The Artist, Heliax Van Luminox.
Once a noble who lost his fief and became a bandit lord.
In foreign lands, he had built a bandit gang so powerful that it caught the attention of the royal family.
Eventually, having become a veteran, he was pursued by martial monks until he reached the rank of high priest.
And the man whose original name was forgotten, leaving behind only the title of Artist.
The Artist was bewildered as he watched what was happening now.
Crackle!
Without hesitation, he spoke a name from this era that no one else knew, and without fully understanding its function himself, he used a judgment without any qualms.
The space reverberated with an otherworldly voice, and golden lightning crawled across the ground, condemning the Artist.
While observing this scene, the Artist recalled someone’s words. The words of a woman who disappeared merely by averting her eyes once before entering the mine shaft.
“Still, it would be wise to be careful. After all, players are the kind who overturn things at the very last moment.”
Player. Though the exact meaning was unclear, it was evident that it referred to Aslan.
He took it simply as a caution about Aslan’s strength.
But it wasn’t just that. The Artist realized there was something beyond mere strength in Aslan.
“Dangerous.”
The function of the judgment was unknown. All the Artist knew was the information that it could disrupt his plan, along with a vague sense of foreboding.
With that ominous feeling, the Artist hesitated for a moment, and Aslan began to speak, transcending reason.
“For vanity, you plundered lives.”
“In pursuit of vanity, you stole noble lives to fill your own belly.”
“This is not right.”
As if speaking simultaneously, every time Aslan’s lips moved, voices echoed from all around.
Responding to those echoes, golden lightning surged, burning the pools of poison and driving away even the burnt poison mist into the air.
Filling the space with lightning and murmurs, the Artist recognized it as an incantation.
An ancient magic created by the old deities. This magic was both a means to alter the world’s principles and a tool for the gods to control the world.
The incantation was part of it. Based on the information that came to mind, the Artist partially understood what Aslan was doing.
Instinctively, the Artist realized that this incantation aligned with the function that could disrupt his plan.
It must be stopped. If only it could be stopped, then this body could endure. The Artist quickly judged and acted immediately.
Holding the mace close to his shoulder, he charged forward.
To crush Aslan’s head completely.
Unmoved by the incantation, Aslan remained still as the mace descended directly—but,
Clang!
“Ugh, ah!”
Someone intervened between them.
It was Ereta, the woman gripping an axe drenched in poison, gleaming with a dull light.
Though Ereta’s axe head was pushed back significantly upon colliding with the mace, she managed to protect Aslan’s head.
Ereta also instinctively realized this.
That protecting Aslan now was the path to victory.
With conflicting judgments from the veterans, what followed was a slaughter aimed at destroying each other’s purposes.
“Get out of the way, Ereta!”
The first sign of urgency in the Artist’s voice. The mace thundering forth. In the brief moment of a single heartbeat, four consecutive strikes approached.
Ereta noticed the approach of death through a moment of hesitation and failure, and moved her blood-soaked wrist to grip the axe.
What she executed was purely defensive. She didn’t indulge in greed or attempt a counterattack. Holding her stance high, Ereta swung the axe like a spear being thrust.
Chink-chink-jangle!
First, she swung the axe to deflect the mace’s piercing attack. When the deflected mace flipped over and struck down from above, Ereta stepped aside and countered with a cross-handed upward strike.
The mace, blocked by the upward strike, tilted, allowing Ereta to fend off the next diagonal downward strike by inserting the axe head.
Her wrist broke but healed with divine power.
Then came three strong attacks from both sides. Each time, Ereta swung her axe to block them, repelling them with flames. Both her wrists were broken, but she paid no heed.
Because she enjoyed the pain.
Encouraging herself like that, she swung her axe to retrieve the mace threatening her life and Aslan’s.
She risked her life for it.
As if responding to that, Aslan closed his eyes and murmured.
“You claimed non-existent territories and robbed the lives and property of those barely surviving.”
“You disregarded their sorrow and only took away their livelihoods.”
“This is not right.”
Zzzt!
Lightning raged violently, and in the moment the overwhelming brightness made the Artist squint, Ereta’s axe moved.
Rotating alongside her body at a distance where their legs might entangle,
Swoosh!
“Ugh…!”
And the first attack hit. The rotational slash grazed the corner of the Artist’s eye, splashing emerald blood.
Ereta’s expression grew cold, and instead of a chilling killing intent, only willpower filled her eyes.
It was the face of a veteran who saw a path to victory.
The Artist gritted his teeth and swung the mace to erase that expression, to restore his dignity.
As he had done throughout the years of his life.
Metal clashed against metal. The divine power of a dead deity and the improperly accumulated divine power of the living clashed sharply. Fire and poison danced together, green and red swirling thickly.
Isolated from this spectacle, Aslan held a spear.
Even as his consciousness blurred, it burned brightly with strong divine power—a golden spear.
And Aslan murmured the Artist’s sins.
For the sake of one final judgment.
“You served an evil deity and slaughtered countless lives.”
“Regardless of their status or age, you filled the world with sorrow to satisfy your own pride.”
“This is not right.”
A mace imbued with poison trembled faintly and shattered Ereta’s shoulder.
Her arm fell off but regenerated instantly. Ereta resisted, wielding the axe with one hand, and the Artist shouted.
“What do you know?! It was all art! I sculpted their lives into my art! You don’t understand their nobility!”
The sight of the high priest losing composure. Fearing the impending punishment, he grotesquely inflated himself.
As if denouncing that grotesqueness, massive lightning gradually enveloped the surroundings and surged forth. The humid poison gas tore apart with a sound and ignited.
Amidst the encroaching lightning, Aslan elegantly murmured.
“You adorned all your actions, sins, and misdeeds as art.”
“You showed no remorse for your sins and took pride in them.”
“This arrogance is not right.”
Kzzzzt!
Between the blazing lightning, the Artist who was struck by a direct bolt clenched his teeth and was thrown back. Ereta, with both hands crushed, knelt and waited for her arms to regenerate.
The panting of the Artist and Ereta, Aslan’s labored breathing. Amidst this blend of pitiful sounds, Aslan spoke.
“Lastly, you usurped divine power that did not belong to you.”
“You used that divine power to threaten the world.”
“Therefore, I pronounce judgment.”
The lightning accompanying the verdict surged as a shockwave, sweeping the surroundings, and the divine power within the spear flowed under the name of order.
Amidst the storm of order, Aslan opened his eyes.
Burning emerald eyes. For a moment, gold tinged them.
“You are a sinner.”
As the flickering gold radiated from his eyes and swept the surroundings, some kind of light-like substance flowed out from the spear.
“You are a sinner.”
This light pushed back the surging poison like an incoming tide, making it seem as if time had stopped.
“You are a sinner.”
And Aslan moved alone in this seemingly frozen world.
“Therefore, I confiscate your divine power.”
A decree of order that cannot be avoided, even if one is on the opposite side of the world. At its center, the Artist saw the lightning descending toward him.
Attempting to resist, he raised his mace high, but the lightning pierced through as if the mace didn’t exist, striking the Artist.
Kzzzzztt!
In that lightning, the vague form of a human collapsed, rose again, and collapsed repeatedly.
Before the force of divine power acting as a kind of law, the divine power the Artist and the End’s Basis obtained by absorbing the divine power of the ancient deity was dispersing.
As the lightning dissipated, the Artist stood panting with charred skin. Behind him, he saw the spear.
The spear heading straight towards him. The verdict.
The time for judgment passed, and the veteran chose what he did best.
Pulling the spear held in reverse grip, moving the arm that shouldn’t move, aiming at the Artist, and throwing the spear immediately.
Amid the surging waves of poison, Aslan’s eyes blazed.
“So die already, you son of a bitch.”
Wham!
The hurled spear, the indestructible crystallization of divine power that neither waned nor corroded before the pervasive poison and the poison that could kill even gods, pierced and tore through the entire left arm of the Artist.
“Uuuuh…?!”
At that moment, the Artist realized.
His power had returned to when he was merely a third-rate villain.
Not only his but also that of his master, the basis of the End, who had regressed back into a Poison-Spitting Dragon.
The scattered divine power of the ancient deity. In the moment the Artist widened his eyes within it, two figures rushed towards him.
Ereta, grinding her teeth and gripping her axe with newly regenerated, blood-stained hands.
And Aslan, replacing his completely collapsing and melting left arm with his right hand, holding a pure white greatsword.
“Kh, khh, ha, hahaha!”
The Artist laughed. Laughing while wielding his mace, he ran forward.
Perfecting himself as an artistic masterpiece through restraint.
The mace he swung forward lacked the previous momentum. Only technique. Techniques clashed frequently, resonating with clanging sounds.
However, the situation was clearly tilting.
Exhausted though they were, a combat veteran and a blunt weapon expert. One of them possessed divine power akin to a priest.
There was no way for the Artist, more exhausted than ever, to withstand these two.
Aslan blocked the swing of purity with the mace, severing his fingers. Barely holding the mace with his index finger, he swung his leg, which Ereta severed with her axe.
The axe wrapped in flames halted the minimal regeneration, and the white light Aslan swung kept chipping away at the Artist bit by bit.
Being shaved, slashed, beaten, and cut.
Feeling himself being whittled away bit by bit, the Artist continued to move.
The more he struggled, the more radiant his artwork of self would shine.
Deflecting the descending purity with the mace, severing another finger. Blocking the approaching axe with his arm to buy time, barely escaping.
Stepping on the severed ankle and leaning forward greatly.
Leaning greatly, he gathered as much poison as possible into his mouth.
And spat it out.
The poison spewed from his mouth was highly toxic. An acid that melted muscles and bones upon contact with the skin.
The target was Aslan’s arm. If only he could take away that extraordinary blade of Aslan’s, he might have a chance.
If he counters this move, he’ll complete himself. If he doesn’t counter, he can struggle further.
Will he dodge, or will he take it?
To the expectant Artist, Aslan’s response was unexpected.
Instead, he extended the arm holding purity and blocked the poison.
Sssshhh!
Wincing, the poison seeping through the gaps of his armor dissolved chunks of flesh.
Melted human bones dripped through the armor, and the Artist looked at Aslan with a regretful expression.
The insane cutting edge of that sword fell to the ground, and Aslan staggered.
The Artist, seeing his furrowed brow, lamented that a combat veteran would meet his end with such a mistake.
But he didn’t let the given opportunity slip. Moving forward, he tried to bite Aslan’s neck with his poison-filled mouth.
Only Aslan moved first.
Aslan swung his melting arm and pushed the Artist away. The Artist stumbled backward, hitting the melting flesh.
Pfft!
“…What?”
The force was weak. Just enough to push him away.
But that push was sufficient. With the completely melted-off right arm behind him, Aslan’s left arm moved.
An arm without a single layer of skin, convulsing from the poison, reached behind him, grasping the hilt.
Grrrr!
As he pulled hard, a howl like a wild beast’s cry echoed.
The sword he swiftly drew was shining brightly white.
When the entire blade was revealed, the scabbard unfolded and covered the blade. The dark blue scabbard turned into the blade itself.
A strange serrated sword, impossible to wield with one hand. Now, at this moment, he draws it—an incomprehensible choice that froze the Artist.
“Beast… Evil.”
Aslan’s lips moved, and mana flared blue.
The flaring mana lifted the blade, and the hilt moved.
As if held by some colossal entity, it floated and tilted horizontally.
Then came the power.
Like a bizarre flow of strength coursing through his body from the lower half to the upper half. Suddenly arising in the air, the sword moved.
At its end, the tip of the sword vanished without leaving even a trace.
It rushed forth at a speed invisible to the eye.
Seeing the beautiful artistry, the Artist smiled, raising the corner of his mouth.
The dark blue afterglow illuminated the dim cave and painted the scene.
“Beautiful—”
Screeech!
Where the dark blue afterglow passed, the Artist’s waist split apart.
