Dawn arrived.
The horizon began to pale, and the morning sun gradually illuminated the rubble zone. I pulled my hood low. While the sunlight wouldn't incinerate me, it stung in my current state. It felt like salt water being splashed into an open wound—a highly unpleasant sensation.
The increasing light laid the scene bare. Countless corpses lay piled atop one another, stained with blackened blood. Wisps of black smoke rose from the bodies charred by flame magic. Drenched in blood, I moved among them like a wraith. With every step, I felt the weight of death. I was forced to confront the reality of my actions, whether I wished to or not.
My body felt heavy. It wasn't a psychological weight, but a physical one; the constant use of magic had left my remaining magic power dangerously low. My recovery was sluggish and the drain was more intense than usual. Ordinarily, I would have been fully restored by now. Such minor spells shouldn't have exhausted me. I wanted to use transposition to leave the city and recover, but I couldn't afford to rest. To do so would give Macchia a reprieve.
The limits of her potential were unknown. She was, after all, someone blessed by the world itself. If I gave her even a sliver of a chance, some fluke might allow her to recover instantly. It sounded far-fetched, but there was already a precedent for her sudden mastery of Divine Magic. If I left for even a moment, she might awaken to an even greater power by the time I returned. To see me destroyed, the will of the world would surely discard logic and process to manifest a miracle. Everything had defied my expectations. Regardless of the strain, I had to finish her here.
I saw Macchia ahead, crouched on the ground. Her dazed profile seemed vulnerable, yet several Chains of Light circled her protectively. I tossed a pebble her way; one of the chains reacted instantly and flicked it aside. Her defense was automated. It was a remarkably convenient technique; I found myself wanting to analyze and replicate it.
I observed her. Her magic power had dropped to that of an ordinary person. She was barely maintaining the active chains. She wouldn't be able to unleash hundreds at once like she had before. Her capacity for sustained combat was gone. As I’d intended, she was severely weakened.
I began to close the distance. The closer I got, the more intense her Holy Aura became, and the burden on my body increased. My bones creaked and began to crumble from the surface inward. This aura wasn't a spell; it was something her body emitted naturally. Since it wouldn't stop even if her magic power hit zero, I simply had to endure. I stopped a short distance away—close enough to speak without shouting. Facing the Saint, I spoke in a flat, toneless voice.
"I have slaughtered all of your soldiers. You are next."
"You're... you're truly insane," she whispered.
"I see," I replied solemnly.
I knew that well enough. Tonight's work had been nothing short of madness. No matter how much she condemned me, I had no rebuttal.
"Don't you feel anything?" she asked, standing up with a grave expression. Her gaze drifted over the mountain of corpses—people who had died by my hand, victims of an absurd fate. I looked around the area, then answered after a brief silence.
"My heart aches. But it was a necessary evil."
"Oh, so you're justifying it? You really are the lowest piece of scum," Macchia spat. Her opinion was fair. I accepted the words without protest.
She coughed, her hand coming away stained with blood. Her body was buckling under the strain of overusing Divine Magic. She clicked her tongue and wiped her hand on her pristine white cloak.
"I was going to slaughter the undead army and the Current Demon King. I was going to be a legendary Saint. You ruined everything."
Her eyes blazed with hatred. She readied her staff, channeling what little magic power remained. "They say the Hero who killed the last Demon King was a female swordsman. If I kill you here, I can claim the title of Hero for myself."
"You? A Hero...?" I muttered.
She knit her brows in displeasure. "What? You got a problem with that?"
"That name... carries a heavy burden."
I charged as I spoke. In response, Macchia deployed her Chains of Light. There were only six—a small number that left her own defenses thin. Facing the chains launched all at once, I tracked their trajectories. I slid forward, meeting the incoming chains with precise slashes. Sparks flew as I parried them into one another, then sprinted through the gap.
The Chains of Light were a tracking-type. They could hit an opponent even if the caster didn't know their position. Based on their behavior, they likely possessed properties specifically meant to target the undead. The fact that she could lock onto me and attack without direct contact—even while I was using stealth magic—was proof of that. She was sensing my very existence as an undead. Since I had been concealing my Miasma and magic power, that was the only possibility.
It was an excellent spell. Because it didn't depend on the caster's skill, it could be used without training. However, because of the automatic tracking, the chains moved linearly. They were easy enough to handle if one observed them carefully. I continued my advance, parrying the chains that lashed out from all sides.
"Stay back!" Macchia screamed. She fumbled through an incantation, conjuring a single, clumsy Light Arrow. This was basic Holy Magic, and her execution was poor. I tilted my head to let it pass, then shattered the remaining chains with a single swing. They dissolved into motes of light. She didn't have enough magic power left to sustain them.
"Why won't you...!" Panicking, she tried to cast again, but her aim was wild. The next arrow flew wide without me even needing to dodge.
Driven to desperation, Macchia discarded her staff and lunged with a dagger. It was an elite magic weapon, an Undead Slayer branded with a Holy-Attribute mark. In the hands of an expert, it would be lethal. Macchia, however, was no expert. I sidestepped the thrust and drove my palm into her chin. As she recoiled, I swung my sword, severing the fingers of the hand she used to grip the dagger. Blood sprayed across the ground.
"Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!"
Macchia shrieked, clutching her mangled hand. She collapsed to the ground, frantically trying to gather her severed fingers. I watched her with cold indifference.
A pitiful girl... a fitting end for a modern hero.
With proper training, she might have lived up to her title. She could have become a beacon of light worthy of the name Saint, or a warrior capable of ending an immortal Demon King. But she had grown arrogant. She had chosen the easy path of innate miracles over the hard work of mastery. Blinded by pride and the promise of glory, she had invaded my domain without preparation. That was why she had lost.
"Heh... hehe... ahahaha..."
Macchia began to laugh, a broken, hysterical sound. Her shoulders shook as she stared at the ground. I didn't lower my sword. Did she have one last trick? No—she was drained of magic and lacked any martial skill. Even her Holy Aura, which scorched me to the core at this distance, wasn't enough to stop me. It had no bearing on the outcome of this battle.
"I lost. There's no way I can win this..." She looked up, her face a twisted mask of tears and laughter. She had accepted her death. Her mind had finally snapped.
I raised the Keepsake Sword. Silence fell between us. As I prepared to deliver the final blow, she whispered in a raspy voice.
"...You really do hate humans, don't you? You look like you're actually enjoying this."