripping the solid stone of the fortress wall, with a fierce wind seeming to roar behind him.
The moon had not yet reached its fullest, and the time for the perfect offensive had not yet arrived.
Though Voban had absolute confidence in his own strength, he was far from reckless. On the contrary, he was a shrewd, worldly elder who valued his own life greatly.
The clairvoyance of witches or priestesses was by no means a foolproof analytic ability; it was merely knowledge given whimsically by a god, like a revelation imparted briefly to humanity.
As one of the most powerful witches of her time, Maria Theresa's clairvoyance was unparalleled, even across the magic-rich lands of England or Eastern Europe.
This ability had given her the edge to challenge Voban himself.
Yet a Campione was ultimately an equal to the gods. Maria's challenge had ended in the sacrifice of her own life. After her death, both her soul and body were bound eternally as a lowly slave within the Cage of Dead Servants.
In the final vision she sent back, Voban saw the figure of a slender, unyielding girl standing at the edge of a black and red world, radiating the resolve of someone who defied the world alone.
That black-red world, the immovable, reversed clock.
This Heretic God was clearly connected to Time, and Voban had received the Greenwich Sage Council's report on her.
Unlike those fools who tried to link this Heretic God to the Queen of the Land of Shadows, Scáthach, Voban leaned toward identifying her as Chronos, the god of time.
The prime cause that transcends all, the deity symbolizing Time.
Also known as Aeon, this deity, who emerged from the primordial chaos."
According to reports, after Kurumi's fierce battle with Nuada, the King of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the entire Scilly Isles had inexplicably bloomed with flowers.
Nuada, the silver-armed war god, hardly seemed associated with flowers, so Voban reasoned it must have been Kurumi's doing.
Now, Voban's resurrected undead were converging on London, creating an ominous atmosphere throughout the city.
However, the magic societies didn't dare show any resistance to the brutal lord, instead tolerating the growing number of undead flooding into London.
The massacre of 1854 was still documented. When the Dalmatian port city of Jader rejected his entry, the Marquis obliterated it completely with his Atmokinesis: Sturm und Drang.
And what could they do but tolerate it now? Ask the Black Prince for help? Better to let Voban and the Heretic God, Kurumi, clash freely.
Perhaps asking the Martial Queen from Lushan would be another option, though inviting her was nigh impossible.
They could only hope this battle would cause minimal destruction.
Wherever the Godslayer traveled, destruction followed—a truth well accepted in the magic world.
It seemed London was destined for disaster.
With a light brush, Voban dusted off his coat, removing any specks of dirt.
The Marquis Voban set off in his strange, purposeful stride toward Britain.
The hunt… was about to begin.
But who was the hunter? And who the prey?
A thick stack of records made its way into Kurumi's room, courtesy of Princess Alice, who had stealthily left her physical body to slip away unnoticed.
Her expression clearly read, "Praise me!"
The documents contained all available information on the infamous Marquis Voban.
Elegantly written in flowery English script on vellum scrolls, the records were enchanted with preservation magic, allowing them to last for centuries.
The records, starting from the eighteenth century, were gathered by the Greenwich Sage Council on everything related to the Marquis.
The Sage Council wouldn't normally release such records so readily; they preferred to remain neutral in conflicts between Godslayers.
Yet Alice, using her power as council president, had procured these rare records herself.
Alice was always keen on watching interesting situations unfold, but providing information on a Campione to a Heretic God—this was unprecedented.
If Voban, that unruly and violent marquis, found out that Alice had engaged in such behavior—tantamount to aiding the enemy—London would undoubtedly face a catastrophic disaster.
The Marquis Voban was practically a walking natural disaster, more than a Heretic God itself.
Kurumi began flipping through the elder's records.
Curse of Sodom,
Legion of Hungry Wolves,
Sturm und Drang,
Death Ring.
The powers he was recorded as using numbered four, though there was no reason to assume there weren't more.
As the oldest living Campione, he likely had more hidden abilities than anyone knew.
"Well, well, quite the terrifying foe," Kurumi murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips. She casually tossed the precious records aside, scooping up Liliana in her arms.
The girl's spine went rigid for a moment, only to relax again under Kurumi's gentle embrace.
She was becoming used to Kurumi's habit of needing to hold something—or, more accurately, someone—and being alternately petted by the various Kurumis around her.
The young knight wore an expression of resignation, which soon turned to shy embarrassment as she buried her head into Kurumi's chest, unbothered by the lack of air.
"Lady Kurumi… are you confident you can repel the Marquis Voban?" Princess Alice asked, her face clouded with concern.
The Marquis was no easy opponent, especially with a power like Curse of Sodom, an evil eye equal in strength to Balor's second eye, the one that had ended Nuada.
Unbeknownst to Alice, Kurumi hadn't absorbed Nuada's powers at all.
The power granted to the victor by Pandora, the mother of all Godslayers, lay dormant in Kurumi's bag.
"Oh, am I confident?" Kurumi laughed suddenly.
"If I were to kill that Marquis Voban guy by accident, that wouldn't be a problem, right?"
Her words, which seemed arrogant, carried a deadly calm.
"He's done things as bad as any Heretic God."
"Well, if you manage it…" Alice smiled subtly, encouraging her.
There were plenty who wished for Voban's death; they just lacked the power to make it happen.
After all, there were already too many Campiones in this era—five, to be exact.
A thousand years ago, the world had held six Campiones, only for the Last King to descend.
He had slain them all before returning to slumber, a secret few in the Sage Council knew.
It was said that when the number of Campiones grew enough to stir him, the Last King would awaken.
"Still, Lady Kurumi, I beg you, if possible, please don't fight him within the city. The Marquis's powers are devastating, and London… wouldn't survive," Alice pleaded.
"Hmm… I'll try." Kurumi replied, aware that, as the one being challenged, the choice was not hers to make.
"That guy's underlings are a nuisance, always creeping around at night, and none of them have even a speck of usable 'time' I could consume."
Kurumi complained.
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
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