After the arm came the next invocation.

"Leg of the warrior, rise."

Another cannibal spoke, thrusting out a foot. He seemed less skilled than the one who had cast the previous spell. A colored band encircled his head, and a jumble of patterns covered his face. His filthy leg turned black, then crumpled.

CRUNCH.

It was the backlash of the magic.

"Nngh."

He clenched his teeth, trying to stifle a groan. Muscle, bone, and skin twisted.

With a sound that sent shivers down the spine, the leg snapped off below his knee, turned into a black mass, and pooled on the ground. From that puddle, a muscular black leg formed anew.

Once they had created one arm and two legs, one of the men died with blood pouring from his eyes and nose. His body folded inward, soon becoming a pool of black blood. A black torso was born from it. It had no slender arms or legs, nor a head. The newly formed single arm and two legs attached themselves to that torso.

The final result was a human shape made of clumped black soot. It had only a left hand, which gripped a long rod. Longer than a sword, the rod had a shape that deserved to be called a spear.

A warrior with a black body. A black warrior born from a black pit, perhaps. Or an undead warrior that had crossed back over the river of death. Its distinguishing feature was its missing right arm. The creature had only its left, and its head existed merely as a round lump.

A knight raised from the dead was called a death knight: the pinnacle of necromancy, a monster incarnate possessing knight-level might. The magic the Cultists had used now was of a lower order.

It began with capturing a highly skilled warrior, tearing out their heart, and using a secret art to keep them from dying. Over seven days, they were gradually brought into a stupor so profound that they could no longer tell whether they were dead or alive.

With their heart torn out, they were dead. Yet the secret art made the warrior believe they were still alive.

'Whose heart is that?'

The flesh was dead, but the mind was kept alive. In that state, they were killed through a secret necromantic art. That was how a warrior born from death was made.

I am not dead yet. Therefore, I can fight. If I fight and win, this nightmare will soon end.

Being dead, it could not hear the words of the living. The death warrior could not speak, either. It would have to communicate its thoughts mentally, but it had no desire whatsoever to do so. All that remained was the urge to fight.

Fight. Kill. Riddle their bodies with the spear.

Who or what stood in its path did not matter.

Luagarne's whip lashed toward the black warrior's head.

CRACK!

The warrior swept up its spear shaft to block the whip. The tip wound swiftly around the shaft. Even as she lashed out, Luagarne charged forward and swung her Loop Sword. The blade swept horizontally, its heavy edge carrying a Frog's strength. It looked ready to cleave the enemy's torso in an instant.

The black warrior hauled its spear shaft back by force to block.

CLANG!

The black rod rippled as it blocked the Loop Sword's edge. It had pulled back a spear shaft ensnared by her whip? It had overcome a Frog's strength.

Its lone hand slid smoothly down the spear shaft and gripped the lower end. Then it brought the shaft crashing forward, whip still wrapped around it. Luagarne released the whip's handle, took her Loop Sword in both hands, and twisted it to catch and deflect the shaft with the flat.

CLACK, SCRAAAPE!

The black shaft and the Loop Sword's blade scraped against each other, sliding off to opposite sides. Luagarne used the recoil from her forward push to take a long step back.

A death warrior was a necromancer's creation. Its skill depended on the quality of the work. How skilled was this one, twirling a spear shaft with its single arm?

'At least a proto knight.'

Against it alone, she could just barely hold her own. Even that seemed possible only because its missing arm halved its ability. Wondering where the other arm was brought a natural association to mind.

'That bastard's arm from before.'

They had killed a Cultist while cutting down Knolls some time ago. The one who had cast the arm of the warrior spell. It had produced a crudely formed body with only a proper right arm. Encrid had cut it down. Afterward, she had made inquiries here and there, trying to find the owner of that arm. She had wondered where it was. Here was her answer.

As she withdrew, Luagarne flicked up the handle of the whip, now unwound from the shaft, with her sword tip and caught it. The instant she did, she spoke.

"Burn."

The determination in her voice called forth the spell inscribed on the whip. The easiest way to deal with a creature like that was with a magical tool. Flames sprang up from the middle of the whip. Their burning heat warmed the surrounding air.

Even so, her chances of victory would not be high. Beyond her discernment and her eye for talent, her combat sense warned of danger. It was because of the men staring at her from behind the death warrior, their eyes gleaming.

And that was not all. Another group of people emerged from the rear of the canyon where the enemy had gathered. Most had various patterns painted on their faces. Among them, two stood out for their clothing: a half-Fairy and a half-Giant. They were not westerners. A glance was enough to tell. Their clothing was different, as were their races.

One of the half-Fairy's ears had been crushed, leaving only a hole where the outer ear should have been. The half-Giant had a flat nose and an angular jaw that made his face look like a square block of stone.

Encrid was still chasing the enemy mage. Rem and Dunbachel were merrily slaughtering Giants. A wolf created by a spell tore through the Giants, protecting the allied warriors as they thrust their spears and hurled stones.

Several westerners approached Luagarne, carrying spear-throwers and obsidian spears.

'I don't think this will work.'

Her combat sense foretold defeat. More precisely, a pointless death.

That thought would not leave her mind, especially when she looked at the black-haired man whose white eyes had no visible pupils. A series of falling teardrops was painted beneath his left eye, and beneath his right was a dagger with its blade pointing upward. The moment Luagarne saw him, she felt a particularly ominous premonition.

'We'll lose.'

That would be the outcome if she and the western warriors fought alone. Though normally dull, a Frog's combat sense became exquisitely sharp in battle. From her perspective, then, that had to be the answer.

But what of it? The things before her were Cultists. The evil cult was her sworn enemy. She simply had to kill them. Whether she could manage it or not, the premise that she would fight remained unchanged. With those she had to kill before her, her rage was justified.

CROAK.

Half pleasure, half rage. Luagarne puffed out her cheeks. And in truth, she did not think she would lose. All her predictions had left out Encrid, a force beyond the norm.

* * *

'Did you think Giants were all I had prepared?'

The man forcibly silenced by the blades flying at him one after another was an apostle of the Cult of the Sacred Demonic Realm.

'I divided the West and created Giants. Do you know how many other seeds I have sown? I have spent years preparing this. How will you stop it?'

He would plant the cult's first shoots here. More precisely, he intended to gather monsters and create something resembling a Demonic Realm. To do that, he planned to gather the westerners in one place and kill them. Their blood and flesh, their fear, despair, frustration, even their feeble hope: all would become ingredients for creating something like a Demonic Realm on this land. The apostle sought to create a new Demonic Realm here.

The sword strikes silenced him. Mana could not flow where it needed to. Even his attempts to form hand signs were interrupted.

'This wretch.'

He could not help growing angry.

The apostle judged that hasty anger would do him no good. To calm it, he began to pray inwardly.

'Our god sleeps within the Demonic Realm.'

I shall awaken him and let him rule this land. Let divine punishment fall upon all fools. I shall hang every pretender who calls himself king. I shall cleave the hearts of those whose false faith insults the One God sleeping in the Demonic Realm. Die, all of you, and be reborn. Thus shall the world answer the call of the true god.

Meanwhile, the fortune-teller tribe joined the battle, and the two warriors he had kept as secret weapons began making their way toward him. Those two would stop the man ceaselessly swinging a sword at his mouth and hands. Once they had stopped him, the apostle would bind his whole body and force him to his knees. Then he would speak.

Why use that strength to walk a misguided path? Stand beside me. Know true joy and praise the God of the Demonic Realm. If you refuse, I shall let you die and be reborn to stand beside an apostle. Regardless of your wishes, I shall make it so. That is my duty. That is my path in service to my god.

All the things he so dearly wished to say tangled inside him. The apostle had always been a talkative man. Yet whenever he tried to speak, a blade came whistling at him.

He would have died long ago had he not used an incorporeality spell that let physical blows pass through him, allowing the blades to slip by. For now, he was fine. Of course, he could not properly manifest his spell world while incorporeal, which was frustrating.

Still, surely there was room to get a sound out somehow? He thought there might be. Desperate to talk, the apostle resorted to a workaround. All he needed was to convey his meaning. But if he could convey meaning, if he could let his voice out, could he not also utter a prepared spell? That seemed possible too. With his workaround, the apostle pried open a gap.

* * *

"You!"

"Wretch!"

"Lis!"

"Ten!"

"To!"

"What!"

"I!"

"Say!"

Resourceful, wasn't he? Denied the chance to speak, he was talking one syllable at a time. Aside from an occasional thrust with Spark, Encrid pressed the mage with Aker alone. That was enough to keep the man from chanting or playing tricks with his fingers.

["Stop their incantations and hand signs, and they have to cast through determination alone. No mage will find that easy. So just cut their mouths and fingers."]

Esther's teaching was excellent. Encrid did exactly as she had instructed. His opponent still could not use proper magic.

But how long would this go on? Would the man back down if Encrid kept slashing without rest for three days and nights? He did not know.

With his mouth blocked, the man kept trying to communicate with his eyes. Spitting out one syllable at a time, he rolled his eyes incessantly. At that rate, he looked capable of casting spells with his eyeballs. Audin might have eyes like that if he lost his mind.

'Is that an insult to Audin?'

Then he took it back.

The blade cleaved his opponent's body. It was like cutting empty air. There was no resistance in his hand. He was cutting smoke. Even so, Encrid did not stop.

"Be!"

"Re!"

"Born!"

After a few more sword strokes, his opponent's intent changed. Instead of that nonsense about listening to him, he was doing something else now. A spell. The stirring of mana registered in the realm of Sixth Sense. Despite the sword keeping him in check, he was chanting one syllable at a time.

What sort of people were the apostles of the Cult of the Sacred Demonic Realm? They, too, were called geniuses. The apostle moved his mana while accounting for Encrid's sword strikes disrupting his spell. He did not even need a long incantation. Something had already been prepared here.

"Once!"

"A!"

"Gain!"

Be reborn once again. A six-syllable incantation.

The sacrifices buried beneath the ground answered the apostle's spell. Thanks to Rem and Dunbachel, the Giants' numbers had fallen sharply. Yet at the words of the man who kept turning his body indistinct, the dead Giants rose again.

GROOOAR!

Burst flesh knitted back together, and heads regrew atop severed necks. Masses of flesh wriggled, gathered, and rose, forming eyes, noses, mouths, and ears. The sight was grotesque, nauseating to look at. With their eyes as dazed as ever, the revived Giants moved again, exactly as they had before dying.

What was this? Not even trolls or Frogs could match that regeneration.

"Come!"

"On!"

"Forth!"

The mage followed with a summoning incantation. A red rooster's comb thrust up before Encrid's eyes, larger than the head of an average adult. Beneath it were a rooster's head and a body clad in steel-like feathers. Its yellow feet and sharp talons looked capable of tearing a person apart in an instant. Finally, a snake's tail swept across the ground.

Encrid recalled what he had just seen. A red magic circle had appeared on the ground. A rooster's comb had risen from beneath it, followed by the monster. It was a cockatrice, a monster said to shoot petrifying rays from its eyes.

The monster intended to fire a petrifying ray, peck with its beak, and rake with its venomous talons as soon as it emerged. First, it would peck the human before it and taste his flesh.

The cockatrice's neck muscles were just about to move. Before it could lower its head, a streak of light flashed in and severed its neck. In a way, it looked as though it had offered up its neck to be cut. Of course, the monster had intended no such thing. It was simply a sight created by the difference in speed.

SHICK!

Its head shot into the air. The light in the cockatrice's eyes dimmed. The summoned monster died without even crying out, much less firing a petrifying ray. But its death bought its master a brief opening.

"Chains of Gullak!"

The apostle dropped his incorporeal form and chanted without hesitation. Green chains sprang from beneath Encrid's feet toward his calves and forearms. They wound straight around them.

'Trying to simply cut someone who's incorporeal? You're rather ignorant, aren't you?'

At that moment, Encrid heard something like an auditory hallucination. He ignored both the chains binding him and the voice.

What was determination? The desire to do something. Encrid filled himself with the desire to advance and cut. Neither the tightening chains nor the phantom voice mattered.

CRUNCH, BANG!

Unable to withstand his strength, the chains burst apart. Those thigh muscles had been trained over and over again. Encrid broke the spell with brute force. Had Audin seen it, he would have cried out to his Father in fervent prayer.

"You wretch!"

The apostle, who had just dropped his incorporeal form and was preparing another spell, shouted. He was utterly shocked. How could he not be? What kind of bastard broke spells with brute strength?

The half-Fairy and half-Giant he had taken as subordinates rushed in front of the astonished apostle. Both intended to hold Encrid back. And they did stop his advance. For exactly half a breath.

Looking at the two blocking his path, Encrid moved both arms at once. He split single time in half. In half time, he cut and thrust with offbeat sword strokes.

BANG, CRACK! THUNK!

The half-Fairy had a talent for keeping his two daggers hidden from sight before thrusting. His hands were so fast that his dexterity resembled a magic trick. That was why he could react to the descending sword strike by crossing his daggers. It was the right decision. He was already too late to dodge.

The Fairy crossed his two daggers and tensed both forearms. The heavy blade forced the daggers down, cleaved halfway through his skull, and withdrew. A tremendous bang sounded, followed by the crack of his skull splitting. The shock wave from that monstrous force drove his neck bones downward.

At the same time, a hole opened in the half-Giant's face. Naturally, it was Encrid's work. As he brought Aker down, he thrust Spark with his left hand. He executed two sword strikes simultaneously in half time. The technique he had recently mastered through dozens of repetitions struck home. It was a variation on his original two-sword technique of blocking with Aker and thrusting with Spark.

The half-Giant had raised his mace and was bringing it down when he died, blood pouring from his face. Even in death, momentum carried the mace onward.

THUD.

The mace struck the ground to no avail. Meanwhile, Encrid swung his sword at the barrier of the mage who had dropped his incorporeal form. His consecutive attacks left no room even to breathe.

WHOOSH, CRACK!

A single sword stroke cracked the barrier. At the sight, the apostle's pupils began to tremble.

'What is this bastard?'

Why was he so good at fighting?

Questions arose. As he wondered, the apostle felt a momentary fear of death. An ominous image consumed his mind: somehow, no matter what he did, he was going to die.