Chapter 171: Shurahat's Conspiracy
The overwhelming power of her teacher made any number of enemies seem like insignificant ants. And her own, desperate struggle, while not entirely useless, was a paltry thing in comparison.
As the adrenaline wore off, a deep and profound exhaustion set in. Her own mana was nearly depleted. She no longer resisted, but just nodded and allowed her gaze to once again fall on the man beside her.
He stood there, silently, his eyes fixed on the small figure of his own teacher on the battlefield, an unreadable expression on his face. And she remembered it, the pure white light at his fingertip. A power so pure, so great, that it was a match for even her own teacher's.
The God-slayer.
The thought, once so absurd, was now a powerful and undeniable intuition. Only the legendary being who had brought an end to the Age of Myth could possess such a power.
Her heart began to race, not with fear, but with the thrill of having uncovered a great secret. If he really was him... then what was the story of the bond between them, a bond that had spanned an unimaginable length of time?
She was so curious.
In a hidden cave, far from the main battlefield of Weiburg, in the deepest of shadows, a tall figure stood in silence. It was Shurahat.
With his magic, he could just barely make out the small figure in the distance. He knew that it was Serie, the strongest mage in the world. With every spell she cast, a large swathe of monsters was turned to dust. The sheer power of it... even from so far away, it sent a shiver down his spine.
The last time, with his foresight, he had been able to hold his own against her, for a time. But he knew that eventually, she would have found a flaw in his defenses. And then, he would have been finished.
And then there was him.
The massive horn on his head... it was broken near the base, a rough and uneven edge, as if it had been cleaved off. Which, of course, it had.
That man... the one that Serie had trained, the wielder of the holy sword... he had not only broken his horn, but had also left a deep and piercing scar on his chest. Even now, two hundred years later, the wound still ached, a constant reminder of the humiliating defeat that had almost been his end. The mere thought of his face... it filled him with a burning hatred and a deep, bone-chilling fear. It had taken him a full century to purge the holy power that had lingered in that wound. And the horn... it would never grow back. It was a permanent mark of his shame.
But it was fine now. Two hundred years had passed. The human was long dead. He would never have to face him again.
"Hmph. Serie," he said, his voice a low and quiet sound, without a hint of surprise. "You came, just as I saw."
With his foresight, he had known she would be here, that she would grind his painstakingly-gathered army to dust. It was all part of his plan.
"Kill them, kill them all, you ancient witch," he said with a cold, cruel smile. "Use your power. Turn these lowly creatures to dust. That is exactly what I want to see."
The dying monsters on the battlefield... he cared not for them. They, and even some of the more powerful ones among them, were just disposable pawns, a bait to draw her attention.
"As long as I can keep you here," he murmured, "as long as I can keep your eyes on this insignificant dwarven city... then their sacrifice will be worth it."
"Heh heh. Serie, that human apprentice of yours... what a marvelous talent. But so... fragile. A mere human, with a lifespan of only a hundred years... how could she ever bear your long and heavy expectations?"
In his own calculations, the human who had once shone so brightly at her side, the one who could have posed a threat to them, was long since dead and gone, a footnote in history. That was the only logical outcome. Humans... they were fleeting things.
"And with you all alone, Serie..." his gaze fell once more on the unstoppable force on the battlefield, and a new, unprecedented confidence filled his voice, "...you may be strong, so strong it is despairing... but you are still just one person."
He had been planning this for a long, long time. He had gathered a massive army, and had even let the news of its attack spread. All for one purpose: to pin her down, to trap her here, the Damocles sword that had been hanging over their heads for so long.
"Unleash your power upon this scorched earth," he said, as if watching a grand performance. "Little do you know that in the west, in the seemingly impenetrable fortress of Ersten, the foolish humans have already begun to fight amongst themselves. And the light of their holy sword... it will soon be consumed."
He slowly raised his hand, and in his palm, a purple crystal, which thrummed with an ominous light, began to tremble. Within it, a thousand tiny magic runes swirled, and it radiated a familiar aura.
This was his true masterpiece, the culmination of all his efforts. A plan that would bring the demons a final, ultimate victory, a plan that would use the very thing the god-slayer had left behind for the humans against them.
"Enjoy this battle, Serie. By the time you realize what is happening in the west, it will be too late."
He turned away. Her magical storm, however violent, could not touch him here. To lose a few pawns... it was nothing. If his plan succeeded, the entire Kingdom of Ersten, and the entire continent, would be his.
Two hundred years of hiding, two hundred years of pain, two hundred years of waiting... it had all been for this. He clenched his fist, and the light of the purple crystal was completely hidden.
His tall figure retreated deeper into the shadows, as if he had never been there. Only his voice, filled with an absolute, unwavering confidence, remained, a whisper in the darkness:
"This time... I am afraid of nothing. For in the end, you will be all alone. And the Demon King... will reign supreme!"
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