Volume 4 Chapter 52 The Skirmish ②
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
The troops of Balinars never even made it back to the castle. By the time they reached the hill, a wall of white fog had swallowed the road. Even from the back of the wyvern golem, Kian could see it—dense and choking, illusions twisting within.
Thankfully, Circe had noticed. The hulking dark elf magician led a squad out from Grass Island, her presence enough to rip apart illusions in short order. Whoever was casting this fog was skilled, but against Circe it was only a matter of time.
And fortune, twisted though it was, had dealt them one more card: Leanan Sidhe. She’d been out late last night scouring for spices—because Isthbaran’s idea of a New Year’s feast demanded them—and most of the shops had been closed. That delay had kept her near Gaius’s hut instead of the port, where she would’ve been otherwise. Rou spotted the trouble, had her send word by bat, and the two of them swooped in on wyvern-back to scoop Kian up. That was how he found himself here, in front of the castle gates, facing the black-cloaked monster himself.
Kian slammed him down into the empty boulevard, scattering rubble, and reformed his own body from mist. His grip tightened on the curved blade he’d taken from an unnamed swordsman, stance set, right hand resting lightly on the hilt.
’Kian,’ Talia’s voice whispered through their link. ‘Circe broke the illusion.’
(Got it.)
Across from him, the cloaked elder straightened slowly, shaking stone dust from his robes. His presence was suffocating—an aura steeped in battlefields, centuries of experience burned into every motion. Even without knowing his name, anyone with instincts would recognize the danger. But Kian did know it. This was Mansoor. One of the Twelve Divine Generals.
”Guards!” voices rang out behind him. “Black-cloaked man, surrender!”
”The Order of the Lightning Knights is here! Surrender, please!”
”…”
No one called him “General Mansoor.” Everyone knew surrender wasn’t in this man’s dictionary.
Kian’s legs blurred with Leap, closing the distance in a single flash. His blade swept a half-moon arc where the old general crouched—only for Mansoor to vault away on all fours, landing with enough force to crater the cobblestones. He wanted to break through toward the Lightning Knights, where the magicians were thinnest. But Kian read him. Threads snapped out, invisible lines of power, and Kian severed them with a shot of energy, cutting off his escape.
From the outside, it looked like a simple two-stroke exchange—one slash down, another up. But the wind roared through the boulevard like a storm.
Their blades met. Mansoor’s shamshir against Kian’s curved sword, both shrouded in Tear. Sparks flared, steel rang, neither weapon breaking, both forced apart in a shockwave.
Fast. Too fast. Mansoor moved with the patience of a predator, reading Kian’s timing, cutting his own swing short to meet the blade. Centuries of battlefield genius in a single adjustment.
Kian pressed again, only to find the shamshir dancing like a partner, deflecting, probing his knees with feints, always half a body turned aside, always moving like a dancer. One thrust nearly found his throat—
”Rock spear!”
Talia’s voice snapped through the chaos, and stone erupted into Mansoor’s side. Blood sprayed from the elder’s ribs. Kian spun in, hammering down, forcing him back with sheer strength, smashing him into the ground.
”Gh—!”
Threads spread again. Kian’s power surged, filling the boulevard with a net of invisible lines.
’Star’s Song,’ Talia murmured.
The old man’s eyes went wide, recognizing it instantly. For a monk trained to read the flow of ki, it was obvious: invisible needles, countless, waiting for the conductor’s signal.
Mansoor misted, vanishing into vapor.
Kian’s blade hand swept down.
”Heavenfall.”
The boulevard shook. A rain of needles hammered down, not pinpricks but thunderbolts, each strike strong enough to crack stone. They fell in endless waves, relentless, hammering even the mist to pieces.
”What in the—?!”
From afar, the guards gawked.
”A… a monster, it’s a monster!”
”Don’t just stare! Form up! Protect Lord Kian! ~desuwa!”
”R-right!”
”Nbobobobo…!”
Dust choked the air. Mist flickered. And still, the old general’s blade traced brilliant arcs, batting aside the needles. His shamshir burned with white Tear, his defense immaculate. He bent, twisted, endured, a wall of willpower sharper than steel.
”Don’t mock me, boy!” he roared, forcing needles back with raw blasts, shouldering through even as blood poured from his arms and back.
’Useless,’ Talia thought coldly. ‘This is endless. Star’s Song—Heavenfall.’
Again the sky rained down, more blades than stars above, falling to earth with no mercy. Mansoor’s laughter rang strangely through the dust as he swung, but this time the needles tore through. Three struck deep—abdomen, chest, arm. Blood erupted, his body flung back.
And still he lived. Still he rose.
Kian’s breath caught. This man… isn’t human.
Talia’s voice sharpened: ‘Can’t capture him. Kill him.’
(So be it.)
Kian raised his hand to signal the final storm—
—but shadows streaked in from both sides. Two female warrior monks, throwing themselves into the path.
One’s blade slashed across his back. Another’s Tear-wrapped shamshir came for his ribs.
Kian spun, his own blade sweeping behind him, intercepting steel with steel. His step carried him back, his curved sword flashing like a shield across his spine.
The duel was far from over.
Kian might have dodged one strike, maybe two—but not like Mansoor. His skill had limits.
The woman with “West” painted across her veil pressed in, blade flashing, while the “King” woman cut across from the other side. Kian slid a step, keeping both in his sightline, body weaving like a dancer.
The two women spun through the air like predatory birds. Kian deflected the “King” woman’s sword with a conjured stone blade, then pivoted, his shamshir catching the “West” woman’s steel.
”General, fall back—!”
”Leave this to us!”
”…My apologies,” Mansoor muttered.
”Lord Mansoor,” Kian said coolly, “fleeing now will earn you the name of coward.”
His stone blade cracked the “King” woman’s knee, then smashed across her face. She staggered back, half-broken. Kian immediately turned, driving into the “West” woman.
Their clash lasted only a heartbeat. Steel rang, sparks flew—and his raw strength forced through. He cut her down diagonally, deep as an axe into wood. But she dissolved, her veil fluttering, no body left behind.
A hideous buzzing filled the air.
”What—?”
From her mouth spilled a swarm of grotesque insects, rushing his face. He tilted his head, letting them pass, lips curling into a grin.
”Heh. Fun. How many times do I have to kill you before it sticks?”
”Guuh…”
”Seishi! Oshoukun!”
”Run, General! Please!”
The crippled “King” woman convulsed, her body swelling. Snakes burst from her black robe, writhing from every seam. They coiled, striking—an embrace of death.
Ordinary men would have been finished, crushed and poisoned. But poison couldn’t touch Kian. And no snake would bite him—
Because he whispered, eyes glowing red: Bite your master.
The snakes obeyed.
”What!? No—children, it’s me! Stop! Stop—aaaaghhh!”
Her scream echoed through the night as dozens of serpents sank fangs into her neck, her face, her arms, her legs. Blood sprayed. Her cries grew hoarse, ugly with terror.
Kian walked forward, raising his stone blade wrapped in jagged light.
(Secret Technique—Skyrend.)
”Stop, stop! My children, please—aaaghhh!”
”Shoukun!”
The other one’s icy wind howled, freezing the insect-woman, scattering her swarm. But Kian’s white slash came down all the same. The snake mistress exploded into nothing, erased from existence.
”…”
”Damn it—Magicians! Form the wall! Begin the incantation! He’s wounded, finish him!”
”Out of my way!”
Blood sprayed as Mansoor cut through the guards, his black robe spinning like a storm. He tore across the vanguard, bodies split, heads tumbling, then leapt high into the air.
The magicians’ chant ended. Arrows of flame shredded his body mid-leap, blasting him across rooftops in a ball of fire.
But the old monster still lived. He rolled, caught himself, and launched into freefall flight—Domain flaring around him, his body accelerating toward the port.
(So the Shakerdoust general mastered Leap to that degree…?)
Kian’s jaw tightened. Envy stirred, bitter and unfamiliar. He shoved it down. There was no time for pettiness. He spread his own Domain, tearing through the night in pursuit.
* * *
The chase streaked across the city. Mansoor wove through arches and spires, slipping like shadow, while Kian pursued, threading through with wire and blade.
He couldn’t close the gap. Not yet. But the port would be a dead end.
Then—ambush.
”Now! Fire!”
(Order of the Lightning Knights…! So the elites circled ahead after all!)
Flame arrows raked across the sky, striking Mansoor from the side. He hadn’t expected it—he was watching Kian, not the horizon. The volley blasted him off course, slamming him into burning rooftops.
”Northwest! Surround him!”
”Yes, everyone—close in!”
Perfect.
Kian surged his Domain, severing Mansoor’s own. The old general stumbled midair, but still, he rallied, wrapping himself in Leap and driving forward.
”Rrrraahh!”
”Gh—!”
Kian cut him down from behind, forcing him into another rooftop crash. The sea’s smell filled the air. Waves thundered close.
Kian dropped in front of him, poised to finish it.
Steel flashed. Mansoor rolled, tried to Mist Form. But Kian’s arm, fused with Talia, caught him, forcing him solid again.
”Guah—!”
He swung desperately, blades ringing, sparks showering as they bounded rooftop to rooftop. Needles and threads lanced at Kian, but he shredded them with a slash of Shot.
”Kian—is that you? Kian Vahid?”
”…”
”Why betray Azrael!? Why side with Crete!?”
Kian said nothing, eyes cold as steel.
”Stop this! We’re the same people! If you want Jibril dead, we can join forces—don’t you see!?”
”Kian Vahid is dead.”
”…!”
”First, I’ll kill you.”
Steel screamed again. Mansoor staggered against his pressure.
”You… are my prey.”
”…tch.”
Mansoor realized the truth then. No plea would move him. No politics and no alliance.
This man fought only for himself.
Kian’s blood sang. He didn’t want treaties, didn’t want negotiations. He wanted the kill, the blood, the thrill. His blade demanded it.
”Arminus was… unfortunate. I cheated, and killed him. So I wanted someone else as payment. General Mansoor, I don’t care how you came back from your sickness, or what secret fuels your power. I just want your death. Please—become rust for my blade.”
”You’re mad! Drunk on blood like that—unworthy of any warrior monk.”
Kian laughed, face lit by Mansoor’s glowing aura.
”You dare say that, Mansoor? Azrael’s Dance is a sword style for killing, isn’t it? Tell me—how many lives must one cut down to master it?”
”…You want to know?”
Mansoor snapped his jaws wide and lunged. But Kian had already vanished into black feathers—Mist Raven. He reappeared at Mansoor’s back, blade raised to split the old assassin in two—
Only for another figure to intervene. A woman, face veiled with a cloth marked “環.”
(So the earlier one was an illusion.)
”Tamaki—step aside! We can’t kill him like this.”
Her silence answered.
”Gyokkan, down!”
Steel clashed, locked for a heartbeat.
Mansoor slipped away as mist, reforming by the sea’s edge. His red eyes flared, power spilling off him in waves. White, jagged energy wrapped around his blade.
A secret technique…
(I know what’s coming.)
The “環” woman dissolved into shadow. Kian formed a circular shield of energy, just as Mansoor’s Skyrend slammed down. The strike ripped through, burning him even as he siphoned off part of it with vampiric magic.
Step.
Step.
He surged forward, counter-slashing, his white arc painting the night sky.
But Mansoor’s craft was monstrous. Even as Skyrend finished, he chained Shadow Pursuit, slipping beyond Kian’s counter in an instant.
(Tch—he’s weaving them together? Charging one move as he unleashes another…)
Kian cursed and gave chase with his own Pursuit, but Mansoor had already vanished toward the western cliffs. The assassin leapt from the peak into the dark sea below.
Then I’ll finish it from above. Heavenfall.
When his breath runs out underwater—that will be the end.
Or so Kian thought.
Something massive surged upward instead.
”…What!?”
A dragon. Not a lizard of the west, but a serpent with stag’s horns—a sacred beast, white whiskers trailing like clouds. In a blink, it soared high into the night.
(Fast. Hard as steel. Damn it—if only Linca were here!)
Talia’s mocking voice slid through his mind. ‘See? This is what happens when you let her go.‘
Kian lashed out, scattering needles and beams, but the dragon’s barrier shrugged them off. His prey escaped.
”Next time,” Mansoor’s voice echoed, “you won’t be so lucky.”
Kian snarled, slashing the air. Behind him, the Order’s dwarven knight Meimei and Eugenia arrived.
”Umar’s son,” Mansoor called back. “Meeting you was enough for tonight.”
”Come back! Finish it!” Kian demanded.
”Not today. A true one-on-one no longer exists.”
The dragon wheeled and streaked away, impossibly fast. Patrol ships fired magic, but their spells fizzled against its aura. Soon, even its shadow was gone.
”Lord Kian! Master Kian!” voices called.
”Meimei,” he ordered, “search the city. The woman with ‘West (西)’ on her face still lurks. Her body is made of insects. Cold hurts her. Blades don’t.”
”‘West’ in Eastern tongue. Got it! Everyone—you heard! Find the woman marked ‘West!’”
”Lord Kian, you’re safe~desuno!?”
”I’m fine, Eu.”
”Eu!? Why does Lord Kian call you by nickname!?”
”W-wait! It’s not like that! He’s just teasing me~desuno!” Eugenia protested, glaring daggers.
Kian let the girls squabble. There were bigger problems—the illusionist still at large, the “環” woman gone with Mansoor, and the castle itself under siege.
* * *
Even after dawn, chaos gripped the castle.
To calm the citizens, the government spun a story: drunken rioters had attacked the prison and the castle itself. Whispers of an Azrael assault spread anyway, but most of Crete accepted the official line. Better a riot than the truth.
Kian stood with Circe, the dark elf magician, and Balinars, the weary captain of the guard. The corridors still stank of lime, hastily covering blood.
Circe had slain the illusionist, she claimed. Yet his dying words to Rita had been: “See you in your dreams, lovely girl.” And his body had gone up in a blinding explosion. Was he truly dead? No one could say.
”My failure,” Kian admitted. “Had I stayed, instead of patrolling Grass Island, this would’ve ended sooner.”
This elf is stronger than she looks, Talia whispered.
”There are spies everywhere,” Circe said.
”Not just spies,” Balinars muttered. “Someone inside. Our guard placements, our rotations—someone’s leaking them. Not all, but enough.”
Circe frowned. “You saw a shadow on the 31st, didn’t you?”
”Yeah,” Balinars nodded. “Talking to that snake-woman you killed. Handed her something, then ran straight back to the Order of the Lightning Knights’ dorm.”
”So the traitor is in the Order,” Circe murmured. “Master Kian… you really didn’t see?”
”I saw nothing.”
”…I see.”
Balinars sagged, his voice breaking.
”I’m finished. I’ll resign soon. After this… only Scipio can lead.”
Notes:
• Isthbaran – The High Warlord of the ‘Storm Herd.’
• Mag – The wolfwoman under Yelmar—the one who was caught by Kian’s group earlier.
• 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.
• Linca – Jibril’s favorite girl. High-ranking warrior monk woman from Shin, with strong abilities like ignoring attacks and poisons.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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