Fwoosh.
Flas began to flicker along the edge of Richard’s greatsword.
"That damned fla again!" Satanail’s voice oozed with irritation. He recognized this fla—it was the result of a new mana technique the Swordmaster had developed to combat creatures of the night. Wounds inflicted by this fla-wreathed blade were not easily healed, even by those with regenerative powers.
Of course, that effect was potent only against ordinary dark elves; it had little effect on Satanail. Only the Swordmaster had ever been able to leave a scar on him with that fla.
“This ti, it won’t be a scar—I’ll end your life.”
Without waiting for a response, Richard charged at Satanail.
Clang!
“It’s still not quite your master’s fla!”
“Then again, you seem weaker than before.”
The clash of claws against the blade sounded more like blunt impacts, reverberating with such force that the ground trembled.
Whish!
The greatsword was a weapon originally designed for fighting knights. Plate armor, strong enough to resist ordinary swords or spears, demanded a heavier weapon capable of delivering blunt force. Yet, while the greatsword offered long reach and powerful strikes, its weight and thickness made it vulnerable to close-range opponents.
“Damn it, you still swing with that monstrous strength!”
Even for Satanail, slipping past Richard’s powerful swings—handling the massive blade like it was a lightweight stick—was no easy feat.
He was nothing but a brute a few years ago, yet he’s grown this strong in such a short ti?
Satanail, who had initially been looking for openings, found himself surprised by Richard’s unexpected growth. To him, humans were nothing more than frail creatures with little worth—a feeble race with short lifespans and weak bodies.
Yet occasionally, there erged those among them who defied all understanding. The Swordmaster, who had once threatened his life despite a lifespan barely a fraction of his own, had been one such human.
And now, Richard, who once had been too insignificant to notice, had grown into a threat.
This is why I despise humans!
Their ability to defy logic made Satanail both disdainful and wary of them. Perhaps that was why he obsessed so intensely over the Blue Flower—to erase his lingering unease about humans.
"Try to block this one!"
After evading Richard’s attacks, Satanail abruptly took a stance and lunged forward, extending both arms toward the incoming greatsword.
Slash!
Predictably, his arms were severed, but two more arms sprouted from his shoulders, launching themselves at Richard. Satanail’s incredible regeneration and control over his own body allowed him to perform such attacks freely.
Yet,
"Hmph…"
Richard calmly drew the greatsword back to his chest, assuming a solid stance in what seed like an unnecessary action, as if he were preparing for a follow-up strike rather than blocking the incoming attacks.
But this was an essential step.
"There’s a technique called the Iaidō among Eastern warriors."
In a flash, Richard recalled his master’s words.
"Why bother sheathing the sword when a simple swing is faster?"
Iaidō, as the Swordmaster had explained, was an unusual style. Sheathing the blade to draw it quickly seed inefficient to Richard, who had argued the point with his master.
Yet by embracing that seemingly pointless action, they achieve a speed surpassing a regular swing.
The Swordmaster had taught Richard that, in swordsmanship as in life, there were things one could not grasp through reason alone. Sotis, working within a restriction allowed a person to unlock power beyond their usual abilities.
And so, even as Satanail’s strange attack closed in, Richard countered with his greatsword in an unwavering stance.
Swish!
With a cutting sound, Satanail’s freshly grown arms were sliced off again.
“Tch!”
Though the damage was not fatal due to his rapid regeneration, Satanail looked visibly rattled by the failure of his confident ambush.
"Is that the extent of your tricks?"
As soone skilled with the greatsword, Richard knew all too well the risks that ca with its range and weight. His master had taught him a technique he called Young Style, a swift stance-based technique that allowed for faster-than-average greatsword movents. The na arose from the illusion of stillness, as if the sword never moved.
“You insolent human wretch!”
But Satanail, enraged by his blocked attack, grew more arms and charged again. Even with Richard’s Young Style, handling dozens of arms coming at him from all angles was challenging.
To force into this grotesque form!
Satanail despised using his shape-shifting abilities. Normally, he could dispose of most opponents without it. But even more, he loathed the monstrous appearance it forced upon him.
“You pathetic insect! Forget a quick death; you’ll suffer!”
Now wielding his body’s transformation with abandon, Satanail’s onslaught was relentless, pressing Richard into a purely defensive stance. If not for his mastery of Young Style, Richard would have already been overwheld.
Patience. Now is the ti to endure.
Richard steadied his breath, focusing on fending off each strike with utmost care. Even with his regeneration, Satanail could not maintain such a demanding offensive forever. Eventually, he would need to pause.
Richard waited for that mont, biding his ti.
Fwoosh.
“Gah… You’re no human… How can one wield magic like this… You’re a witch, a witch of flas….”
Crack.
Dread’s body, charred black and nearly reduced to ash, crumbled with a final kick, scattering into the wind.
“How rude; I am a hero.”
The one who had vanquished Dread was none other than Zenia. Through battle after battle, her magic had only grown stronger, and Dread had been no match.
Snap!
With a flick of her staff, Zenia sent Dread’s remaining ashes scattering. Her brow furrowed at the insult he’d muttered with his last breath: witch.
Red hair? Tch, how unlucky! She’s probably cursed. Survived her parents by sheer luck, they say. What’s with that strange gaze? She gives the creeps.
After losing her parents in an accident and being raised by an uncle’s family, Zenia had grown up hating the term “witch.” She despised the villagers who whispered about her red hair, and her uncle’s family, who beat her while accusing her of killing her parents.
For a ti, she’d thought of revenge against all of them, but not anymore.
I’m the protagonist of a story.
Reading Rupert’s books, Zenia had co to believe she was special and that all her misfortunes were simply trials leading to a happy ending.
With that understanding, she had found the strength to forgive.
She wanted to beco a hero.
He’s watching over .
The thought of Rupert seeing her now filled her with renewed determination.
“I’ll help!”
Others around her were already locked in fierce battles, and in particular, Richard was locked in a deadly struggle with Satanail, the enemy leader.
Zenia noticed Satanail, grotesquely transford, attacking Richard with dozens of arms while Richard barely managed to defend himself.
Having dealt with Dread swiftly, Zenia decided she could assist Richard. She began casting her unique combination of spells, harnessing both calculation and acceleration magic.
Odd… I feel a little more in control than usual.
As she readied her spells, Zenia noticed she felt less strained than usual. While managing several flas had previously required her full concentration, she felt she could now control even more.
In a subtle, unnoticed transformation, Zenia’s body responded to her need, optimizing itself for her magic. Her red hair now cascaded down to her waist, and her once loose robe now clung to the newly defined curves of her fra.
Watching from the manor study, Rupert observed Zenia’s transformation.
"The Witch of Scarlet Flas…."
It dawned on him. The peculiar sense of familiarity he’d felt upon first eting her now clicked into place. The transford Zenia was the very image of Ignicia, the Scarlet Fla Witch—a major antagonist from the original story.
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