More than a hundred Miasma Stakes hovered in the air.
They launched in quick succession, raining down from every conceivable angle.
"Tch...!"
The Hero batted away the incoming stakes with his Holy Sword. His reaction speed was remarkable.
A considerable amount of time had passed since the start of the engagement, yet he continued to struggle. He moved desperately, fighting with everything he had just to stay alive. However, wounds of all sizes now littered his body, and the ensuing blood loss stained the grass a deep crimson. Even a Hero could not perfectly parry every strike.
"Demon King...!"
Every so often, the Hero attempted to close the distance. They were sharp, sudden lunges, but I parried them without effort before retaliating with another volley of stakes.
In my former life, I likely would have relied on various defensive magics, focusing entirely on keeping the Hero at a distance. Now, I felt no such need. Her swordsmanship far surpassed his. It was a strength forged through relentless training and life-and-death struggles against the demon race—not a gap that could be bridged so easily.
The Hero was floundering against the Miasma Stakes. No matter how many he shattered, they regenerated instantly, as if the destruction had never occurred. I, meanwhile, still had plenty of strength to spare. As expected, the gap between our power levels was insurmountable.
I manifested a Miasma Spear in my hand and launched it with a flick of my finger.
"...!"
Reacting purely on instinct, the Hero spun and deflected the spear with his Holy Sword. In that same instant, a stake fired from his blind spot caught him in the right thigh. The gore-slicked tip tore through his skin and burst out the other side.
"...Gah!?"
The Hero groaned, dropping to one knee. I followed up immediately by launching ten more stakes.
"Gugh...!"
The Hero forced his battered body to roll across the ground. He managed to block the most lethal strikes with his sword, but one stake still gouged deep into his flank. He grit his teeth, enduring the agony.
(Still not dead? He’s tenacious.)
The pain of miasma flooding into a living body is immeasurable. Normally, the transition into an undead state would begin immediately, yet the Hero resisted through sheer force of will.
"Haaaaaaaaah!"
Despite his injuries, the Hero let out a roar and charged. An aurora of light swelled around the Holy Sword as he swung upward, releasing a Light Slash.
Having anticipated his move, I immediately deployed a defensive spell. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface of the barrier as it absorbed the blow. Faced with the Hero’s latent potential, I felt a fleeting sensation that my defenses might actually be breached.
(Impressive...)
I wove an additional spell. Hundreds of vines erupted from the earth, intertwining to form a wall before me. Though charred by the radiance, the Vine Wall held firm against the Light Slash.
At that moment, something blurred at the edge of my vision. The Hero had already slipped past the side of the wall, using the Light Slash as a mere diversion.
"Die!"
The Holy Sword swung in a sharp arc, aimed directly for my neck. I parried the strike with the Keepsake Sword, turning his momentum aside as I lunged for his chest. The Hero leaped back, trailing a spray of blood as he dodged the thrust by a hair's breadth.
I immediately fired another Miasma Spear, accompanied by a swarm of stakes. The Hero succeeded in parrying the spear, but he could no longer keep up with the stakes. A torrential rain of black wood slammed into his back.
"Goha... agh..."
The Hero vomited blood and collapsed face-forward. He lay there, sinking into a growing pool of red, his body trembling in small, fitful jerks.
I watched him from a short distance.
"It is over. The battle is decided."
"Gugh... No... not yet..."
Using the Holy Sword as a crutch, the Hero stabbed the earth and hauled himself up, blood spilling from his lips. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were unfocused as they glared in my direction. He looked as though he might drop dead even if I did nothing.
"Give up. Standing again is meaningless. There is no longer any possibility of your victory."
Despite my words, the Hero shook his head in a silent refusal. He lifted his face, splattering blood onto the dirt.
"But... if I... die here... the world's... peace..."
"Peace, you say?"
The word escaped my lips as a soft murmur. Our goals were identical, yet our positions were polar opposites. The Hero dragged himself forward, leaning heavily on his sword.
"If only you... if I just defeat you... the world... will finally be at peace...!"
"That is a fallacy," I replied, my voice cold and resolute.
The Hero’s expression twisted into one of confusion.
I decided to confirm something that had been on my mind. I looked him in the eye and asked, "Claire Baton. Dwight Harvelt. Do those two names ring a bell?"
"..."
The bloodied Hero fell silent, searching his memory. He likely couldn't fathom the intent behind my question and hesitated to answer. I waited in silence.
After a few moments of labored breathing, the Hero finally spoke.
"From... ten years ago... The Fallen Heroes. The ones who killed the previous Demon King and tried to steal its power. What about them...?"
"They are the living proof that your ideals are wrong."
I launched a set of Miasma Stakes, pinning the Hero’s limbs to the ground. He collapsed again, and I drove another stake down. At the last possible second, he shifted his sword to block it, but the effort caused him to cough up a fresh gout of blood. The blade of the Holy Sword was beginning to dim.
"Defeat the Demon King and restore peace. It is a perfectly logical path. And yet, it failed."
"What... are you talking about...?"
"We tried that path. And we failed."
Images flickered through my mind. The memory of the crowd's vitriol at the Valley of the Dead. The world turning dark as an arrow pierced my eye. The expression on her face as she stood at the edge of the abyss.
The 'reward' we received for saving the world made the error of our choices painfully clear. Even now, I feel a phantom throb in my chest and my missing eye—parts of me that no longer exist.
"O nameless Hero. Your convictions are not wrong. I once walked that very same path."
If anything, I am the one who is insane. The proper story dictates that a Demon King committing every atrocity should be struck down by a Hero, an Apostle of Justice. By doing so, the people are saved. I believed that once. I followed her, and together, we finally slew the Demon King.
"But the world is a cruel place, overflowing with despair. So much so that your ideals are mocked and spat upon by the very people you protect."
"...Ugh..."
The Hero’s breathing was shallow, his life fading. It was all he could do just to tilt his head back and look at me. It was a miracle he was still conscious. The blood soaking into the soil beneath him was cold.
"Even if you had stepped over my corpse today, you would have eventually tasted that same bitter despair. Only then would you have understood the meaning of my words."
I walked over to him. Riddled with stakes, he looked pitiful and utterly powerless. Yet, I could not bring myself to mock him. He was a young man who had shouldered the heavy burden of a Hero and fought for the sake of justice. He was not the problem.
The world—myself included—was what was broken. Righteousness alone is not enough to survive.
"You are about to die. However, I shall inherit your will to see a peaceful world realized. Though I suspect it is not in the manner you would have wished."
"..."
The Hero did not respond. He remained slumped, motionless. The crimson stain on the ground continued to spread.
(Has he finally passed?)
I reached down to turn his body over and confirm his death.
In that split second, a blood-slicked hand clamped onto my arm.
"Like hell... I'll give up now!"
Riddled with lethal wounds, the Hero somehow lurched to his feet. He yanked on my arm, swinging his Holy Sword as it erupted in a final, blinding flash of white light.
"—Magnificent."
With those words, I delivered a single, decisive stroke with the Keepsake Sword.
The Hero froze. His torso split diagonally, and a silent spray of fresh blood erupted into the air.