Typemoon [470-471] (Patreon)

Chapter 470: Choice

The gale howled, but what it carried wasn't a chill that cut to the bone—it was a scorching heatwave.

Even the air itself seemed to warp at that moment, and the source of that distortion was reflected in Napoleon's eyes: the Judgment Gates deployed around the submersible Shadow Border!

He'd seen them once before at Scáthach-Skadi's castle—a single long-range sniper shot from afar had already left a deep impression. But Napoleon never imagined the opponent could deploy that many instances of the same magecraft at once.

Not only were there so many—the power was the real shocker.

As constructs made purely of mana—projections not fired via a traditional magic foundation—to a Servant, they amounted to a pure mana release form of attack, the sort of thing that anti-magic resistance that nullifies magecraft struggles to defend against.

Almost within a single breath of appearing before Napoleon's eyes, the hundreds of Judgment Gates slid, shifted, and then compressed down into a few dozen smaller portals.

Without even the slightest wind-up, dozens of pitch-black lances of light screamed forth. The release of mana set the frigid air ablaze; even the stray heat felt pleasantly warm to Napoleon.

Without giving Napoleon any chance to act, those light-arrows streaked away, spanning the vault of the sky to strike at the Fantasy Tree high above.

Not a delicate technique that killed by striking lines of death—just pure brute force, obliterating them with mana-formed arrows.

"Interesting!"

Napoleon raised a brow. He could tell each shot didn't actually carry that much mana—just enough to compensate for loss over the long distance so that, by the time it arrived, it could precisely drop and destroy an Fantasy Tree seed.

Exquisite control over mana.

This was Napoleon's first time truly grasping Alaric's strength up close—a complete all-rounder.

Whether it was blade-to-blade as a sword saint, or long-range with the Judgment Gates, the man handled both with ease. Even Napoleon had to admire that strength.

That kind of skill isn't something just anyone can acquire. You need both the right battles and the right talent; even a genius won't break their limits and reach peerless mastery without enough pressure.

After countless adventures and battlefields, Alaric's control over mana release had reached the pinnacle—arguably surpassing even his swordsmanship.

"Oh, changing trajectory again—"

As he watched the spectacle, Napoleon noticed that some of the Fantasy Tree being shot down suddenly shifted course, seemingly trying to bypass the Judgment Gates' sniping to attack the Shadow Border directly.

But it was futile. Like the most precise of machines, the dozens of Judgment Gates still tracked the remaining Fantasy Tree seeds; their light-arrows snapped into razor-angled midair turns and shot each one down.

Rumble—!

The scene wasn't only reflected in Napoleon's eyes; it was also transmitted via the Shadow Border's monitoring to Fujimaru Ritsuka and the others.

"Ooh! Haven't seen this in a while! The last time we had this many was against Kingu, right?"

Watching purely for the spectacle, Fujimaru Ritsuka hugged the snacks Alaric had manifested after boarding and laughed. "Looks like Sir Alaric's in good shape!"

"Kingu must have been an exceptionally strong opponent."

Sigurd watched the feed with a rare note of awe. "For Lord Alaric to wield such power even now… if he returned to the field at full strength, what kind of scene would that be?"

"Kingu is the successor to Enkidu, the Chains of Heaven—he was quite formidable."

Mashu smiled. "I think Sir Alaric developed this capability specifically to counter Kingu's way of fighting."

"The Chains of Heaven, hmm?"

As a demigod, Brynhildr wasn't the same as the beings of myth, but she was familiar with the famed heroes of Mesopotamian legend.

She hadn't expected Alaric to have crossed blades with the Chains of Heaven; that was a staggering feat. 

"That's right, that's right!"

Mashu nodded. "Revived by Goddess Tiamat, the Chains of Heaven—Kingu—after we defeated Kingu, we also defeated Goddess Tiamat together."

"The primal goddess of Mesopotamia?"

Skadi's voice drifted over from afar. "So this isn't your first time challenging gods. Even the great gods would respect such deeds, I suspect."

"Let Sir Alaric return to full power, huh?"

Fujimaru Ritsuka tilted her head, a beat late. "Isn't that exactly what they're working on right now—having Sir Alaric use that 'True Human' spiritual foundation?"

Using the data Alaric provided, Da Vinci-chan and the others successfully developed the "True Human" Spirit Origin—its ceiling could rival Grand-class. As a vessel for a supreme being, it couldn't be more suitable.

If they built a Heroic Spirit summon—or rather, a divine summon—on top of that, they could bring forth a divine-class Servant nearly indistinguishable from the true body, perhaps even a chief-god Servant.

But rather than gamble on the slim chance of summoning a divine Servant, Da Vinci-chan and the others had a better candidate for the vessel.

Alaric—who had suffered a weak Spirit Origin ever since his manifestation in the current world.

No one knew Alaric's strength better than Da Vinci-chan and Holmes. If they could let Alaric manifest at full power right now, it would be the greatest possible boon to the battle.

"I see. Then we need to buy you time until that Spirit Origin is complete, yes?"

Sigurd nodded slightly. "Leave it to me. I will devote everything I have."

"Until our Spirit Cores shatter, until death parts us once more."

Brynhildr said softly, "Until then, we will give it our all."

"We're counting on you, Sir Sigurd, Miss Brynhildr."

Fujimaru Ritsuka set her chips down, face turning solemn. "Once we head north and reach the Fantasy Tree's location, we're leaving it to you!"

Meanwhile—

Inside the workshop, Alaric was continuously using the Shadow Border's supplied mana to activate his Marble Phantasm. Though his rank in that skill had dropped due to his weak Spirit Origin, Skadi's runes compensated for the weakness, allowing him to use Marble Phantasm freely.

One by one, materials brimming with Mystery were produced and, under Da Vinci-chan's hands, became parts of a cultivation pod.

The embryo, created using all of the Shadow Border's stock, continued to grow as they worked, gradually becoming human in shape.

Absolute balance, a body harmonizing yin and yang—and, refined by Da Vinci-chan's impeccable aesthetics, a perfect vessel—gradually appeared before Alaric's eyes.

Chapter 471: Sword of the Stars

Scandinavia—northern Scandinavian—

The North, the Realm of Flame.

The giant still towered over the earth, but unlike before, now that he had successfully connected to the Fantasy Tree, something utterly contrary to raging flame surged over his body.

A flame like ice.

Not a blaze of tens of thousands of degrees or higher—something beyond the limits of life: death's ice at absolute zero.

Fire and frostflame each claimed half the giant's body, and swelled in boundless might with his mana.

Savoring the absolute power of his body and the endless flow of mana from the Fantasy Tree, the giant felt his prior injuries knitting at speed.

Even Surtr, King of the Fire Giants, had felt the shadow of death at Alaric's Judgement when wielded with his true body.

That was not an attack a newly freed Surtr could simply shrug off. Even expending most of his strength to resist, he'd sustained grievous wounds.

Even with the Fantasy Tree's support, he couldn't fully recover in a short time.

And yet, Surtr had no particular worries.

He could tell that attack came with major limitations—at most, a single strike.

No further threat.

How familiar.

Divine power vast and terrible, the Giant King stood proudly upon the land. His fearsome mana suffused every mountain and sky, turning all into a dominion of flame.

Behold it. 

Behold my majesty.

Surtr lowered his head a fraction and peered at the tiny figure on the ground. His voice boomed like thunder. The authority of that great wolf—I took it back!

The girl standing on the ridge looked up at the sky. She knew the Flame Giant King shouldn't possess the authority of ice—and the wolf he mentioned could only be Fenrir.

The doomsday beast that swallowed the true sun from Norse reality—had it been swallowed in turn by the doomsday giant?

Absurd. Utterly unreal.

And yet—in this Lostbelt, that was reality.

Holding that thought, the girl watched possibilities reflected in her Mystic Eyes. In one future among them, the giant sprouted wings.

Was an Evil Dragon Phenomenon about to occur?

She was briefly startled, but quickly understood.

The giant before her must be a hybrid of giant and dragon. Once he attained his complete form, he would become a frostflame giant with wings.

And the Flame Sword—the blade itself must be a fusion of multiple calamities. That is how he could slaughter the gods.

This time for sure—

The Giant King proclaimed, his blazing fire serving as his words, laying bare his will to the girl.

To bring about the true—Ragnarok.

At the giant's feet, something squirmed: countless clumps, like children reaching for their parents, like worms grasping for light.

Fantasy Seeds.

The girl noticed them and finally snapped back from her shock.

Right—before the eyes of the Crypter, Ophelia, the Flame Giant King had—devoured the Fantasy Tree.

He forcibly severed the link to Scáthach-Skadi, then slowly bit into the Fantasy Tree—slurped it down in one go: branches, trunk, and roots.

Using the Fantasy Tree as fuel, he forced a Spirit Origin Ascension to reclaim his former authorities—and heal.

He achieved the impossible. How?

Impossible or not—this was reality now.

The Fantasy Tree had slipped free of Ophelia's and the queen's control.

"This isn't a link," Ophelia murmured. "It's predation—"

It offered me its hand willingly.

So said the Giant King. Though a tree should have no will, deep within it burned a fire—a cry: I don't want to die. I won't be harvested. I want to live.

It cried so.

Life, in essence, is greedy.

The Giant King's gaze finally took in the world—turning toward the far distant south.

—

"Everyone! A massive mana reading—likely Surtr—is heading south!"

Aboard the steadily moving Shadow Border, Da Vinci-chan's voice rang over the intercom. "The reading originally in northern Scandinavian is moving at extreme speed to the south, which means—!"

Even while buried in workshop tasks, she kept part of her mind on Surtr. Tracking the primary enemy's actions was critical; it would shape their next moves. "He's not likely to consider us a primary threat worth engaging—in other words—"

With Alaric having taken on all outside engagements—both the Fantasy Tree seeds and the hosts of giants—Sigurd, now well-rested, offered a fresh assessment. "He intends to approach something not within his Realm of Flame. For example—on former Lake Vänern—"

Brynhildr's breath caught.

"The village!"

Having once lodged there, Napoleon grimaced. Worst-case scenario.

"Exactly! Surtr's trajectory is toward that location! He's heading straight south to the village at former Lake Vänern!"

Da Vinci-chan paused. "But the motive is unclear. With the Flame Sword, he can strike long-range—he could hit whatever he wanted from afar. Why head to the village in person? Is it to make us watch it burn?"

"Making us watch has no meaning."

Napoleon said, "As Sigurd said, that guy's not interested in Heroic Spirits or gods—hm? Let me think… I might have a lead, but I'll save it for later. Saying it now would be a waste!"

Confirming Surtr's heading, the Shadow Border immediately adjusted course, flipped around, and gunned it toward former Lake Vänern. Skadi even placed high-speed flight runes on the vessel, turning it from amphibious to an all-terrain tri-mode craft: land, sea, and air.

—

Rumble—

The Lostbelt began to crumble—melting ice and snow, shattering mountains, evaporating seas.

With every step the giant took, something broke. With each stride, something burned.

Perhaps it was the aftershock of a concept of destruction.

There it was, no longer far: the last place where humans still dwelled.

Whether human or god—or sea, mountain, river, sky, beasts and birds, flowers and trees—none are needed. 

Become ash.

The Giant King slowly raised his sword. 

Doom lifted; the end neared.

The great enterprise plotted by the entity called Demon God King—perhaps it would be amusing if I realized it here, so long as you remain with me.

Before the end fell, the giant looked down at the bewildered girl.

"You have no need of me," Ophelia said coolly. "I won't use a Command Spell for you."

But the Giant King only smiled.

We're friends of a sort, bound by chance. You can do nothing. Even the Holy Grail cannot grant it. Be it longing or fate—none can be realized in this reality.

He mocked her so. Then burn—burn it all with me.

"—!"

Pain—heart-wrenching agony seeped from the depths of her soul, twisting the girl's expression.

If she yielded to the pain, she would once again give in to another's words—and then the most precious thing would be shattered, cracked.

This is—a curse. Words with a special effect—a dragon's malediction that binds soul and will!

Gifted in magical scholarship, Ophelia realized it at once and shouted at the Giant King, "Surtr! What did you do to me? Don't tell me from the start you—"

Your resistance is strong. Your soul is already half fused with mine, Ophelia. Come—witness the end of the planet with me—

His words left Ophelia stunned—or perhaps she no longer had the right to resist.

So easily—her body was filled with Surtr's flame.

It fell.

A blade of ultrahigh heat formed purely of mana.

A sword exceeding four million Celsius—something that should not exist on Earth—fell toward the ground like a meteor at a terrifying speed.

"Crown the sun, Flame Sword—Loptr Lægjarn!"

With the Giant King's declaration, the end descended.

It was the Noble Phantasm of Surtr, King of the Fire Giants—Loptr Lægjarn—an anti-world attack unleashed through the blade Laevatein, a doomsday conflagration that leads the world to its end.

"You seek to imitate the Demon God King and incinerate the world?"

As Ophelia gazed on in despair, a young man's unceremonious voice rang like a voice from the heavens, proclaiming to the world, "It's not your turn yet, Surtr!"

If the sword the Giant King swung was the blade of apocalypse—the device to strip away the Norse Age's reality—then the radiance blooming now was perhaps an ending from the far beyond.

Was it from something outside the stars, or a brilliant light birthed by a planet—or by mankind?

Its edge was vast—the blow forged of the Norse land itself!