Chapter 219
Swish! Splat!
A jet-black great-sword thundered through the southwestern district of Orario.
"Gah! Help, it's a monster!" an adventurer screamed before his life ebbed away.
Everyone who stood in the path of the wielder of that jet-black great-sword met a swift end.
The first swing ripped them to pieces, and the second obliterated what little stayed.
Lifeless corpses and splatters of viscera marked his trail, as though a conquering force had returned.
The sword was enormous, nearly comical in size, yet it could not be underestimated; it had an eerie presence, as if it were forged from the very essence of the darkest demon.
Its bearer towered over two meters, clad in black steel armor that covered him fully except for his face and neck.
The armour was ridiculously heavy and thick—enough to crush a low-class adventurer—yet the man moved as if it were made of feathers.
Even though his muscular frame was hidden beneath layers of armor, his monstrous strength was evident in the way rocks shattered beneath each step.
With every step, the flames around him quivered; with each swing, he pulverized bodies—a nauseating yet mesmerizing sight.
"Weak, far too weak. Since when did adventurers fall so low?" he said in a flat, emotionless tone, though the disappointment in his voice was unmistakable.
He gazed up at the sky, his crimson cloak billowing in the fiery wind.
"Orario, do you mean to disappoint me this way? I have barely grazed you," he muttered, his heavy words echoing in the desolate surroundings.
He expected no reply, merely voicing his frustration.
Swoosh!
Suddenly, a spear fell from the sky like a meteorite.
It was aimed at a seam in the man's armor, at the back of his shoulder.
With a quick glance at the incoming attack, the man remained unfazed.
He did not even raise his sword; he simply lifted his gauntlet and deflected the spear with a mere flick of his wrist.
Allen was shocked by this display.
He had been as stealthy as possible and attacked that weak point with all his strength and precision.
Yet, the man not only realized his intent but parried his strike with ease.
Quickly, he retrieved his deflected weapon, unwilling to face this monster unarmed.
"Good, you’re as fast as the wind," the man muttered, his gaze now fixed on Allen.
When Allen caught a glimpse of his face, a sudden sense of foreboding gripped him.
"But, like the wind, you are also weak," the man continued.
Suddenly, his hand moved—faster than Allen could react—much beyond what a level 5 adventurer could follow.
Allen’s heightened beast-kin senses screamed for him to raise his weapon immediately, and he obeyed.
However, in the next instant, an unimaginable force hurled him backward.
Boom!
The impact nearly broke his arms, and his legs slid fifteen meters along the cobbled road until he finally stopped by thrusting his spear into the ground.
Every hair on Allen’s body stood on end; his face flushed with blood and his heart hammered with a mix of fear and relief at surviving the blast.
"W-what did you just do?" Allen stuttered, stumbling to his feet and taking a defensive stance.
He had seen nothing coming—one moment the man was there, and the next moment he was not.
"I merely took a step and swung my sword lightly. Nothing to be so surprised about," the man replied calmly.
Allen’s ears could barely believe what they heard.
Inspecting more closely, he realized the man’s words were true—the slight movement had generated powerful air pressure that hit him like a physical blow.
Allen’s mind froze with fear as he absorbed the truth.
"Before I take your head and devour you, I have one question," the man said.
"Why are you so weak?"
“......”
Allen couldn’t form a reply.
He was known as one of the strongest adventurers in the city, never bowing to anyone and remaining aloof like a stray cat.
He had worked tirelessly, enduring much to earn both his strength and respect, even proudly earning the title Vana Freya.
So why was he now trembling in fear? Why was he being called weak? Who was this incomprehensible being before him, and where had this monster come from? These questions raced through his mind.
The man slowly advanced, waiting for Allen’s answer, but Allen remained silent—his mind in disarray and his body paralyzed by fear.
"Allen," a voice suddenly snapped him back to reality.
Glancing at the source, he saw his captain, Ottar, who had rushed here after hearing reports from surviving adventurers about a one-man army.
For the first time, Allen felt relief at seeing Ottar, though his captain appeared equally shocked.
‘Does he perhaps know this person?’ Allen wondered silently.
................................................................
"Y-you, it can’t be," Ottar muttered, his face contorting with shock.
He had arrived as quickly as he could after reports emerged about an overwhelming force.
"Ah, finally a face I recognize. So, this cat boy must be your apprentice," the man said, his eyes lighting up briefly.
Hearing that familiar voice dispelled Ottar’s doubts about his identity.
At that realization, Ottar’s shock turned into a scowl, with beads of sweat forming on his brow.
‘Is he... afraid?’ Allen thought.
It was the first time he had witnessed Ottar display such obvious emotion; no one would expect the strongest Boaz to show fear.
"Allen, go back to Lady Freya; protect her... now," Ottar ordered urgently.
"Are you insane? I was just about to tear that guy to shreds. Don’t get in my way!" Allen retorted, his rage a thin veil over his fear.
Allen’s last wish was to seem weak in Ottar’s eyes.
He believed his captain sensed his fear and was giving him a reason to retreat.
But Allen couldn’t do that—it would mean admitting he was weaker than Ottar.
His pride would never allow it; he’d rather die than show such vulnerability.
"Listen to me, Allen, this is no time for pride," Ottar yelled, his desperation clear.
In that moment, Allen realized Ottar wasn’t urging him to flee because of weakness, but because the situation was truly dire—even so, he hesitated.
"Please, if you have any respect for me as your captain, go. Do it for me, or at least for our lady," Ottar pleaded.
Ottar had never begged before, and this unexpected plea stirred something in Allen.
To him, Ottar had always been a rival—a man to surpass—but now that very rival was pleading for him.
In Ottar’s eyes, Allen saw a fierce love for their goddess that outshone all else.
"Tch," Allen clicked his tongue in annoyance before turning to retreat.
Swallowing his pride, he moved to fulfill Ottar’s request, the only way to convince himself to act.
Ottar watched as Allen faded into the distance, a sigh of relief escaping his lips.
Then, he turned back to face the dark-armored man.
"You haven’t changed," the man said.
"You are still a child, yet to be weaned from your mother's teats," he chided, slowly closing the distance between them.
Ottar wasn’t offended; if anyone had the right to speak so, it was this man.
"Why are you here, Zald? How are you still alive?" Ottar asked, unable to hide his curiosity and disbelief.