The Divine Power wrapping his body had no one to direct it.
The system that would enable such control was invisible to Richard, and those who could see it were on the brink of death.
Thus, even though Richard could feel the Divine Power swirling around his body, he had no idea how to use it.
[Richard Auris Helsing]
[Level: 5]
[Remaining stats: 12]
[Strength 4(3)] [Agility 4(3)] [Health 3]
[Mana 1] [Will 2] [Luck 4]
However, Richard’s instincts were extraordinary.
His abilities were built upon natural talent.
His teacher, I’taar, had highly valued his talent.
I’taar had confidently believed Richard would eventually surpass him.
Unfortunately, Richard fell just short of reaching superhuman levels. Still, he could sense the power coiling around his body.
This unprecedented power. As he felt it, Richard thought this might be the key.
But the thought didn’t last long. The Tyrant was already charging before he could think further.
KWAHAAANG! Dirt and dust surged upward as the Tyrant approached at blinding speed.
Almost invisible to the naked eye, but Richard’s exceptional instincts bristled and barely managed to identify the threat.
A straight punch aimed for the neck – if dodged, it would crush the head; if blocked, it would break the neck and kill.
Apparently intending to grab and snap Richard in an instant.
In that moment, Richard’s tattoos glowed blue, granting +2 Agility.
With Agility now at 5 points, Richard twisted his head away at the last second. A fierce wind tore through where his head had been.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Richard glared at the Tyrant.
The next move was a backhand strike. The spinning backhand was nothing short of deadly.
One hit would mean instant death. Even receiving the blow would be difficult for Richard’s body.
It was too fast to counter with normal evasive techniques. He couldn’t perform full-body evasion like his master I’taar.
Deflecting the attack would be impossible even for someone of equal skill. Watching the incoming backhand, Richard desperately wished for:
Flexibility, and the agility that enables it.
The speed needed to react to such fast attacks.
Some unknown force moved instinctively within Richard’s body.
EEEEEYAAAAAAH!
“Hm?”
Clearly surprised, the Tyrant had expected to land the blow. Richard had twisted his body dramatically to evade.
Made possible by softer joints and enhanced flexibility.
Still looking puzzled, the Tyrant spun his body.
“You’ve gotten faster somehow. What did you do?”
As he asked, he launched a spinning kick. It was the same kick he’d used on Phey.
A high trajectory kick that seemed easy to dodge given Richard’s low stance, but appearances were deceiving.
Mid-kick, it would change direction to target the leg low.
Getting hit would mean losing a limb. Instead of dodging, Richard extended his arm.
Arm meets leg. As the reinforced scaled leg attempted to crush Richard’s arm, he used Deflection.
The force dispersed before it could transfer, causing the Tyrant to spin off balance.
BOOM!
As the Tyrant crashed into the ground, Richard quickly moved, raising his foot to stomp on the Tyrant’s head.
An attack that could potentially kill an ordinary human. However, it didn’t affect the Tyrant.
Blocked by the helmet, molten metal splattered, prompting Richard to spit in frustration while stomping on the helmet and leaping off.
KIING! KWAJIK!
Where Richard had stood moments before, spikes made of white steel erupted.
Dodging by a hair’s breadth, Richard flipped in mid-air as sweat poured down his face while the Tyrant regained his footing.
A jumping front kick followed. The target was obvious – the landing moment.
At the time of landing, there would be no way to dodge.
The waist-twisting kick launched precisely as Richard landed, intending to sever his waist.
Using Deflection instinctively, Richard deflected the kick sideways with his forearm.
“Stupid!”
Accompanied by the Tyrant’s scolding, the kick collided with Richard’s arm and slid off.
Due to clever use of Deflection, the Tyrant failed to react, allowing Richard to jab his fist into the side.
KWAHAAAANG!
“Ugh…”
The one injured wasn’t the Tyrant but Richard.
Bloodied knuckles. Frowning, Richard examined the Tyrant’s scales.
Attempting a counterattack would result in failure since regular attacks don’t penetrate those scales, and even if they did, they wouldn’t be fatal blows.
Thus, rash counters are punished.
At least if he had more strength, he could maintain some defense.
Stronger physical power. At the thought, another figure came to mind – Angie.
Her wildly swinging fists. Yet each punch carried monstrous strength capable of uprooting mountains.
Recalling that overwhelming power, Richard unconsciously took a similar stance.
A posture full of openings, meant solely for delivering fast and powerful punches. When the floating Divine Power settled onto this stance, immense strength stirred within his muscles.
Naturally, Richard’s consecutive attacks far outpaced the Tyrant’s intended counterattack.
Dodging the Tyrant’s incoming punch while pulling back his leg, Richard’s fist flew past and struck the Tyrant’s abdomen.
KWAHANG!
Where the fist connected, scales burst outward like exploding flames as the Tyrant’s body was pushed back.
Recovering using only his leg strength, the Tyrant frowned darkly at Richard.
Then came an expression of perplexed hostility. Suddenly lowering his stance, he accelerated like a streak of white lightning.
Seeing this, Richard assumed his master’s stance.
The unseen Divine Power whispered in his ear.
That you’re now faster and stronger than before.
Responding to this whisper, Richard dyed his tattoos purple.
[Richard Auris Helsing]
[Level: 5]
[Strength 10(9)] [Agility 10(9)] [Health 3]
[Mana 1] [Will 2] [Luck 4]
Infusing 1 point each into Agility and Strength through Mana tattoos, he exhaled softly.
As the Tyrant charged forward, Richard faced him head-on.
KWAOOOO!
The fist cutting through the air met Richard’s palm using Deflection.
The fist veered off significantly. Losing balance, the Tyrant slammed his foot into the ground to regain it. Seizing this opening, Richard lightly jumped and delivered a knee strike.
KWJIG!
The knee connecting with the jaw sent scales flying as the Tyrant’s head snapped back.
Following the momentum, Richard drove forward with a headbutt. As if intending to crush Richard, the Tyrant lunged with his head.
Richard slipped his left foot back and turned sideways.
While Richard could turn, the Tyrant couldn’t. Above the missed headbutt, Richard brought down interlocked hands.
CHHHERRRRK!
BOOM, KWAGAANG!
The Tyrant, bouncing off the ground, was kicked again by Richard.
CHERRRK! Before the airborne body could touch the ground, Richard propelled himself forward with a ground kick.
The flying Tyrant. Just as the Tyrant targeted Richard upon landing, Richard targeted the Tyrant’s landing.
Stomping hard on the ground to leap, he delivered a heel drop.
KWAAJJIIJIIIICK!
As the Tyrant was impaled into the ground again, Richard landed and tightly clenched his fist.
He then unleashed it.
KWAAAAAAAAANG!
Though blood spurted from the punch hitting the Tyrant’s abdomen, the Tyrant wasn’t unscathed either.
Shedding scales as he flew backward, rolling across the ground to barely stop.
Breathing heavily, Richard observed the scene.
‘I can fight… But…’
Maintaining his stance, Richard glared at the Tyrant rising from the ground.
On his face lingered only irritation.
No sense of defeat, no expression of disadvantage—just annoyance.
Watching this, Richard realized.
“What are you?”
Without the rest of the party, this couldn’t be defeated.
“The Veteran of Combat.”
And the only one who could buy time for the party to gather was himself.
*
Aslan.
Lee Hyun-woo.
The Veteran of Combat, Emperor Slayer, Priest Slaughterer.
Flame Tongue.
Known by countless names and titles, he lay there with dimmed eyes amidst his endless battles.
Fighting repeatedly, pounding, slashing, tearing apart—yet Aslan found no way to fell the Tyrant.
Regeneration rendered every attempt ineffective.
Unlike Ereta’s regeneration, this seemed boundless.
Even the Pure didn’t affect the white steel armor covering his body.
The failure was clear.
A high-ranking priest without miracles couldn’t win.
Especially when combat began with meticulous preparation.
Selecting the weak for their sole purpose, Aslan had slaughtered many who could have been allies.
Thus, naturally, the chances of victory were slim, which Aslan realized as he neared death.
In such situations, miracles rarely occur.
“Pull! Pull! Lay him down as flat as possible!”
“Oh… War and Knowledge… He’s barely older than my son…”
“Everyone, gather here!”
No miracles, no luck.
The inevitable result followed.
The weak who had almost been wiped out by the Tyrant, those whom Aslan had desperately protected, now gathered around him.
Citizens, guards, ordinary people of the Empire.
Those who merely lived day by day, awaiting the upcoming Thanksgiving Festival anxiously.
They saw the cause of this unexpected calamity.
A man lying on the ground, bleeding endlessly from his mouth as he slowly died.
Among those watching, someone suddenly drew a dagger.
KWJIG!
The dagger pierced flesh effortlessly. Furrowed brows, flowing blood.
As those surrounding recoiled in shock, the one wielding the dagger panted heavily, pressing their bloodied palm onto the man’s body.
“Uuuh…”
The blood shone brightly.
Of course.
They were creations of War and Knowledge, born with the grace of Mana.
Being Green Ones, their blood carried Mana, serving as catalysts.
What followed was basic Restoration School magic.
Magic so simple even a child among the Green Ones could use it.
Magic that worked better when blood was involved.
Witnessing the light of Mana seeping into Aslan’s body, the citizens surrounding him looked on with bewilderment.
“…Why are you staring like that! Use your magic already! This person protected us!”
In the fleeting moment, Aslan’s shadow-flipping form wasn’t leisurely enough for everyone to see.
However, among them were those with keen enough eyesight to discern it.
“Yes, yes. That person stepped forward and wielded the sword…”
“Just now, that monster was fighting while protecting us.”
“That person slew the dragon! That person fought the dragon first!”
“I, I know this person! Heir to Budonggong!”
“Budonggong? His disciple? Then he’s our fellow countryman.”
Following these testimonies, the citizens looked at the man with confused expressions.
His armor bore embedded white steel scales.
What this symbolized was simple.
When the Tyrant spread death, he disregarded his own safety to save as many as possible.
That he continued fighting despite being wounded repeatedly.
Here, there was no room for selfishness.
Citizens, guards, foreigners—all approached without hesitation, placing their hands on him.
On his sturdy frame, his hazy eyes, his parched lips, his cheek stained crimson with splattered blood.
They channeled Mana and cast basic Restoration School magic.
Merely intuitive and inefficient magic for healing superficial wounds.
However, when dozens used the same magic, the results differed.
Had he not been shattered like a broken vessel, he would have been healed long ago.
Despite pouring in life force, the man showed no response.
His heart ceased beating.
Death was near.
Yet, they—
The weak refused to give up, continuing to cast spells.
Even as some coughed up blood from overexertion or fainted from excessive Mana infusion, their hands remained steadfast.
They wanted to live.
They realized they had no other choice but to rely on this man to survive.
With miracles distant and the heavens indifferent, the weak demonstrated their will to the hero standing on the earth.
Their bright will to live.
Aslan faintly perceived this in his clouded consciousness.
Every life held value.
Whether weak or strong.
As long as it was life, it mattered.
Whether they were beautiful or not was not determined by strength.
And to Aslan’s eyes, their struggle to survive was noble.
Aslan couldn’t mock their struggle.
“Please, please…”
“Save him! For the love of our children here!”
“War and Knowledge, protect this hero, grant him the knowledge to overcome any adversity…”
Scattering life, powerless yet persistently healing.
Even as they spat blood and shed tears, they didn’t abandon hope.
Perceiving this in his blurred consciousness, Aslan gripped his sword.
At its center, the Pillar of Creation.
Clutching this, Aslan wove together life that was inevitably dispersing, using the power of life creation.
Using Will as threads, he wove it together.
And relying on this, he rose.
“Ahhh…”
Someone gasped. Dozens of hands rested on Aslan’s body—small, large, wrinkled, smooth.
Green, pale, copper-toned.
Woven together by countless lives, Aslan arose.
As Aslan rose, more hands reached out.
Supporting, pushing, helping him rise.
Wobbling, staggering, he rose under the setting sun. Supporting hands gradually fell away as shadows lengthened.
Recalling death as he rose, Aslan remembered.
Since embarking on this journey, Aslan had taken countless lives.
Among them were those with conviction, those struggling to survive in this desperate world, and those who succumbed to defeat without even challenging the world.
There were ancient deities, humans, even priests.
“Be happy.”
Aslan listened to the murmuring voices in his ears.
Astird’s voice accompanying the flickering tattoos.
In this world, there was no one who didn’t wish to be happy.
Everyone lived hoping to become happy.
Yet many never found happiness.
Aslan was one of them.
He wasn’t happy.
He disliked fighting.
He mourned the mortality of people.
He grieved over sacrifices he couldn’t prevent.
Thus, Geladridion was far from a place of happiness for Aslan.
Step.
Standing on two legs, Aslan faced countless gazes. Lifting his head, he looked at the sky.
The sky turning greenish as night approached.
The descending twilight.
The cold sensed through his skin coexisting with warmth. Aslan thought about it.
As long as there were Transcendents twisting fate in Geladridion,
As long as malevolent deities spreading sorrow and taking away happiness existed,
True happiness couldn’t exist in this land.
However.
The phrase “be happy” wasn’t something said to those already happy or about to become so.
Astird wished for her companion venturing toward impossibilities to inevitably find happiness someday.
Feeling this, Aslan moved forward.
‘You shall triumph!’
The Warrior God’s voice resounded.
Knowing fully well there was no true victory, sometimes valuing the fight itself even without winning, the god’s voice spoke.
Aslan reflected on it, truly understanding
How vast and terrifying the enemy was.
Endless.
Time and again, Aslan had felt despair during this never-ending battle.
Felt fear.
In truth, he didn’t even want to wield weapons.
Yet it was something only Aslan could do.
Therefore, despite the fear and despair,
He had to fight.
The tightly gripped bundle of Purity rested in his hand.
Together with the Divine Power rippling from it, Aslan heard someone’s voice.
‘May fortune favor you, Lee Hyun-woo.’
A sorrowful voice filled with sadness and death.
Following this voice, Aslan raised his head.
There stood the Tyrant.
A High Priest whose scales were torn off in various places, limbs scattered around, having apparently ripped off his own appendages and head.
Beside him was Richard, slumped over and panting heavily.
“Asl…an.”
Glancing momentarily at the visible system window, Aslan understood that even with the Divine Power Richard had obtained, defeating the Tyrant was impossible.
Yet he also understood why Richard had still fought, knowing it was something only Aslan could accomplish.
Looking at the Tyrant, Aslan noticed his complex expression.
It seemed confused, flustered, and surprised all at once.
Staring blankly at Aslan, the Tyrant condensed all these emotions into one.
“Haha…ha…”
He laughed. His mouth stretched wide until it nearly reached his ears. Then he burst into loud laughter.
“Indeed, not even death can hold you back!”
Pointing at Aslan,
“Cold steel and sharp malice couldn’t bring you to your knees!”
Clapping his hands sharply, the Tyrant greeted Aslan with a radiant smile.
“You’re truly the strongest! Come, let’s fight with everything we’ve got! Until death, no, beyond death! Aslan!”
And he charged with fervor. Watching the charging Tyrant, Aslan recalled words the Dragon King had whispered into his semi-conscious mind long ago.
“Can death frighten and make flee one who has transcended it?”
Truly, that was the case.
Having transcended death, Aslan grasped his sword for the last time.
