Typemoon [459-460] (Patreon)

Chapter 459: Entrance

Relying on nothing but his remaining intuition, Alaric saw the lance of light streak across the sky like a comet. His mind could still follow it, but his body no longer had the speed to react in time.

He could only watch as the spear of light rushed in—until the shield-bearing girl cut across the air and planted her unyielding back between Alaric, Fujimaru Ritsuka, and the incoming blow.

Boom!

Mash wielding the Round Table turned the three feet before her into a moat even a god could not cross. The straight-driving lance of light burst against the Round Table with searing brilliance and heat, kicking up roaring gusts.

No matter how overwhelming the spear of light seemed, Mash stopped it outside the Round Table—without letting it advance an inch.

Seizing the moment, Alaric finally caught sight of the attacker—a black-haired Ortlinde. While Cú Chulainn was locked in a death match, she had waited for her two elder sisters to hold him down, then broke off to strike at Fujimaru Ritsuka.

"We have to make this quick—"

Fujimaru Ritsuka, snapping to, immediately issued orders: "Miss Brynhildr, disengage and join Cú Chulainn to take down the command unit. Leave the mass-produced Valkyries to Mr. Napoleon."

After the initial exchange, Fujimaru had a concrete read on Brynhildr's and Napoleon's strength. With Napoleon alone, their current firepower should be enough to stall the mass-produced Valkyries for a while—as long as the main fight ends quickly—

High above, having received the command through her Servant link, Brynhildr flipped her body, raised her long leg, and kicked the divine spear that had just been loosed.

Bang!

An utterly ordinary kick to a spear exploded with Mach-multiplying godspeed beneath Brynhildr's heel. In an instant, several snow-white vapor rings formed, overlapping and expanding, until a sharp, tearing crack split the sky.

The divine spear fell from the heights toward a single destination: the battlefield where Cú Chulainn fought the three Valkyries!

Sensing the attack from the sky, both Cú and the Valkyries Thrúd and her sisters chose not to evade—or rather, neither intended to nor could they.

Cú had no thought of dodging the spear. He had ample reason not to.

Cú Chulainn possessed the skill Protection from Arrows.

It was a defense against projectiles—an innate ability of Cú Chulainn.

So long as his eyes could track the target, he could evade practically any ranged attack. Even when he couldn't visually confirm the target, he could still deal with most projectiles.

As long as it was a thrown attack, he could avoid it—even Noble Phantasms. However, he could not receive the benefits of this protection against explosives that detonate upon impact with wide-area effect, or the direct strikes of long-reach melee weapons.

This was why he could hold his own against the three Valkyries—even if they unleashed their Noble Phantasms in unison, they couldn't land a telling blow.

As for Brynhildr's pure kick-sent spear—impressive as it seemed—Cú judged its power still somewhat lacking.

For Thrúd and the others, even if they lacked Cú's speed, they still had means to avoid a kicked spear—if Cú would only give them the chance. He wouldn't: he worried them like a mad dog, never letting up.

The instant of thought passed in a blink. With the falling spear came the legendary Valkyrie—the elder sister of the Valkyries!

Rumble—!

Almost without pause, Brynhildr snatched up the divine spear and launched a ferocious assault on Thrúd and the others.

Seeing this, Napoleon barked a laughing complaint: "So I'm the muscle, huh!"

Grumbling aside, Napoleon didn't resent it.

It was a necessary cost.

And just as Napoleon redoubled his effort, maintaining suppressive anti-air fire, Brynhildr once again crossed blades with the bodies of her sister-units.

The strongest Valkyrie, Brynhildr, joined hands with the Child of Light, Cú Chulainn. The outcome of the battle seemed already written.

Clang, clang—clash after clash, proclamations like those of high gods colliding—a battle among sisters.

At last, it moved toward its end.

"Sister Brynhildr… to think you're this—" 

Hildr's face was pained, as though she could already glimpse the result.

"A gap in performance? Damage output, equipment?"

Unable to accept defeat, Ortlinde rattled off, "No—no, it's not just that—there must be something else—"

What exactly was the difference between them and Brynhildr?

"You have already fought with great valor, sisters—you've displayed combat power beyond your original performance parameters."

Brynhildr's expression was fond. Divine force surged along the spear in her hand. She spoke softly: "Through meeting Sigurd, I gained something—human spirit.

It's different from what Valkyries originally possess. It's an uncontrollable phenomenon, closely bound to emotion—sometimes it even drives one mad.

Emotions fluctuate wildly—causing instability, functional deviation, wasted heat.

Over the long years, you too have come to possess this—"

Brynhildr smiled at her sisters. "Your emotions surged—and under their influence, you displayed such powerful spearwork. I'm truly happy to see it."

"W—what?"

Thrúd's eyes narrowed; she could no longer control her expression.

Hildr looked at Brynhildr, at a loss for words.

"Liking, loathing, joy, sorrow," Brynhildr said softly. "However faint, there must be something stirring within your circuits—"

Perhaps that thing was what humans call a heart.

"No—"

Thrúd shouted, unwilling to accept it. "There's no such thing! What are you saying, my lady sister! We are automatons—even if our owner changed from the great god to the queen—emotions—?"

"That sort of thing—" Hildr said in a low voice, "cannot exist. We aren't human! We don't contain that kind of uncertainty!"

"Elder sister—from Proper Human History's elder sister! Ah, how could this be! You lecture us like this, you say we aren't Valkyries!"

Thrúd, already in a fury, seemed to fix on an answer. "You've gone mad! You've been misled and defiled—warped by this Sigurd!

That majestic figure of old—who knew neither doubt nor fear—who should have ceaselessly harvested the souls of warriors—our elder sister has gone mad!"

As Thrúd's rage surged, boundless magical energy howled forth—an unconscious spill driven by a blaze of emotion.

Seeing this, Ortlinde instinctively opened her mouth to warn her—but before she could speak, a killing intent from afar fell over the sky.

The dragon-slaying hero arrived like an evil dragon himself—making his entrance amid Thrúd's roar.

Chapter 460: Like a Stroll

Thud, thud. 

The knight with the demon sword drew near, the heat around him melting every patch of snow and ice he passed.

He was a knight like living flame.

"Sigurd—"

Seeing the newcomer, Alaric's expression hardened. Meeting Sigurd now was the last thing he wanted. He was in no shape for it—especially with so many Valkyries present.

The fierce battle was forced to pause for the arrival of one man. Faced with the dragon-slaying great hero, no one could afford distraction—least of all before a power even greater than theirs.

His Spirit Origin scale has increased—did Ophelia boost Sigurd's power?

Having crossed blades with him before, Alaric realized that this Sigurd's Spirit Origin felt larger than last time, as if some limiter had been removed.

"…"

Cú Chulainn narrowed his eyes, magic spear in hand, moving slowly, his attention fixed on the approaching Sigurd. If Sigurd attacked, he would answer with his spear in the same instant.

The man was strong—far stronger than the three Valkyries.

"This just got bad—"

Napoleon let his cannons fall silent, muttering. The undiluted killing intent rolling off Sigurd made even him uneasy. The man truly meant to kill them.

Thrúd and her sisters halted as well, as did Brynhildr. Already inflamed, Thrúd seethed all the hotter at the man called Sigurd.

But flames like that were nowhere near enough to draw the Sigurd of this moment's attention.

"Your morale's grown since last time—and your headcount too," Sigurd said. His eyes glowed an ominous red as he swept his gaze across them. "So humans and human Heroic Spirits can change so much."

"Ha? You and I are both Heroic Spirits, aren't we, great hero?" Napoleon shot back without missing a beat.

"Sigurd—"

Brynhildr stared at the familiar figure, lips pressed tight, voice on the edge of tears.

It was a silhouette she could never forget.

"Hm—"

Sigurd seemed to notice the figure that should not have appeared here. His deep voice sounded again. "It's been a while—though the last time I saw you was after you were sealed. You're a Heroic Spirit from Proper Human History, then. That gives us cause to fight.

Brynhildr, eldest of the Valkyries, daughter of the high god—come. Even a demigod is worth killing."

His cutting intent spared no one. Even Brynhildr was on his list.

"You're acting completely—" Brynhildr murmured, "like a stranger."

"To me, you are a stranger," Sigurd declared.

"Are you saying you're a Lostbelt Servant, then?"

Brynhildr stared at him. "A trifling difference in eye color won't make me mistake—my prey.

You are Sigurd, son of Sigmund. A king of warriors whose every capacity surpasses the norm.

My very existence tells me you are the one I must kill."

Her body trembled; her soul burned. Everything that made up the Heroic Spirit called Brynhildr was evaporating into a berserker's frenzy.

All of it—for the sake of killing the man before her.

That alone proved who he was.

"This should never have been possible—" Brynhildr said softly. "For my deeds—my madness—to be for the sake of justice— You've taken the Lostbelt's side. You've chosen to stand against Proper Human History.

So you—will die here, Sigurd."

"The one who will die is you, Valkyrie."

Sigurd's gaze sharpened over the demon sword. His flooding killing intent made even Thrúd and her sisters shrink.

"Begin coordinated combat—"

Snapping out of it, Thrúd's voice went low. "Synchronize unit mana with the demon sword Gram. Combat prep—"

Whatever the man's position, they were Valkyries assigned to guard the Lostbelt. Even if she was their elder sister, they had to fight her.

"Planning to keep up with me? Ignorant of your place—but interesting."

Sigurd glanced at the three sisters. Napoleon, ever hot-blooded, couldn't stomach it. "No, wrong, swordsman—that's called bravery! You may be strong, but you're a blockhead who doesn't understand women!"

"Such noise. How could a modern man understand Valkyries? You people can't grasp mystery."

Sigurd cut Napoleon a look, quickly sizing up his strength and threat level.

"Not true, you know? I'm a big fan of mythology. I even snuck into a pyramid during campaign."

Napoleon puffed up. "So this sight sets my heart racing. The teamwork of a demon-sword wielder and Valkyries—what a mystery!

And while it's not what I want to do, as a Heroic Spirit I'm very good at breaking mysteries!"

"Then try."

Sigurd then turned his head toward Alaric, who stood beside Fujimaru Ritsuka. "And you? Not planning to fight, knight?"

"Seems I don't have a choice. I'm in too—"

Alaric exhaled and casually drew a jet-black holy sword. He signaled Fujimaru not to worry and smiled. "I can still fight. Want to find out?"

Sigurd fixed his stare on Alaric. Even in his current shape, Alaric gave him a sense of threat.

He must not be killed by him.

He could be killed by anyone but Alaric. If Alaric killed him, everything would end.

Those eyes that could see death—that was his natural enemy now.

"This time, I have to stop that demon sword—"

Mash took a deep breath behind the Round Table. "Boosting Spirit-Origin exoskeleton output. Combat mode continuing— All equipment on standby. Preparing for battle!"

"Let's go, then—"

Cú Chulainn set his stance. His wild eyes flashed as he turned into blue lightning. The red gleam of his killing spear snapped into place behind Sigurd and thrust forward in the same breath—

Before Sigurd could dodge or react, Brynhildr charged head-on. The great divine spear in her hands swept down with force even Sigurd couldn't ignore. If he took it straight on, he'd be hurt—even him.

Boom, boom, boom!

Barrage after barrage of cannon fire slammed into the three Valkyries. Thrúd and her sisters, determined to win, had unlocked their units' mana, overloading to gain a massive boost—enough to block even Napoleon's bombardment.

Thud, thud.

Mash's charge took only two steps to outpace the leisurely Alaric. Her Round Table was a wall; a simple forward smash made the earth thunder. Endless snow tumbled off the ridges, avalanching down to swallow every giant and crystal forest in its path.

The frost giants' roars began to echo and draw near, but no one could spare them a thought anymore.

Alaric walked on at an easy pace, slower even than the running Fujimaru Ritsuka—a rare thing for a Servant, rarer still for Alaric.

Watching the battlefield, little more than afterimages and the ring of steel, Alaric wondered whether he ought to slow down even more.