Volume 4 Chapter 27 Assassin from the Past ②
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
A searing brilliance tore through the darkness.
If Kian embodied wicked shadow, then the torrent of blinding radiance before him was the Light of Purity—white, fierce, dazzling, sacred.
From the countless holes bored into the enemy’s magic sword came a shrill whistling, piercing high as though it reached heaven.
”Cry out, Windsong Blade!” the masked woman shouted, lowering her stance, swinging up from her side with raw force. Her cry was as sharp as the keening sword itself, laden with grit and fury.
Kian leapt back at once, crossing his curved blades to spread a circular barrier of ki.
The enemy’s sword—Windsong Blade. A weapon that turned immense magic power into storms and loosed them upon its foes. For raw destructive strength, it could even rival Oswald’s solar blade, though only temporarily. No other forged sword had matched its force.
”Be erased!”
(Secret Technique—Mirror Moon.)
The warrior monk, clad in black robes, bellowed. Her voice, once perhaps gentle, now cracked and rough, thick with effort.
’Begone, demon. In Azrael’s name, I bring justice.‘
A sweep of white light surged, wide as a dragon’s tail. It ripped the rotting earth into the air, tore through the thicket, and shattered trees as if they were tinder.
Inevitable. Yet Kian pulled the torrent into his circle of ki, binding it into a whirling vortex.
”What—!?”
The monk’s breath caught. Then, scolding herself, she howled beneath her mask. From her black robes erupted a flood of ki as fearsome as when Natra had once unleashed her full strength.
(This one is not like the rest.)
Feet planted. Hands steady on his twin shamshirs. Kian copied Linca’s movements with precision, drawing a circle—then hurled the light back.
”Aaaaahhhhhh!”
The woman braced. She poured more magic into her Windsong Blade, straining against the returned torrent.
But when Kian’s counter-shot waned, he would only take in more, and fire again. His end never came. Hers would—at the instant her strength faltered.
”Ghh… d—Aaaaahhh!”
With a ragged scream, the woman matched Kian’s rhythm. She timed her magic perfectly, offsetting the force, then sprang aside like a struck arrow.
Even as Kian readied another Mirror Moon counter, she slashed sideways, loosing blades of wind faster than any monk’s Shot.
That was the nature of her blade. With but a swing, her hand cloaked in power, it cast ranged strikes. No gathering of ki, no condensing it to prevent dispersal. Just swing—and unleash wind blades as devastating as Natra’s Blast.
”—tch.”
Kian’s eyes narrowed. He flung himself right, then left, darting meters in an instant with vampire speed and Leap.
Explosions hammered the thicket, each strike a beat behind his motion, yet uncannily precise.
He veered wide, then cut forward in a zigzag, closing in swiftly.
(Talia—recover Abbas, ready the drake golem. Aid Guria.)
‘Understood. Buy us time.’
(I will.)
The silent exchange took but a heartbeat. His focus returned to the enemy.
Her wind nullified his counter-shots. That was the Windsong Blade’s gift.
The moment his strike fizzled, Kian’s eyes glowed crimson, his body dissolving into mist. He streamed inland, away from Abbas and the golem, vanishing like fog on a sea breeze.
”Mist Form,” he muttered, blade low, leaping to pursue. He kept pace through the trees, his robes snapping in the storm.
(Windsong Blade—striking endlessly, omitting all time ki requires. That is its fatal advantage.)
Even as mist, a violent gale threatened to tear him apart. Kian re-formed, unleashed a Shot from his shamshir, and met the oncoming wind blades, bleeding their power. But her tempo outpaced his.
Mist shattered under the wind’s bite. Careless use meant death.
(Fighting at distance is folly.)
”Hyah!”
Parrying her second strike, Kian cloaked his legs with the ki of Shadow Pursuit, darting forward with predatory speed. Yet the monk shifted cleverly, weaving between trees to break his line of attack.
He cursed inwardly, then pressed harder, flickering through trunks with relentless Shadow Pursuit.
She loosed blades in retreat. He cut them aside with Shot and Tear, then pounded the sodden earth, springing at her like a beast.
The fleeing monk, the pursuing vampire.
”Haahh!”
She blasted the ground on landing, slashing wide. His shamshir nearly split her—yet she snapped taut the threads strung between trees, slingshotting herself backward. Bounding erratically from trunk to trunk, she spun above him, weaving chaos.
(Strong…)
Blades of wind poured down from above. Kian slipped between them, enduring the gales with his powerful body, sometimes countering with a precise Shot. His crimson eyes narrowed.
It was not simply her strength or magic power.
Her fighting style carried the spark of genius.
She pierced once to maintain distance, weaving Shots into a fundamental rhythm, never breaking form—yet even so, she answered his sudden ambushes with flawless instinct. Watching her dart through the trees, Kian saw a ghost of Natra. Then too, he could do nothing but look upward.
But now the cards were different.
(Secret Technique)
The moment his body became cloaked in a strange black energy, her breathing faltered. She unleashed a barrage of Windsong strikes, but Kian did not defend, nor evade.
Instead—
(Mist Raven)
His form vanished, dissolving into remnants of black ki that scattered like raven feathers.
It was a high-order shadow technique—Mist Raven. A counter to Talia’s phantom blade Kasumigumo (Mistcloud, lit. “fog spiderweb”).
The art deceived the enemy into striking a false body, while the real Kian shifted at will to another location. Until the moment of impact, the target saw only the true Kian. For its duration, he was untouchable, vanishing even from detection—untraceable unless the foe wielded the super senses of a vampire.
He reappeared ten meters away, clear of her aerial hunting ground. No winds scattered him. His stance was steady, unbroken.
(Secret Technique)
Another secret art in succession. This time, it would sweep wide.
”…hh… hh!”
Kian gathered ki with speed, gripping one sword between his teeth while forging a blade of stone. Jagged energy crackled across its surface.
”――!”
From the treetops, the warrior monk’s eyes snapped toward him. She had found his position. Too late.
(Waltz Flash)
Pure ki burst from the stone blade, transforming it into a sword of white light.
Though smaller than her Windsong Blade, it still stretched twenty meters long.
Kian stepped forward.
The strain made his arm groan as he swung.
The brilliant arc slashed the roots she stood upon.
(Skyrend)
The light-blade roared outward, a devastating sweep that could rival any magic sword. It sheared through trees that had stood for decades, tearing them like paper. The forest shuddered with a thunderous rustle of leaves. The woman lost her balance, falling from her perch.
Kian had already blasted off the ground, his body a blur.
”…hh!”
As she fell, his left-hand shamshir cut across her body. But the Windsong flared alive, releasing a storm of pressure that dulled his strike. Their blades clashed in a deadly lock, steel grinding at close quarters.
”Ugh… nnnh!” she cried.
The impact hurled her backward, slamming her into the forest floor. She tried to rise—but Kian was already upon her, shamshir descending like a predator’s strike.
Metal shrieked high.
The Windsong wailed, its pressure pushing him back even as wind-blades cut his cheek. He grinned, lips twisting cruelly.
The soil cracked beneath his stance as he forced his weight down. Her magic sword burned red-hot under the clash of tearing ki.
”Where did you get that sword?” he demanded.
”Uhh… hahh!” she gasped.
”You’re Jibril’s subordinate, aren’t you? The one who stole Barghest with the silver wolf woman.”
She froze.
”No matter. I’ll learn the rest after you’re dead.”
”Windsong… blade… awaken!”
Her body surged, magic power erupting in waves—like Natra reborn.
Kian shifted his grip, wrapping tearing ki around his shamshir, slamming it against hers. The sound thundered, the Windsong’s blade cracking. Shards of silver burst free, scattering like molten tears across his cheek.
The Windsong Blade.
The final creation of Renaud de Châtillon. Forged from the dragon Varglips, eater of wind, it was a masterpiece among man-made swords—capable of annihilating swaths of land, launching instant strikes, nullifying ranged attacks, and battering close foes with relentless gale-force bursts.
But its power lay in the holes drilled through its blade, the very holes that weakened it. Against Kian’s brute strength, that flaw was fatal.
”Yaaahhh!”
Wind roared. She poured her entire being into one final surge, forcing Kian back. Distance was her only hope. To strike from afar, never to clash up close—yes, it was the right call.
But that made it predictable.
Kian had already leapt back, bracing for the gale.
That decision had been correct—yet for that very reason, it had also been easy to read. Kian had already anticipated being repelled and launched himself backward of his own accord.
Landing without losing his stance, the instant his feet struck earth, he whispered, “Shadow Pursuit.”
He closed in on the woman, aiming to take her head.
But she reacted in time, barely catching the strike with her fractured Windsong Blade.
A dull clang rang out. Fragments of the magic sword scattered through the air.
Perhaps realizing that her weapon would shatter completely if she continued to block, she threw herself backward—yet she still could not withstand Kian’s brute force. Her back crashed against a splintered tree trunk with a violent crack.
As she staggered upright, grimacing, Kian appeared before her eyes.
With his right hand clutching the shamshir, he swung down to crush her throat with his fist. Again, the battered sword intercepted.
But the fist’s momentum could not be blunted entirely; it grazed her mask, drawing a pained cry.
”Ahh!” she screamed.
Even through that pain, she slashed by instinct. What might have been a desperate flail instead became a precise counter, guided by her uncanny sense of space. Kian’s right fist was cut clean away.
The woman clutched her mask, staggering back. Kian seized the severed hand with threads, pressed it to the stump, and forced it to regenerate.
”Haa… haa… haa…” he panted.
”――――――――”
He twirled both shamshirs, blades singing as he tested them. Complete regeneration. No problem.
”Tch.”
The woman ripped off her cracked mask and hurled it to the ground.
”You are—” Kian began.
”Hahh… hhahh… haaah…” she gasped.
Beneath the mask was the face of an Azraelian woman: gentle downturned eyes, long fringe swept to the right to cover that eye, beneath the left one a beauty mark that lent her the air of a grieving widow. Her hair was cut short to the nape of her neck.
It was the same woman Kian had met on the sands of Grass Island—the one who had called the so-called prince of the Wolfmen back to their boat.
”――The Crimson Pact.”
”…!”
Sensing the surge of magic, she leapt back just as countless threads surged up where Kian had stood.
Those threads tore through the air, splitting space in waves. He dodged by leaping, bounding, slipping further back.
”Are you unhurt?” the Silver Wolf woman called.
”…Yes,” the Azraelian answered.
Thirty meters away, the wolf woman landed, short sword in hand, while the Azraelian staggered to her side with the battered Windsong Blade.
The wolf woman’s silver gaze fixed on Kian, sharp and merciless.
”Capturing him alive is impossible.”
”But—!”
”I oppose his ideals regardless. What of you?”
”…!”
”Then steel yourself. We strike with all we have—or our bodies will be broken.”
”…I… understand.”
The wolf woman raised her Oathbound Misericorde; beside her, the Azraelian steadied her cracked blade.
With a taunting grin, the wolf woman said, “The tables have turned. Now it’s two against one.”
”Two against one?”
A shiver of magic poured from Kian’s body in answer.
”What—!?”
”――――!!”
’At last, Kian. I’ve returned,’ Talia’s voice rang in his mind. Guria’s support seemed complete; she had recovered the weapons and fragments of the Blade of Dust.
’Now from here—we fight together, Kian.’
”Yes. I may be one, but I am never alone,” he murmured, flashing the two women a defiant smile.
* * *
(Talia, they mean to finish me with a strike from both Oathbound Misericorde and Windsong Blade.)
He relayed the thought in less than a fraction of a second, even as he charged.
The Misericorde, invoked with “The Crimson Pact,” ignored both magical countershots and absorption. That was how Kian had once slain the Thorn Demon: his Water Moon’s reflected strike had pierced without being absorbed, thanks to the blade and Linca’s aid.
By the same method, the enemy could negate his Mirror Moon counter or even vampire absorption, letting Windsong Blade strike unhindered.
Thus he closed the distance. But if they managed to reinforce the Windsong Blade and prepare to release its magic, the two would likely retreat, set their stance, and unleash a decisive blow together.
’No counter, no absorption… what’s our move?’
(We answer magic with magic. When they unleash their swords, we’ll collide with double incantation—you and I, one great spell over another.)
”Urrraaah!”
He targeted the weakened Azraelian, but the wolf woman intercepted with a short sword slash.
The force and speed were staggering. Kian parried the Misericorde’s enhanced impact-shot with his own surging impact, deflecting each strike—but with every clash, chips flaked from his shamshir.
The earlier exchange with Windsong Blade had already worn it thin. If this continued, his sword would snap.
”Meisa! Reinforce me! One strike is enough—we’ll obliterate him!”
”Understood!”
’Yes, Kian. I’ll use Aliona’s spell—Flower Arrow. Incant with me.’
(Got it.)
From his right arm, Talia’s mouth emerged. Predicting the wolf woman’s reading of his blade, Kian unleashed a storm of twin strikes—right and left, a relentless barrage. She had but one sword, and could block only one.
”Hah!”
The Azraelian lunged in. She had coated the fractured Windsong Blade with earth, restoring its resonance, and pressed Kian’s left side.
Two sharp metallic shrieks.
Three swords locked in a furious deadlock, balance trembling on a single instant.
Kian shoved them back.
”――Godpiercer Arrow, Light of Purity.”
”What? Whose voice is that!?”
”…The incantation!”
”Godpiercer Arrow, Light of Purity!”
Talia’s clear, bell-like voice rang. From Kian’s Spiritual Vein, torrents of magic surged upward.
”I, descendant of the sacred tree—”
”I, descendant of the sacred tree!”
”Wha—an arm’s mouth!? A Dual Incantation (Chant)!? Tersea, this is Elven great magic! The ‘Flower’s Arrow’ is coming!” cried one of the women.
They danced.
They danced through the darkness like reapers of death.
With twin black blades, the Azrael woman slashed. The Silver Wolf woman struck with her misericorde, but the nameless swordsman’s dance-like style evaded her thrusts, an attack that was defense and offense entwined.
It was the revival of a sword-dance born from anonymity—swordsmanship that sang and danced as if divine blades themselves moved.
Both women sought to break away from Kian, their feet wreathed in Leap.
”Fly! Shot, pierce, annihilate the hosts!”
”Fly! Shot, pierce! Annihilate them all!” they cried in unison.
Through the thicket, Talia’s song wove with Kian’s voice, echoing as a canon. The princess loved by spirits sang, and Kian accelerated the torrent of his power to keep pace.
”Meisa, the magic sword—now!”
”Weep, Windsong Blade…!”
”From the Abyss, I summon you.”
”Hah! From the Abyss—I summon you!”
The Silver Wolf’s eruption of raw magic flung him back. Magic sword met shamshir with a shattering crash—steel clashing like thunder, sparks scattering wildly as distance tore them apart.
”I fire! Haaaaah!”
”The Crimson Pact!”
Before them, a white blade of wind formed.
Landing thirty meters ahead, the two women pressed shoulder to shoulder, pouring prayers of ruin into their magic sword. A white blast wind roared, consuming the thicket.
Clear, piercing light.
A blow to break all corruption.
That white sword could shatter even the walls of Izerland Fortress. Now it extended, immense and level with the ground.
They clashed.
They stood against it.
Once, that very light had saved Kian countless times. Now, with Talia, he would defy it.
”Bloom in full, manifest!”
”Bloom! Manifest!”
”Erase him—Kian Vahid!”
”Aaaaaaaah!”
”Flower of Light!”
”Flower—of Light!”
At Kian’s feet, thick roots burst upward, green shoots pushing free. Blue light surged violently from his Spiritual Vein, converging before his eyes. Blue turned white.
In perfect rhythm with the enemy’s strike, their Dual Incantation magic was unleashed.
White beams collided.
Heat, crushing impact, violent gales. The thicket was swallowed whole, erased in radiance.
Sound itself vanished. How many times had he clashed like this before?
’Seven seconds until you’re overwhelmed. Counter it, Kian. Five, four…‘
(Understood. Enough.)
”…hah, hah, hahhh!”
He gathered his breath, raised the shamshir high in both hands, and cloaked it in jagged streams of ki.
After great magic—came the Secret Technique.
What he lacked, he would reclaim with Skyrend.
Their light weakened. The enemy’s heat advanced. Kian stepped forward and hurled down the ending stroke.
”Skyrend—!”
”Nnngh—aaaagh!”
Their Windsong Blade faltered too, their beam dimming. At the very last instant, Kian released another ray, his Secret Technique swallowing theirs, flinging it back, engulfing them both.
They resisted still, their blade and their Wall braced desperately. But when the Skyrend shot ceased, two women remained, their bodies smoking black against the scorched earth.
”…ah…”
The Windsong Blade split apart. Their reckless use had broken it beyond endurance. It crumbled into countless shards across the blackened ground.
In front of the wide-eyed woman—
Kian appeared, red eyes blazing. Both his swords had shattered with the Skyrend. He was bare-handed.
But that was enough.
A single fist would kill.
”Meisa!”
The Silver Wolf shoved the Azrael woman aside, swinging her misericorde for Kian’s throat. But the desperate strike carried no magic, no force. He caught it on the bone of his right hand and drove his left fist into her.
A dull, crushing thud. She bent double like a broken hinge as his blow tore through her abdomen. Blood and flesh sprayed from her back as she was hurled away.
”Tersea!” screamed the Azrael woman, ripping free her shamshir. So, Windsong Blade was not their only weapon.
Kian clicked his tongue, dodging her slashes with sharp leaps, conjuring a blade of stone, pressing her into a grinding clash of edges.
”Meisa! Uoooooh!”
(So. A Restoration Curse.)
Even bloodied, the Silver Wolf charged again. Kian coolly noted her revival as he deflected both their swords, retreating step by step toward the sea.
Beyond the leveled thicket, Azrael’s soldiers poured in. Reinforcements too—hundreds, perhaps more. Among them, no doubt, warriors not quite Sarah or Linca’s equals, but close enough. He couldn’t know how many magicians waited to unleash layered incantations.
With her misericorde intact, a long fight would mean death.
”This is enough for today,” Kian said flatly.
”What?”
”Running, Mr. Kian?”
”Kian… ‘Mr.’?”
”Tch…!”
The Azrael woman was a prodigy, but unlike Natra, she was hasty, careless.
With a rapid beat, Kian knocked both their blades aside and fell back toward the cliff.
”As spoils, this will suffice.”
He tugged his strings.
Around him, fragments of the Windsong Blade and black rubber loops whirled into his grasp.
The silver wolf woman—Tersea—stared wide-eyed, clutching at her loosened hair. The silver strands that had once been bound neatly at the back of her head spilled free, falling straight past her shoulders.
”A fine scent lingers… though the stench of rubber spoils it,” Kian murmured.
”You pervert!” she spat.
”Kian!”
A woman’s voice rang down from the sky. Guria descended in a crackle of lightning, landing at his side with her spear of storm-forged sapphire raised. Sparks bled across the air as she faced the two women.
”The recovery?”
”All done! Just time to say goodbye now,” she answered.
”Understood.”
”Wait!” Tersea snarled. “You think you can cause this havoc and simply leave? Behind you lies the cliff. Our fleet has already closed the circle! There is no escape!”
”Is that so?” Kian said lightly.
Her eyes widened at his calm. He was speaking only to distract her, for in his hand he had already drawn a barrel-shaped blast bomb.
Misdirection. A trick as old as stagecraft.
Serena and Isthbaran had tested it, but wolfkin relied on their sharpened senses to predict the future. If their focus wavered—if their perception of the present faltered—then their predictions collapsed into error.
It was the same reason Yelmar’s companions had fallen helpless before Linca’s Penetration: moves that defied natural instinct could not be foreseen by those who fought on reflex alone.
”Tersea!”
The Azraelian woman—Meisa—screamed and shoved Tersea aside. With perfect conviction she thrust her sword forward, her face set in triumph, certain she had made it in time.
But—
”Ah—”
Only someone who had wielded the Windsong Blade like Kian would know.
The weapon had spoiled its bearer’s instincts. A blade that nullified all ranged attacks led its wielder to act as if such threats did not exist. When stripped of that power, they moved as though still untouchable—only to be struck down.
”Guria!”
Even as he flung the blast bomb, Kian seized her and leapt backward off the cliff.
The world behind them tore open in fire. Meisa, caught in her own fatal miscalculation, was engulfed in the storm of searing wind and flame.
The explosion roared, a shockwave slamming into Kian’s back. For an instant he thought his very skin might scorch away.
”Aaaaahhh!” Guria’s scream split the air as the two of them were hurled into the void. Orange fire blossomed behind them, rending the air with a tearing roar.
And then—sudden freefall.
The sea opened below, black and endless.
”Ahhh! Ahhhhhh!” Guria shrieked, her voice torn ragged.
”It’s all right,” Kian said.
He unfurled Wall—a conjured pyramid of force—while holding her tight, invoking Physical Enhancement to brace for the plunge.
The ocean rushed up. Salt stung his nose, sharp and cold.
In the next instant, they struck the dark water, vanishing into the sea’s freezing embrace.
Notes:
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
• Abbas – The heir of the Shakerdoust family, a prominent clan within the Twelve Divine Generals.
• Tersea – A shaman who assisted Barghest and is connected to the summoning ritual.
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
• Isthbaran – The High Warlord of the ‘Storm Herd.’
• Serena – Wolfmen Girl
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
Thanks for reading.
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