Volume 4 Chapter 51 The Skirmish ①
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
The day had already turned over.
Darkness swallowed the corridor carved into the mountainside, stone pillars marching at neat intervals along the right to hold the roof in place. Beyond them, the remnants of New Year’s lights shimmered beneath the castle like drifting plankton, a sunken city glowing faintly in the deep.
For once, Mansoor felt something close to sentiment. Usually he was too busy cutting throats in forest shadows to get poetic. But down there, somewhere beneath that drowned glow—or maybe in the castle’s own dungeons—Abbas was waiting.
Gensou hadn’t shown. Maybe he’d lost interest and left. Maybe he was fighting someone else. Either way, the rescue fell to Seishi now, while Mansoor would handle the chaos Gensou was supposed to stir up.
(That’s fine. Raising hell suits me better, anyway.)
He fixed his red eyes on Guria Selda across the corridor. Behind her came the sound of countless boots—the first wave of guards. Ahead, spilling out from an inner chamber, marched the Order of the Lightning Knights. Fifty-some girls, at least five of them radiating terrifying strength. The one standing by the princess—half dark elf—was especially dangerous. Her firepower could end him if anyone’s could.
But this was assassination range. That kind of magic was wasted once he was already this close.
”Fill the earth—become a little sea!”
Water seeped across the stone floor at his feet, the half-elf’s incantation dripping into reality. Then the front line of eighteen knights lit up all at once, hair glowing azure, eyes blazing gold. Their sun-browned skin flared with white light as they locked shields into a living wall.
It was like staring down an army of gods. Wind howled toward him, lightning lashing heaven and earth.
Mansoor winced behind his black sleeve. Light was his weakness—had been ever since he got this body. Pebbles skittered against his face as the storm intensified.
A spear hammered down with a cry, striking the waterlogged floor. Blue lightning erupted, swallowing him whole.
Steam burst upward, thick and blinding. Through it, Mansoor stepped forward—ten meters from the tiger beastwoman knight who’d struck. Her reflexes were monstrous now, divinely juiced by royal spirit, but not enough. His side slash carved through even their enhanced defense.
”—Secret Technique.”
”Down!”
”What—!?”
The knights froze at the impossible sight of lightning failing. But the beastwoman didn’t. She tackled a nearby comrade to the ground without hesitation. Behind her, the half-elf magician and the princess vaulted upward, bodies flashing into lightning.
They knew. They knew Skyrend.
No way. Impossible. Yet their reactions said otherwise—instant, instinctive, drilled into muscle memory. They’d seen it before. Not once, but many times. Enough to practice dodging.
He exhaled, then swung anyway.
A white wave ripped across the corridor, tearing through knight and pillar alike.
That was Skyrend. A single sweep erasing everything in its path, slicing stone columns like paper and reducing fifty young warriors into scattered torsos and rolling heads. The sword itself shattered from the force, falling apart in his hands like ash.
Mansoor lowered his arm. Beautiful bodies collapsed in ruin. Survivors crouched and scrambled, but too many fell.
Selda didn’t flinch. Bathed in light, she dove from above, spear thrust like thunder. A warrior through and through.
He slipped into mist, her strike tearing only vapor. She was quick, recovering instantly with a follow-up slash aimed right where he’d reform.
”Why doesn’t lightning work on you!?” she demanded, fury sharp in her voice.
He caught her glowing spear with one hand and parried the next. Rock bullets shrieked from the half-elf, but his blade cleaved them apart in midair. Their timing was relentless, spear after spear, blade after blade. Mansoor flowed around them, mist and steel, until his hand closed around the princess’s throat.
So light. She wasn’t eating properly.
He lifted her effortlessly, grip tightening. She gasped, choked.
”Guria!”
”Princess!”
The tiger beastwoman, the half-elf, even two bloodied girls rallied, charging with suicidal resolve.
Mansoor considered—royal blood was leverage. Best not to kill her. For now, the extras could die first.
He flung her against the wall. She turned to lightning midair and tumbled aside, coughing violently.
The half-elf raised her voice, words of fire trembling through the corridor:
”O great Apollo, radiant light of Crete—!”
A big spell.
He danced away, blade flashing, mist scattering. Spears stabbed from every angle, and he spun through them like a phantom, his sword a curtain of death.
The incantation finished, and a miniature sun hung in the vaulted ceiling. It stretched into a flaming arrow, locking onto him.
”Pierce, O arrow of the sun!”
The searing shot exploded through him, heat roaring, fire consuming. Pain tore through his body, but he endured. This body could regenerate. He would endure.
Through the blaze, he fixed his eyes on the half-elf witch. One step, another. Sword raised.
Her second spell never came. He turned to mist and reformed before her, gloved hand snapping around her throat. The lightning flicker she tried to shift into died instantly—the gloves ate it whole.
Her eyes widened.
”Medea!”
”…ghk…”
”You’ve got skill. If your little wall of flesh had been harder, you might’ve killed me.”
”Stop it! If you need a hostage, take me! Let her go!”
Mansoor’s voice cut through the chaos like steel. “Where did you learn the Secret Technique? You all reacted to Skyrend. Who taught you something that should’ve never left the gate?”
Both Guria and the half-elf froze, breath catching.
”Princess Guria Selda,” he pressed, “who told you?”
”Don’t answer! Don’t give this man anything—”
His gloved hand slid from her jaw to cover her mouth. Then, without hesitation, his blade rammed deep into the half-elf’s stomach.
Blood spilled, thick and wet, from the wound and from her lips.
The girl with glasses—so delicate-looking only moments ago—twisted in agony, her legs kicking helplessly as she hung impaled on the steel. He pulled the blade free with a slick, tearing sound, crimson splattering across the stones.
”…nnnhh—” Guria’s face went ghost-pale, but she still refused to speak.
Medea, the Head Magician, spat blood and words in equal measure. “You… cursed thing. I’ll curse you. Curse you even in death—”
Ah, this was why killing Magicians never got old.
He tossed her aside, her broken body crumpling against the wall, and stepped forward through the pool of blood until he stood before Guria.
”Foreign princess,” he said evenly. “You’ll come with me. Submit, and your country will be spared the flames. On the name of Azrael, I swear it.”
”I will not be your prisoner,” she shot back, trembling but resolute. “I’m ready. Kill me.”
Mansoor hummed low in his throat. Killing her would ruin Crete’s obedience. Better to knock her out and drag her. He weighed the risk when—
A surge. Something powerful streaked through the sky toward them, a flare of magic like a storm tearing free. For a heartbeat, he thought it was Gensou’s domain. But no—Selda lunged again, Blue Thunder Stone spear flashing for his throat.
He slid back, dodging. She shocked the floor again, proving lightning still failed, then threw raw bolts from her hands. She’s smart. His gloves didn’t cover everything.
He flipped back, graceful as a dancer, but made sure to throw a needle. It pierced her leg clean through. She collapsed, one knee in the blood.
”Guria!”
Then came the wind.
Cold sea air swept the corridor clean of stench for one instant—before she landed. A white fox Beastwoman, spear in hand, eyes burning gold in the dark. She took one look at the carnage and then locked her gaze on Mansoor.
”You did this.”
”And if I did?”
”Then I kill you.”
She snatched a fallen spear, spun it in her hands, and leveled the point. Her movements were fluid, precise. Not rage-blind—rage honed to a razor edge.
Mansoor’s lips pulled back, showing fang through his beard. “Good aura. But a spear doesn’t suit you.”
”Rita, don’t use lightning!” Guria gasped. “It doesn’t work on him!”
”Understood, Guria.”
”…Rita, is it?”
He remembered the name. Oswald had once praised her, calling her talent greater than his own. And the stance—the balance, the coiled strength—it screamed warrior monk.
”You’re Nizaam’s last disciple, aren’t you?”
”…”
”I see. I recall now. He said he’d slip a spy into Crete, shadowing the princess abroad.”
”…Rita?” Guria whispered, stunned.
”…That’s not true,” Rita forced out. Her voice was steady, but her hands tightened on the spear. “I don’t know Nizaam.”
”But your stance… the muscles tuned for Leap, the perfect blade-draw form Flora and her daughters could never copy—you have it. You could even surpass him.”
Mansoor licked his lips. “Maybe even surpass that demon.”
”Shut up.”
Rita’s voice cut cold, regal. She let her magic flare, flooding the corridor. Her spear shone with etched runes as she whispered through clenched teeth:
”I’m Rita of Crete.”
”If you’re a spy, then you can’t fight me here. Hand over the princess. And the half-blood too.”
”…”
”Not pretending, hm? You mean it.”
”…”
”Fine.” His laugh rumbled low. He raised his shattered shamshir into guard, eyes gleaming red. “Let’s see. Are you faster than Arminus?”
* * *
Mansoor’s epithet was Shakerdoust, the Great Sword. Earned from repelling Hairkin Beastmen again and again, he’d built a style against creatures whose hides healed faster than blades could cut. His way was simple: wait and strike once, killing cleanly.
That meant matching their speed, breaking their weapons, and cutting them in a single stroke. His greatest application was Tear, a destructive variation of the sword’s impact technique.
Now, the fox girl mirrored him. She lowered her stance, thighs taut, eyes unblinking.
Neither had moved, but this was already a fight to the death.
Then Guria staggered upright, lightning dancing over her body again. Mansoor’s gaze flicked toward her for a fraction of a second—enough. Rita vanished.
”—!”
Fast. Too fast. Mist Form couldn’t trigger in time.
Her thrust came like a lightning strike. Mansoor barely caught it on his blade, sparks spraying. She swept his legs; instinct made him leap aside—and it saved him. The stone floor where her kick landed exploded like it had taken a cannon blast.
The corridor shuddered. Pottery on the edge shattered. Guria gasped as debris rained down.
Mansoor’s ribs screamed as Rita’s follow-up kick slammed him into the ceiling, breaking stone. He twisted midair, bones knitting with healing magic, and landed on the rooftop above the corridor.
She’d knocked him clear from the princess.
And still, his grin widened. Perfect prey.
The fox girl leapt through the ruined ceiling, white fur flashing under moonlight. She hovered an instant, then dove with predatory precision.
He deflected, sparks flying, blade to spear. Too dangerous to clash head-on. He shifted, counters ready, waiting for her to tire. Beastmen burned through energy too fast. It was always a matter of time.
They traded strikes—his Tear against her Impact, blow for blow, shockwave after shockwave.
”You can use the monks’ techniques!” he barked, half-laughing.
She said nothing, only pressed harder, golden eyes locked on his throat.
Mansoor then deflected the spear’s returning edge, lunging close to his enemy’s chest.
But Rita had read him. She twisted, lithe as a fox, and sprang back, his slash missing by a hair. He chased, blade sweeping down from above—but she slipped aside, her counter nearly shearing his head off.
”Hah! That’s Nizaam’s technique, isn’t it?”
Blood sprayed from his cheek as he laughed like a madman.
”Exactly like watching him in his youth!”
”Haah!”
Rita’s foot struck the floor, muscles bulging against her pale leg. The stone roof above cracked, vines ripped away, the corridor trembling under the force.
Mansoor caught her spear on his shamshir, but her raw strength forced him back. Her amber eyes blazed. She grinned, baring sharp white teeth, thighs swelling monstrously as bones creaked beneath her skin.
”Rrrrraahh!”
”Perfect!”
Mansoor bared his own fangs, flecked with gore, eyes glowing red as he looked down at the fox girl.
”That bastard died before I could cross blades with him. If he had to die, I should’ve been the one to cut him down.”
Rita’s breath caught.
”If I kill you, maybe this regret will finally vanish. They say living long enough means you’ll see everything—well, here I am, dueling Nizaam’s shadow!”
”I—I don’t know anyone named Nizaam!”
”Then explain those instincts. Call it a spear if you want, but your body moves like a western swordsman. That stench of a warrior monk—I can smell it on you!”
”Ahhhhhh!”
Her strength blasted through, hurling Mansoor’s hulking frame through the air. They landed apart, eyes locked, neither gaining the upper hand.
”…Flora was killed by Crete.”
Rita flinched, her spear wavering.
”Her daughters too. Don’t tell me you never heard?”
”…”
”A spy, softened by emotion. Still, you were welcomed into the Malc Family as a disciple. And now you betray Azrael? You’re filth lower than a beast!”
”—gh…”
Mansoor smirked. He wanted her angry. Wanted her charging blindly. The perfect setup for his blade. Beastmen fell for it more often than not.
But Rita hesitated. Her gaze faltered, stance unsteady.
’The beast inside her… wavers.‘
Mansoor didn’t wait. He cut his breath short and triggered Shadow Pursuit. His strike carved forward like a reaper’s scythe. Rita’s reflexes saved her life, but not her spear—the blue crystal tip shattered, her right shoulder slashed open, blood spraying.
He followed with a killing stroke at her neck—
She rolled, gasping, slamming her hands down to summon earth magic. Spears of stone erupted, only to be shredded by a sweep of his glowing blade. He lunged at her, exposed and bleeding—
”—!”
A red beam split the fight apart. A Scorching Ray. Its angle cut for both of them, aiming to erase Rita’s legs and Mansoor’s entire body.
”Che—!”
He snapped his shamshir up, unleashing Mirror Moon. The beam recoiled, blazing back into the sky like a fallen star.
Rita staggered, clutching her shoulder, barely standing.
”Ahhh! Oh no, my aim slipped! My bad!”
”…!”
”…Gensou.”
Rita lifted her head, dazed. Mansoor turned too, finding the golden glow of an eastern noble standing nearby, dressed like he’d wandered in from a ballroom, not a battlefield.
(This fool almost erased us both.)
”Lord Gensou,” Mansoor growled. “You’re five hours late.”
”Yeeeah, sorry. Stomach trouble. But don’t worry, I’ll make up for it now!”
”Just succeed. Or else—even you won’t escape court martial.”
”Geez, grumpy old man…! F-fine, sorry! I’m suuuper sorry!”
”Next time, arrive five minutes early.”
Mansoor let the muttered insult slide. The wind howled too loud to bother with. Facing Gensou and his women now would be suicide anyway.
Still, thanks to his reckless entrance, Rita lived. That made two on one. Not ideal. But maybe he could feed on the wounded fox and let Gensou focus on the princess.
He opened his mouth to issue orders—
And another intruder dropped from the sky.
”…What now? …Lord Kian!”
From the black shadow of a wyvern golem—whose obscene nickname Mansoor refused to repeat—descended a towering Azraelian. Not a clown like Gensou, but a mountain of a man, magic and menace pouring off him in waves.
Mansoor’s red eyes widened. The aura he felt rivaled Jibril’s.
’Strong. Unbelievably strong.‘
Stronger than anyone he’d ever fought. Overwhelming, inhuman. A predator cloaked in human skin.
Kian smiled faintly.
”Ah, now I feel motivated. Looks like this will be interesting after all. My first dream of the year—.”
Gensou grinned, conjuring a small sun between his hands.
”This is getting good.”
”Rita, can you stand?” Kian asked.
”…Yes. Thank you,” she said as warmth flowed into her wound, her shoulder knitting in an instant. Healing magic.
Mansoor felt his body tense, some primal part of him bowing before the man’s power. He forced it down, raising his sword.
”General Mansoor, I presume?”
Kian drew a black blade from his chest, elegant and deadly. His voice was courteous, his eyes feral.
In that moment, Mansoor knew. This man will kill me.
”Shall we?”
Before the words finished, Kian vanished. Mansoor was flung into the air, barely catching the incoming death strike with his shamshir.
”Nnnngh!”
His teeth ground as the force crushed him. He couldn’t push back. Couldn’t breathe.
Both men burst from the mountain hall into the open night, tumbling toward the endless city below. Mansoor dissolved into mist. Kian did the same.
(The same technique…?)
His shock was swallowed by the wind.
Seconds later, both landed on the grand avenue before the castle, facing each other once more. Two predators. Two blades.
The true duel was about to begin.
Notes:
• Abbas – The heir of the Shakerdoust family, a prominent clan within the Twelve Divine Generals.
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
• Nizaam – A former member of Azrael’s Twelve Divine Generals and the current head of the Malc family, though he has passed both titles to his daughter to return to the battlefield. He is a prominent warrior noble in Azrael, known for his love of beautiful boys and fierce battles.
• Arminus – Male. Leader of the Black Panther Tribe. Possesses extraordinary physical abilities, enhanced by the tribe’s unique technique that repels energy and magic attacks. His speed and strength surpass those of High Warlord Isthbaran. Wields the magic sword Balmung, capable of cleaving through an ice dragon with a single strike. His black fur provides camouflage in low visibility, making him nearly undetectable. Relationship: Leader of the Beastmen Alliance’s delegation.
Please bookmark this series and rate ☆☆☆☆☆ on here!
Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
Leave a Reply