30 Years Have Passed Since the Prologue Chapter 34

Chapter 34: The Night of Counting Stars (8)

The line of fire flashed. Onest immediately twisted his head and evaded the round.

It was a strike aimed precisely between the brows. Damn it. Onest bit his lip and edged backward.

“Damn it, are you serious? You dare to shoot a captain dead aboard a Kalion warship? Commit acts you can answer for, soldier!”

“Am I the one who must answer for it?”

Ivan approached, spinning his axe. He did not close the distance rashly.

He slowly took stock of the fellow’s condition. A mage. One who has studied swordsmanship.

Elves in almost all cases do not take up a blade. All the more so at officer grade.

Because among Elf soldiers, field-grade personnel are without exception high nobles, and Elf nobles regard sweating as base work.

But among them there are some who take up a blade. From here the problem grows rather more complicated.

Having studied swordsmanship despite the contempt of others implies tremendous potential, together with the long-lived species’ distinctively long life.

Most Elves loathe close-quarters unarmed combat, yet paradoxically the finest swordsman in the world was an Elf. She was known in the past as the Hero’s master.

Which is to say, then—

—the fact that this was a blade-wielding mage Elf officer was checking Ivan. Even having shattered one leg in the first ambush.

“Elizaveta sent a formidable hound. What is your name, soldier?”

“Do you think dragging out time works to your advantage?”

Onest frowned at Ivan’s words. Quick on the uptake, this one.

He clicked his tongue briefly.

He cannot weave a spell rashly. Against those classified as so-called “superhumans,” the distance between him and Ivan is less than a single step.

They were each within the other’s attack range.

After a brief standoff, the Elf sighed and let his shoulders drop.

“I surrender. I’ll withdraw the soldiers.”

“Throw down your sword.”

“Why not have me sign articles of surrender outright? There’s no guarantee you won’t take my head this instant.”

Not an incorrect statement. But Ivan narrowed his eyes.

An Elf surrendering this quickly? Without even having fought properly? A field-grade noble, no less?

That is impossible.

Ivan silently raised his axe. Surrender can be accepted after neutralization as well.

Watching that, Onest clicked his tongue.

“Damn it. Fine. Take it.”

And he hurled the sword, with all his strength, straight at Ivan.

Ching!

As Ivan knocked aside the incoming blade, Onest was already leaping backward with a hand slipping into his coat.

Ivan lunged toward Onest and lowered his stance. Beneath the tightly fastened uniform no silhouette of a weapon was visible.

In that case what could come out of there amounted to a revolver, or a dagger, or an explosive-type magic weapon.

The last of those was the most likely and the most troublesome.

“Sir Beolgrin!!”

“……?”

Why is that gentleman’s name coming out now……?

Ivan shook off the bewilderment that surged over him for an instant. This was no time to be deliberating on such things.

Because shouting a technique name, or shouting an influential figure’s name, was fundamentally a very stupid tactic.

Ivan kicked off the floor and swung the axe. There was no time for delicate striking with the axe’s back. He set the edge straight and drove it down toward Onest’s forearm.

Because one can hardly afford to let one’s guard down when facing a mage’s suspicious magic tool.

Click.

As expected, what Onest drew from his coat was a small iron-sphere-shaped magic tool. Densely packed with purple incantation glyphs, of an exceedingly ominous appearance.

Just before Ivan’s axe split Onest’s forearm, his thumb pressed down on the tool’s top.

And then, soon. A wave rose.

Kaboooooom!!

Ivan thought as he was flung back by the rough shockwave.

Mission failed. To self-destruct.

The mission Elizaveta handed down was to secure the scene of the warship captain and Alexandr’s contact.

To think the captain would abruptly press a self-destruct switch. How could one anticipate and prepare for this.

Ivan fell into a corner of the corridor, feeling tinnitus ringing from the rough shockwave.

“Guhk.”

His lungs were wrung by the impact and a groan burst out. His complexion, by contrast, remained composed.

He immediately confirmed the state of his limbs, checked whether his fingertips and toes moved normally, and then gathered himself.

That was an “equipment check” honed through long training. Because a trained agent’s body is a kind of equipment item.

Awfully intact for having been caught in a close-range antipersonnel explosive?

Ivan rose, his body still shuddering with aftershocks, and thought. His vision swayed slightly from the explosion’s impact. As the tinnitus gradually subsided, the siren resounding through the corridor became audible again.

A good sign. It meant even his hearing was normal.

“This is outside my expectations.”

And at the sound that soon reached him, Ivan went rigid. Far too familiar a voice. And a voice that should not be heard here.

At a voice heard for the first time in 4 years, Ivan momentarily had to suspect vocal mimicry. But no. He had not misheard.

The distinctive dark-green flame visible through his hazy vision.

Two eyes, ghost-fire burning up from beneath the fundus.

And even the all too familiar magic power arrangement.

“Really…… Beolgrin……?” “Yes. Why are you here? Were you alive?”

The uniform wrecked by the explosion, and the physique, height, and features visible beneath it. All were Onest’s, but……

Ivan realized reflexively. This fellow’s “soul” has been swapped.

“Possession……?”

“An amusing word choice. This is called the [Soul Transfer Art].”

The Hero’s Party’s mage. Fortress Breaker Beolgrin.

Carrying familiar magic power and a familiar voice, and an all too familiar arrogance. One of the greatest living mages opened his mouth.

“Where has Alexandr gone that you are here?”

“……”

Beolgrin appearing in this place is outside expectations. Because it’s a thing one could not even have expected to begin with.

But before that, Ivan called to mind the nature of this mission.

Confirm the connection between Crown Prince Alexandr and the Elf captain. And gather evidence. The Elf captain…… no, this aerial battleship is presumed to be suffering a functional fault. Elizaveta designed it so that the aerial battleship’s captain’s only available option would become Crown Prince Alexandr. And Beolgrin’s remark just now.

Where has Alexandr gone that you are here. Ivan frowned at the thick implication contained in that dry question.

Beolgrin handed the captain a magic tool containing the [Soul Transfer Art] from the very start.

Why? To meet Alexandr face to face.

In that case…… why?

Because he had joined hands with Alexandr.

“Was it planned from the beginning?”

“Indeed. Kalion’s aerial battleship is the crystallization of the archipelago’s technology. There’s no way it would suddenly suffer a functional fault, is there. From a mere fortnight or so of navigation?”

On top of that, the reason this warship set sail was to safely escort Beolgrin’s daughter, Elphera.

She is the daughter of one of the strongest Elves and the Hero’s Party’s mage, Beolgrin. A being with unrivaled standing even among the Kalion Archipelago’s countless high nobles.

A vessel that set sail to guard such a key figure has no way of suffering a functional fault in a mere fortnight.

Not unless “someone” broke it deliberately.

A chill crawled over him.

“Correct. It was to provoke Princess Elizaveta from the start. Isn’t it obvious that if that little girl gets angry, Alexandr will come making contact.”

“Why? Why did you commit such an act?”

“Who’s to say.”

Beolgrin snorted. He crooked his fingertips and wove magic power, then suddenly asked:

“Where is your loyalty directed?”

“To His Majesty the great late king.”

“Same as ever. Good to see. You might at least have sent word that you were alive. Wasn’t the friendship between us worth that much.”

Ivan let Beolgrin’s words wash past and regripped his axe.

Fortunately his physical performance was normal. Though that was because the shockwave that flung him back had not been an attack spell to begin with.

Can he face Beolgrin head-on and win?

The instant he considered it he knew. Impossible.

But could Beolgrin truly wield all the power of his true body?

Probably not. The magic power volume he sensed amounted only to the captain’s.

“Oh, you mean to fight. Well…… you always were like that. ‘Little’ Ivan.”

“Is there another choice?”

“Of course. But you don’t seem like the sort to make such a choice. Come. Let me see your skill after so long.”

The captain’s magic power volume was certainly greater than a human’s, but that didn’t mean the gap opened to a despairing degree.

Which is to say, a difference well worth attempting something against.

But…… even holding magic power of that order, if the one steering that body is Beolgrin himself, would there truly be a chance of victory?

There is none.

Ivan knew his own limits clearly. That was a trained agent’s most important virtue.

Because he had to grasp himself as a tool of mission execution as well, and therefore had to know his own catalogue spec precisely.

Therefore Ivan knew he had no chance of victory. Beolgrin would carve him to pieces with ease holding even half that level of magic power.

But, but……

Chance of victory is not important.

“I’ll take a lesson.”

Ivan regripped his axe with deeply sunken eyes.

Because chance of victory is not important.

Can it be done, can it not be done. He had never once regarded such things as important.

Must it be done. If it must be done, then by whatever means. Whatever situation comes, do your utmost.

Because a trained agent must fear not failure but surrender.

***

Resolve in the shortest possible instant, and action as swiftly as possible.

The moment he resolved to attack, Ivan threw his body. Head-on, straight forward toward Beolgrin.

The sensation of splitting and peeling apart time measurable in seconds.

The touch of air resistance striking the body decoupling the very flow of time into slowness.

It is the “superhuman” sensation one enters at the point of driving magic power into every strand of the nerves and forcibly activating them.

An instant of time in which the moment is diagrammed. This point is precisely the battlefield of superhumans.

Within this time where even breathing is segmented, Ivan’s axe flows as though swimming through the air. Softly, sharply, yet powerfully.

Fwoooosh—!!

Aiming precisely at the moment dark-green magic power coalesces, straight in.

An axe wrapped in magic power possesses in itself the efficacy of dispelling. Because at the moment magic is woven, it segments the space between and obstructs the magic’s completion.

Therefore a mage’s natural predator is a warrior at close range. As it has always been.

Kraaash!!

The impact came immediately, but the noise a beat behind. Because the closer to the speed of sound, the greater the divergence between sound and reaction.

He tore away one layer of magic.

Reached you. Beolgrin.

Ivan said so with his eyes as he prepared his next move.

Because considering the time it would take to intone the next spell after stripping away a spell on the verge of completion, his axe would plainly be faster.

So, he had reached. The position of the giants who walked ahead in those days.

“Splendid.”

A voice laced with laughter rang softly.

Tuung—!!

A light resistance blocked the front of his body. Ivan reacted immediately and twisted at the waist. Through that gap, 5 sharp ice spikes bored in.

Speed exceeding Line-of-Fire Detection. Magic completed the instant he became conscious of the spell.

The time it took until Ivan steadied his stance again and raised his axe was still no more than an instant with the moment segmented.

But at the end of that brief clash—

“Ha.”

—more than 40 spells at a glance, each woven in a different structure, were inlaid across the empty air.

Beolgrin smiled softly and crooked a hand.

“Show me more. How much you’ve grown.”