Landing on the roof, I swung my sword in one fluid, sweeping motion.
There was a faint vibration and the sound of grating stone.
I carved a circular opening into the floor beneath my feet and dropped straight into the room below.
“Gah!?”
I crushed the soldier directly beneath me while simultaneously decapitating two others standing nearby.
A fourth soldier in the room leveled his staff and began an incantation. I thrust the tip of my sword into his throat, silencing the chant before it could take shape.
“...!”
The soldier glared at me, his eyes welling with tears. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn't form. He could only manage the wet, wheezing sound of air escaping his lungs.
I lowered my gaze and withdrew the blade.
A spray of blood soaked into my clothes. Clutching his throat, the soldier collapsed to his knees and breathed his last.
I activated my sensing magic. It appeared the soldiers in this building had been wiped out; I detected no further presence of anyone hiding.
“............”
I felt the fabric of my robe. It was sodden, heavy with the weight of the blood it had absorbed. Its original color was now indistinguishable. When I gave it a light squeeze, blood overflowed from the hem.
There was nothing to be done about it. Even if I wrung it out now, it would only be stained again soon enough.
A significant amount of time had passed since my confrontation with Saint Machia. I had been prowling through the city, systematically cutting down the soldiers of the Holy Staff Army.
I had killed at least three thousand of them.
Most had been those lying in wait indoors. I sought out even those in the most distant locations with sensing magic, and then I simply slashed, and slashed, and continued to slash.
It was a tedious, grim process, but it was proceeding with remarkable efficiency. My consumption of magic power remained minimal. At this rate, I would be able to maintain my combat effectiveness until the entire force was annihilated.
The soldiers were preoccupied with maintaining the spell that provided a Magic Power Supply to Machia. Because they were forced to focus their concentration on that task, they were unable to react to my sudden strikes. If they diverted their attention to defend against me, the supply of magic would falter. They were trapped in a state of vulnerability.
Because of this, the battle had become a string of effortless victories.
I would continue this slaughter. Once her source of power was severed, Machia would naturally weaken. Deprived of her vast reserve of magic power, she would be unable to wield her Divine Magic effectively. Once she was depleted, I could face her head-on and be certain of victory.
I exited the building and sprinted through the narrow alleyways. My sensing magic had already pinpointed the next group of soldiers.
During my transit, several Chains of Light lashed out from behind me—about twenty in total. I parried them with my sword without breaking my stride. These long-range attacks had become noticeably less frequent. Machia was clearly starting to account for the casualties among her men. Faced with mounting losses, she was beginning to worry about her own magic consumption.
“Where are you?! Show yourself, you coward!”
Machia’s enraged scream echoed from the distance. She was leading a search party, desperate to find me.
They still couldn't pinpoint my exact location. They were hunting for me using only the vague direction provided by the automatic tracking of the Chains of Light. Machia wanted a short, decisive battle. As long as this situation continued, the death toll of the Holy Staff Army would only rise. If her magic power ran dry, her chance of victory would vanish. She was likely desperate to find me by any means necessary.
This was precisely why I maintained my Concealment Magic. Since I was relying primarily on my sword for the killings, I wasn't creating the kind of magical signatures that would give me away. Furthermore, my movement speed under the influence of physical enhancement far surpassed theirs. As long as I made no tactical errors, they would never catch me.
I continued the massacre without ever crossing paths with Machia directly.
(The basement this time?)
My sensing magic exposed the location of the next group. They appeared to be hiding in the cellar of a nearby house. They had gone to great lengths to remain hidden, huddling behind layers of Concealment Magic, but they could not escape my perception.
I kicked open the door and entered the house. I used my sword to destroy several Magic Tool traps, shattered the basement door, and descended the stairs.
The area below was draped in thick darkness. They weren't using any lamps. At that moment, an arrow hissed out of the gloom.
I caught it with one hand. Upon inspecting the arrowhead, I found it coated in something—the unpleasant aura of Holy Water. To an undead, it was a deadly poison.
“Uoooooooooooh!”
With a roar, a soldier charged up the stairs toward me, empty-handed. He must have been the one who shot the arrow. It seemed he had been lying in wait for me rather than contributing to Machia’s Magic Power Supply.
The magic power within the man's body was expanding at a violent rate. He was radiating intense heat and emitting plumes of white smoke. Blood began to stream from his eyes and ears.
(Is this...?)
Realizing his intent, I kicked him away just as he tried to grab me. The soldier tumbled down the stairs and exploded an instant later.
The blast tore the room apart, scattering gore and debris. In the blink of an eye, the cellar was painted red.
It had been a Self-Explosion Formula. The soldier had been willing to throw away his life if it meant taking mine. I found myself forced to respect that level of resolve.
“...It hurts.”
“H-help... me...”
Groans drifted up from the bottom of the stairs. I went down to investigate.
I found several wounded soldiers lying there, their bodies impaled by shards of wood from the blast. They had apparently been the ones focused on the Magic Power Supply.
I set about killing the defenseless soldiers. I ignored their pleas for mercy and answered them with my blade instead.
Once they were all dead, I flicked the blood from my sword and returned to the surface.
(I am starting to loathe myself. I have no right to claim the title of a hero anymore...)
In a single night, I had personally slaughtered thousands of people with nothing but a sword. This was not the conduct of a sane man. I likely had no right to condemn the Holy Staff Army for their own atrocities. Perhaps I had already gone mad.
For ten years in the Valley of the Dead, I had done nothing but question my own soul. As my flesh rotted and my heart withered, I had suffered. It was entirely possible that I had slipped into insanity during that long agony.
I could no longer trust my own perspective. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had a mission to fulfill, and I had to see it through. I couldn't afford to stop. Whether I was sane or not was a secondary concern.
I continued the massacre. I moved from one target to the next, my sword never resting. My robe had changed color completely; it was now a deep, dark crimson that dripped blood with every step.
The Keepsake Sword remained perfect. Its edge had not dulled, and it felt as balanced as ever. It was truly a masterpiece worthy of the name "Demon King Slayer."
I continued to pile up the corpses of the soldiers until the first hints of dawn began to touch the horizon. I crouched on the roof of a tall building, looking out toward a large, cleared area of rubble.
Saint Machia was there.
The survivors of her army had finally congregated around her. They had placed magical light sources at regular intervals, illuminating the entire perimeter. She must have realized that letting her troops remain isolated was an invitation to a one-sided slaughter. There was no one left hiding in the city. The force surrounding her was all that remained of the Holy Staff Army.
(Roughly seven thousand left.)
There might be some margin of error, but their numbers had certainly fallen below ten thousand. Compared to their original strength, they had been reduced by more than half.
Assassination would be impossible from here on. I would have to move with the assumption that I would be seen. I was prepared for a grueling fight.
As dawn approached and the sun began to rise, the soldiers' visibility would improve. I wanted to settle this while I could still utilize the cover of the night.
(I'll start with a preemptive strike.)
I began to compress Lightning Magic in the palm of my hand. I wanted to inflict as much sustained damage as possible with a single opening move. The enemy still held a significant numerical advantage. It was vital to thin their ranks as much as I could with the first blow.
I finished the construction of the spell and hurled it into the sky.
The compressed Lightning Ball arched smoothly through the air until it hung directly over the Holy Staff Army. As the soldiers looked up in confusion, it detonated with a blinding, eye-searing flash.