The Shepherds Are Dense Chapter 91: The Holy Sword Manifests!

The comndation ceremony’s presenter was none other than Gordon, now a Supervisor.

He donned his helt, slung the Sword of Honor across his back, his silver armor radiating sanctity and solemnity.

“May the Silver-Crowned Dragon protect our noble Queen, Her Majesty eternal,” Gordon proclaid from the stage’s center, his voice ringing clear without amplification, echoing beyond the club. “In the na of Queen Sophia Du Lac, I uphold ancient tradition, bestowing the Holy Sword Seal upon the valiant Aiwas Moriarty.”

He pinned the silver Holy Sword badge to Aiwas’s right chest, saluting him.

Drawing the shimring blade, he lightly tapped Aiwas’s shoulders.

“I swear to uphold this honor and fight for Her Majesty,” Aiwas declared, his voice clear and resolute, shedding his usual gentle deanor for mature reliability.

“God save the Queen—ever victorious, bathed in glory.”

As he held the pose, applause erupted. Reporters snapped photos from all angles, flashbulbs bathing the stage in white light.

The clapping crowd was photographed too, smiling cooperatively as the club thundered with prolonged applause.

Unlike other dals, the Holy Sword dal, typically awarded to battlefield heroes, required a military presenter.

Normally, the recipient knelt for a knightly salute, presented by their direct superior.

But Aiwas, wheelchair-bound and frail-looking, was no soldier, with no superior.

After consulting the Minister of Ceremonies, the Inspectorate chose Gordon to present—a move to counter their negative publicity.

This scene, captured for newspapers, would suggest the Inspectorate’s competence.

[Rumors say Gordon didn’t catch the assassin, but him presenting the dal proves otherwise! It’s just classified!]

“…Huh?!”

A photographer’s sudden gasp disrupted the ceremony’s tail end, drawing annoyed glances.

But soon, the reason was clear.

Behind a vacant-eyed, vigorously clapping man in the left rear seats, a tall, gaunt white specter erged.

Like a butterfly from a cocoon, it writhed, raising four mismatched arms.

Its upper body resembled a hunched, emaciated man, ribs protruding sharply.

Tight white skin stretched over its abdon and back. A giant head, twice human size, bore scattered, misaligned facial features across four sides, not oriented like a human’s.

Its half-erged legs, thin and reverse-jointed, were goat-like.

[A demon?]

The photographer froze, breathless, teeth chattering, fingers convulsively snapping photos.

How such a massive demon hid inside a man was unthinkable.

“—[Still]!”

“—[Arrest]!”

“—[Banish]!”

Legal mages reacted, but their commands failed. The man collapsed, deflated, lifeless.

The white demon, a Distorted Limb Demon, moved like lightning, scuttling on six arms with unnatural, fra-skipping speed.

“It’s a Distorted Limb Demon! Keep your distance!” Gordon roared, raising his sword.

With his new rank, silver flas blazed brighter than days ago, his sword a torch illuminating the stage, scorching the demon with sizzling smoke.

Gordon lunged, thrusting at its chest.

The demon, agile, dodged with a blur, two arms grabbing a chandelier, swinging like an ape. Its elongated goat hooves, sharp as lances, pierced two rushing inspectors.

With a swing, the chandelier crashed toward Aiwas. Gordon shoved him aside, his wheelchair skidding. Gordon vanished in the dust.

Unhard by such an attack, Gordon fought on.

In the fog, the demon, needing no sight, wreaked havoc, piercing chests, snapping necks, and gouging eyes with long arms or hooves.

Gordon’s war cries echoed, his silver arcs slashing the stage, but the demon’s tough limbs only grazed, healing instantly.

Supervisors shielded Isabel, urging her to flee.

Amid the second floor’s panicked exodus, a plain middle-aged man chanted softly.

As screams filled the air, the first floor’s walls turned blood-red, fleshy tendrils lashing out, restraining wall-side inspectors.

A glass jar of eyeballs was hurled from the second floor.

Edward, scanning the balcony, reacted instantly, raising his hand. “[Return to Owner]!”

The jar reversed, flying back to a shocked brunette girl, who reached to catch it in terror.

It contained “Eyes of Fear,” capable of panicking the entire first floor. If she missed…

A fireball smashed it, golden-red flas from Lady a incinerating the smoky eyeballs.

Her right hand conjured a larger fireball, glaring at the girl.

“I invoke Amber, God of Nine, God of Perfection, God Eternal—grant Amber’s Fire.”

a chanted, her fireball turning dim yellow, flas freezing mid-flicker.

The girl, trying to flee, froze under a legal mage’s [Still] command, cast amid tentacle struggles.

Golden flas struck her precisely, sparing others, turning her into a grotesque statue as her scream faded.

a, unyielding, conjured more flas. “I invoke the Lord of Scales and Feathers, God of Six…”

She began a full chant, hands clasped, eyes closed in the crowd.

“—Watch out, Aiwas!” Gordon’s shout interrupted her.

She looked up, startled, toward Aiwas in the corner.

As the Distorted Limb Demon lunged at him…

Aiwas, in his wheelchair, wielded an ancient holy sword with a crimson hilt.

Blazing with fire and radiant light, it pulsed with pure light and fire energies, rippling the air.

This was the Red-Hilted Sword, ford by activating the [Key of St. Genevieve’s Chapel] with light and fire infusions, then casting its stored [Holy Sword Art].

A golden “holy weapon” with four traits: exorcism, sharpness, durability, and lightness.

Lightness let the frail Aiwas wield it easily; exorcism was key.

Its ergence spread a silent, sacred aura, as if the club beca a temple, easing fears.

The demon’s movents slowed, its strength waning under the light.

Seizing the mont, Aiwas swung.

Like a hot knife through butter, he severed the demon’s extended arm!

*

(Chapter End)