Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.02 - Chapter 5.3

“Omnis nodos libero! Release and unbind all things!”

“Perfecte placidum donum! Perfect silence give us!”

These spells become the first salvos of the battle. The man in the black hat describes bizarre symbols with his hands and unleashes one set of true words, while your cousin thrusts forward her short staff and intones loudly. Their words, able to rewrite the logic of the world created by the gods, explodes into the chamber, tearing the air.

A fearsome blast of magic that destroys all things is met with a declaration of absolute silence. Into the ether that bubbles between them, you step without a moment’s fear.

Your foes are seven. By a simple calculation of combat strength, you are beaten. Caution you must have, but he who hesitates is lost. If nothing else, you have more spell casters than they do…

“O my god, ruler of judgment, watch over my sword that it judge only those who are evil.”

It’s only moments before your expectations are overturned. The black-haired warrior steps forward just as you have and intones a holy supplication in a clear voice. The sword in his hand glows a faint whitish color, showing how effective his invocation has been.

A lord…!

“O my god of the roaming wind, banish all cold winds, that our feet not tire!” Myrmidon Monk isn’t intimidated by the sword with its blessing but promptly intones a protective spell of his own. A refreshing breeze blows through the underground room, wrapping itself around your bodies. More than anything, you appreciate the feeling of being protected.

Female Bishop, sensing the divine aura from the back row, exclaims, “When you were with me, you hadn’t yet—!”

So it seems she’s got the higher rank. You suspect the biggest issue is going to be the enemy priest, but battle is joined before you can follow the thought to its conclusion. You look left, then right, from under your helmet and decide to focus on evening the odds a little bit. The enemy front row consists of a magic knight, a lord, a sand bandit, and two ninjas.

Can’t let the ninjas get to the back!

“Leave it to me, Captain…!” Half-Elf Scout shouts, then raises his knife to meet the men in black costumes. Female Warrior gives a quick swing of her spear to make some space, then leans forward. “I can handle a couple of them, too, I’d say!”

“Dammit, don’t get in our way…!” The sand-bandit girl gives a cluck of her tongue and jumps at you, while the black-haired lord shouts, “Don’t rush in by yourself!” and follows her. Female Warrior takes the first exchange using the haft of her spear against the blessed sword and the dagger. She sweeps with her weapon as you even your breathing.

In that case, you have just one opponent.

“…You should stop this. You’re going to die.” The young magic knight stands before you, his sword at the ready and glowing red. You hold your katana in front of you and give a derisive snort. Once the blade is drawn, the only outcome is life or death. It is your duty to the sword to be completely committed when you use it. It would be shameful if you weren’t prepared to kill or to die. That has been among your most important tenets since the day you came to the fortress city.

One comes here bearing a grave responsibility: his party’s fate. The magic knight seems hardly to feel the weight.

And he’s adventuring without even understanding that?

“This is exactly why I can’t let you have her…!” The first strike comes, a great, long reach. You predicted it long ago, so your movement is almost instantaneous; you dodge by a hairbreadth. A sharp spike in air pressure brushes past your cheek, and you swing out with your sword even as you step back.

“Pfft, real nice.”

You suddenly hear your master taunting you in your mind. You’ll never be able to contain your opponent if you aren’t constantly prepared to destroy them.

The red sword collides with your katana, producing a screech of metal on metal. You brace yourself against the stone floor, holding your stance, then take a fresh look at your opponent.

He’s young, his gaze is directly ahead, and his agitated countenance looks, it’s fair to say, almost childish. His equipment isn’t yet weathered; only the sword in his hands is clearly distinguished.

A newcomer who happens to have picked up a master weapon. That’s how he looks to you. However…

He’s capable.

You can still feel a slight tingling in your hands from that first exchange alone. It reminds you of the giant man you battled when fighting the newbie hunters. To be able to produce such speed and power despite his small frame—that’s impressive.

“Face meeee…!”

A sharp acceleration of breath and you meet his attack without flinching. He strikes hard and fast, aiming precisely at your vital points. Throat, side, elbow. Then he slaps the hilt of his blade with the palm of his hand in a whirlwind move, reaching for the hollow of your neck, just below your helmet. Each of these is an important point not protected by armor, and you have to repel them with your sword and dodge by stepping away.

Yeesh. Kämpfergeschaft—warrior’s work—isn’t easy. But one thing is for certain: You recognize this fighting style. Unless you miss your guess, it’s the same as that which marked the undead you fought only shortly before.

So that’s where he learned it! You groan. He’s used to this—to killing people. This style is adapted for murder.

“I’ve fought and defeated more enemies than you; I’m sure of it…!”

As the magic knight speaks, you step in with a downward swing from above. He freezes for an instant as if taken by surprise but then neatly raises his blade to meet yours. They ring out clearly as they come together. You push another step forward—strike again.

“…Wh-why, you…!” There’s an unmistakable note of irritation in the boy’s voice now. His left hand moves in a flash, producing a card. “Kiran.a dāna agni! Light, grant ignition!”

There’s a blinding flash and an impact assaults you. The exploding card was his best gambit.

That’s awfully tricky, using magic in the middle of a hand-to-hand battle, but two can play that game—you’re an adventurer, too.

Sagitta…sinus…offero! Gift a curve to arrows!

Still protected by the breeze of the Trade God, you make three successive sigils, then stomp hard on the floor. You deflect the exploding card, and it is this on which you stomp, using it as a springboard to fling you forward.

“Grr!”

Obviously, this isn’t an enemy you’re going to defeat just by gaining a little altitude for your next cut. He sweeps with his red blade, in a move that can only be considered a strength move, but which nonetheless has startling speed and power. When his blade meets yours, it doesn’t move an inch but absorbs and deflects your blow.

You use the force of the impact to push yourself backward, leaning into the landing and rolling along the stone floor to make some distance. Otherwise, you’re sure his sword would have sliced into your neck at that instant.

“Never let down their guard… No openings…!”

Not necessarily. Been on the edge of death any number of times.

You take a moment to assess your companions’ situation and check on how the overall battle is going.

The first to exclaim is Half-Elf Scout, facing off with the two ninjas. “Cap, how’d you ever manage to take on two of these guys?!” He’s parrying desperately with his daggers in both hands, but even so, his enemies don’t exactly have the advantage. They move like vipers, but he dodges their fists and evades the kicks that come his way. “Whoops!” Although he’s avoided any serious injuries, you see scrapes and scratches on his cheeks and arms. From that perspective…

“Hiiyah!”

…Female Warrior, keeping her two enemies at bay with broad swipes of her spear, is in much the same situation she was before. In a contest between a longer weapon and a shorter one, only a significant advantage in skill would allow the wielder of the sword to fly past the spear and attack its wielder.

“Dammit! Pole weapons—that’s cheating!” the sand-bandit girl howls.

“Little late for that!!” Female Warrior replies, jabbing down at her opponent. As much as she tries to appear like she has technique to spare, however, you can see that her face is set and she’s sweating.

“You’re mine…!”

After all, this isn’t one-on-one.

As the sand-bandit girl jumps backward, the point of the spear thwacks against the floor, at which instant the black-haired lord dives in. He strikes, fierce as fire and fast as lightning, a move that the knight of legend was likewise supposed to be proficient in. Female Warrior pulls back her spear and braces herself with it, leaning backward like a dancer to avoid the blade. The tip just grazes her chest armor, passes over her nose, and leaves the slightest nick in her forehead as it goes by.

“Oh, for…!” Female Warrior says, almost petulantly, then kicks forcefully off the floor with her steel-toed sabbatons. The lord doesn’t appear to have been expecting this. “Wha—?!” he exclaims, but even so, he manages to dodge backward, exhaling sharply, so that he’s just a fraction of an inch out of range of Female Warrior’s foot.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” the sand-bandit girl hollers.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll get her next time!”

As for Female Warrior, she doesn’t respond. Her breath is coming in shallow gasps, and she leans on her spear, only just able to stand. She wipes furiously at her eyes, as if trying to wipe away the Death she’s just so narrowly avoided, even though what she’s really wiping at is the blood running down her face, along with something at the corners of her eyes.

“I can…still…hold them…!” she squeezes out, and if you didn’t know better, you might think she sounded like she was crying. Is she talking to you or to herself? She was already emotionally spent; if her physical endurance is running out, then she’s going to have a hard time on the front row. The same with your scout—front-row work isn’t his real business. Even if he is managing it for now.

One step forward, one back. You haven’t managed to strike a decisive blow. And without that, numbers will eventually tell—against you.

But…

—……

Something feels off to you about this fight. A small doubt, too small to call it a proper opening. You would have to be crazy to gamble on it. And yet no matter what path you choose, it’s impossible to know what lies ahead. No, that’s not quite true—at the very least, you know it’s victory or defeat, life or death.

No need to worry about the details, then. Only go forward with all conviction.

If it means being destroyed in this battle with your friends at your side, so be it. If stronger or smarter or more accomplished party members might have been available to you, you wouldn’t have picked them. You have no regrets. You feel purely comfortable—and you haven’t the slightest intention of losing.

To pursue a single chance of victory, to follow a single path to its bitter end, is like challenging the Death.

This is good.

“What are you smiling about?!” the magic knight wails. He drives in with his red blade with all his might, and you meet him in kind. There’s a crash of metal on metal, and a shock runs through your hands. You have to be careful not to drop your katana.

In point of fact, you don’t have as much leeway as you try to pretend. If things go south, your adventure might end here.

That’s when you hear Female Bishop call out, her voice clear: “Give me a turn!” But of course.

You add a comment of ‘Better have the scout focus on opening the treasure chest, then, eh?’

“Whoa, there…!” Half-Elf Scout reacts to your words immediately, but the blank faces of the opposing party show that they have no idea what you mean. Half-Elf Scout spins his butterfly blades in his palms, catching the knifehand strikes flying from the left and right. At the same moment, he rolls to one side, opening a path to the back row for one of the antagonists. “That’s the way it goes—passing one to you!”

“Interesting move…!” Myrmidon Monk clacks, and almost simultaneously, one of the ninjas thrusts at his throat.

But there’s a clang, and the ninja goes from lethal agility to reeling, an astonishing transformation.

“First meeting with a myrmidon’s something you don’t forget,” Myrmidon Monk says and laughs. The hard carapace around his neck has stopped the knifehand cold.

The ninja immediately, silently tries to kick Myrmidon Monk in the torso to make himself room to retreat, but Myrmidon Monk grabs his arm in his long fingers. The tiger mask makes it impossible to see the man’s expression—yet, for a moment, it seems he might be quaking in fear.

“Sagitta inflammarae raedius!” Your cousin shoves the end of her staff squarely into the ninja’s stomach and mercilessly releases a bolt of flame. Charred flesh flies everywhere, steam hisses, and the ninja hits the ground, a lifeless corpse, before he knows he’s been defeated.

“…Scary lady,” Myrmidon Monk mutters. Your cousin puffs out her ample chest, a smile of triumph on her face, and says, “Heh, I think this is the part where I say, ‘Take that!’”

Spell casters do more than just fling fireballs and lightning bolts, but when they do start slinging spells, you don’t want to be in their way.

Now that your scout is one-on-one, he shows himself as capable as anybody. “I’ve got you…!” His butterfly dagger flashes, catching the kick that comes in with the force of a tiger. The ninja’s eyes widen to find his ankle caught between the blades, at which point your scout’s hand comes off his dagger and grabs empty air.

“Hiiiiiiyah!!” Your scout shouts as he unleashes a knifehand, which immediately thereafter pierces the ninja’s throat. Blood comes spraying out accompanied by a sound not unlike a whipping winter wind. As the ninja collapses to the ground, though, his head is still attached to his body—the hit wasn’t critical.

“Huh! So much for monkey see, monkey do…!” Half-Elf Scout gives a wave of his right hand, catches the butterfly dagger back out of the air, and jumps at the ninja. It’s a simple matter for him to finish off the writhing, suffocating man.

Five left now. Still the same number on the front row, but you’ve made up the difference in combat strength. You’ve got the advantage now; they’re the ones at the disadvantage.

“Feh!” the bandit girl shouts as she realizes what’s happened. “Finishing this girl off won’t change anything!” Then she leaps at Female Warrior with a movement like a carnivorous beast. Female Warrior cries, “You little—!” and sweeps at her.

A beat later, the lord thrusts in with his sword. “You don’t know when to give up…!”

“You’re…not so quick on the draw…yourself!”

Barely—just barely—Female Warrior has managed to meet his sword with her spear, her feet unsteady. The keening blade is the work of some master of days of old. Female Warrior has the less distinguished weapon.

At that moment, the tip of her spear makes an unpleasant sound and gives way, cracking with a screech.

“D-dammit all…!” Nonetheless, Female Warrior grabs the haft with both hands and swings it at the lord with all her might, forcing him backward. There’s distance between them now, both of them breathing hard. His face is hidden by his black hair. Hers is pale and soaked with sweat.

Female Warrior’s eyes waver ever so slightly. What should she do? She glances in your direction. You nod.

“As if you had the time to be making eyes at each other…!” the lord exclaims.

No, and you don’t even have time to communicate. It’s only the barest instant. The slightest movement of your lips.

But for the two of you, it’s enough.

Can I ask for one turn?

“ !” Female Warrior’s eyes flash. Her sabbatons kick gracefully off the chamber floor, and she throws herself forward with all her weight.

Toward you.

“Wha—?!”

You don’t spare even a glance for the young magic knight, who watches you in astonishment, but only fling yourself toward that spearpoint.

For the briefest of moments, your katana crosses paths with her spear as if they were about to exchange a kiss. Female Warrior passes by you, her face startlingly close, and you can see her skin stippled with small scars that make it look as if she’s wearing rouge. It’s the result of tiny shards of blade flying off during fights and lodging themselves in her face. An occupational hazard of being a warrior.

As you pass by each other, you see the slightest of smiles on Female Warrior’s face. Your own face softens. Your own scars tingle.

And then each of your weapons, now well apart, drives forward with the force of a loaded spring. You hold tight to your katana, which has accelerated like a shooting star, while you draw the dagger at your hip with your left hand and whisper three words: Sagitta…quelta…raedius.

“Hngh?!”

“Eeyagh!”

At the same instant as the dagger, released from your hand, pierces the lord, your sword slashes the sand-bandit girl, reaching farther than she ever expected. The feeling of cutting a woman’s flesh, notwithstanding her defensive equipment, is a disturbing one. The blood that flies back at you is slightly sweet.

Meanwhile, behind you…

“Gurgh…?!”

“G-got him!”

Female Warrior’s spear tip has been smashed to pieces by the red sword, but nonetheless, it’s made contact with the young magic knight’s forehead. Blood spews out of it, as the boy struggles to process what just happened.

The switch.

Half-Elf Scout and Myrmidon Monk—and you and Female Warrior. You all simply changed places. The other party, though, never expected it. How did two of them each fight us at once? That’s what they’re wondering.

You saw it, during the battle. How their leader, the magic knight, never gave a single instruction. How each of the other adventurers was fixated only on their own opponent, their own objective. There was no unity, no cohesion. Yes, they might be powerful. You have no idea how much training they’ve done against those undead. One-on-one, their levels might be higher than yours. But they weren’t a party. They didn’t fight as a party.

They’ve only ever faced limitless, squirming masses of undead. They weren’t adventuring—they were doing work. You’re sure they never thought about it. They just wanted to be stronger than the enemy in front of them, stronger than anyone. So maybe they’ve never needed to fight together. Maybe it had always been enough simply to bring down the opponent in front of them.

In other words, that was all they had done to save the world. How did that make them any different from the monsters that wandered the dungeon? They were powerful monsters, yes, but nothing more, just six or seven of them waiting in a chamber.

Once you realize this, you see they aren’t even worth being afraid of.

“But how…?!” the priest on their back row—now their front row—exclaims.

The only response is a word from Female Bishop: “Ventus!” She holds high the sword and scales, a terrible whirlwind forming in her hand. It screeches, a magical maelstrom not of this world, like the howling of some beast.

Your cousin, recognizing the spell Female Bishop is intoning, opens her mouth but can’t produce a sound.

“…! Lord of judgment, sword-prince, scale-bearer—”

“Lumen!!”

The other party’s priest begins to intone a spell, but she’s a step behind; the second powerful word is already out of Female Bishop’s mouth. This is the difference in speed between one girl who was unable to see an opportunity to use a spell in the chaos of combat, and one who was prepared to do so.

An uncanny pale light shines around the chamber, floating through the dark heart of the maze. Everyone sees it: those looking for their next opponents, those laid out on the floor and trying to get to their feet. It’s the overwhelming, primeval power of the nether realm, exerted by the Demon Core.

It’s too much for a single young woman to control, but Female Bishop brings it to heel with Overcast. Her fingertips are singed black, and she bites her lip against the pain, so hard it bleeds.

She isn’t doing this for self-gratification. Not to lord it over the others or to show off. She simply knew she would have to push herself to her utmost limits. And the priest across from her, the subject of the unyielding gaze from behind the bandage, is the same. Her beloved friend, someone with whom perhaps she’s never had so much as a serious argument until this moment, is coming for her. If she doesn’t meet her with all her own strength, then what use is friendship? What use are companions?

Her soul-shattering prayer certainly reaches the heavens, for the sword and scales begin to glow with the menacing light of the gods.

“Show here your pow—”

“Libero!!!”

There’s a wail of lightning and a rush of wind.

The ear-shattering roar is in fact an agonizing silence. Burning wind scorches your skin, and the light blanks out your vision, your eyes feeling as if they’ve been gouged out.

You have no idea how long it takes you to get a grasp on the situation. At first, you aren’t even sure if you’re standing or on the ground, but at last you realize you’re pressing your hands against the floor. Your katana—it’s there. Still held fast in your right hand. Good, that’s good.

The first thing you hear is your cousin coughing, then complaining: “Argh… I can’t believe you! Using a spell we still don’t fully understand; that’s outrageous!”

She may sound mad, but she rushes straight over to Female Bishop. The young woman has been brought to her knees by the overwhelming spell, her breath coming in small gasps. Your cousin takes her hand. It’s the very opposite of that other scene (which one was that, again?), and for some reason the thought brings a smile to your face. Female Bishop says something back to your cousin; you know because you can see her lips move slightly, but her voice doesn’t reach you.

That’s not a problem, though.

You manage to get unsteadily to your feet. Strangely, it’s now that your sense of smell comes back to you. The scorched air isn’t that bad, but for some reason it threatens to turn your stomach.

You look around to find Myrmidon Monk helping the toppled Half-Elf Scout to his feet. They’re both heavily wounded and obviously exhausted, but neither is in danger for his life. Thus assured, you reach out to Female Warrior, who crouches next to you.

“……” She looks vacantly from you to your hand and back, then slowly takes your proffered hand. Her own seems so small and is still trembling faintly. “…Thanks.”

Don’t even mention it. You grasp her hand firmly, helping her make it to her feet. Female Warrior wobbles unsteadily but finally gets her balance by leaning on her spear. Then her gaze goes to the tip of the weapon—or rather, the space where it used to be—and grins. “Broke, huh?”

Well, it happens.

You’re looking critically at your own beloved blade, which has survived the intense battle, then you slide it gently back into its sheath. It isn’t the work of any famous master, but it rose to the occasion when its master needed it, and that makes it a good weapon.

From that perspective, even Female Warrior’s spear served her to the bitter end—a good weapon, you tell her.

“…Mm, you’re right,” she murmurs, in a tone of gentle happiness. Her hand runs along the shaft of the spear as if to comfort it. Her lips move, forming words of deep fondness and emotion: “My older sister…” You decide to pretend you didn’t hear. Your ears are still ringing, after all.

“Ugh… We…we lost…”

Instead, you turn to the young lady lying spread-eagled on the ground (a most unladylike position): the priest from the other group. Her cheeks are puffed out in a pout, her singed hair splayed wildly about, and her lips pursed in obvious displeasure.

“That whole thing seemed pretty unfair, didn’t it?” the priest asks from the ground.

“No…it wasn’t,” Female Bishop, finally able to stand with your cousin’s help, says. She adds a teasing laugh. She bears no visible scars, but her exhaustion must be extreme. She doesn’t look like she could walk without assistance. Yet, even so, she summons all her strength to put one foot in front of the other, working her way over to her precious friend. Finally, she smiles and says: “I only did the best I could.”

“Are you saying my best wasn’t good enough?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” There’s no trace of disdain in Female Bishop’s voice, only conviction—and it’s accompanied by another giggle.

“Hrm,” the priest grunts as if she doesn’t really believe Female Bishop, but then she runs a hand quickly through her own hair. It hardly looks like it could ever have been neat in her life at this point, but she hasn’t lost her cheerfulness and sweetness. “No changing it, I guess… We lost.” The priest gives a great, deep sigh, then calls dispiritedly to her companions: “You guys dead?”

“…I’m alive,” comes a boy’s voice, although he sounds awfully put out. It’s the young magic knight, who presses a hand to his forehead and groans from where he’s lying on his back on the ground. The red sword has fallen from his hand; it must have rolled away somewhere, but you don’t see it. The young man seems more worried about the blood that still drips from his wound, frowning and muttering, “…At least, so far.”

You say kindly that he won’t die. Foreheads just tend to bleed profusely.

“Hrm…I don’t know. I gave him a pretty good whack!” Female Warrior says, but the chuckle with which she accompanies the comment suggests she doesn’t mean much by it.

After a moment, to let out his frustration and disappointment, when the magic knight’s next question comes, he sounds resigned: “What about the others…?”

You wonder—you look around the chamber and especially at the blackened altar. The wizard in the black hat is seated against one wall, his shoulders shaking. He appears to be laughing with untrammeled joy—in any case, he is obviously alive.

You assume the ninjas are dead, but as for the other two party members, they’re probably safe. You check the fallen lord and sand-bandit girl to see if they’re still breathing, thinking back over the fight. You’d made sure your Magic Missile hit somewhere that wasn’t a vital point, and as for the slash with your sword, well, you didn’t hit very hard.

“…All good, then.”

“That’s right,” the priest says, almost indifferent. “We’re alive… That means there’ll be another chance.”

“Another—another chance,” the magic knight murmurs to himself several times before saying, “That’s true.” He nods. “She’s right… We may have lost this time…but next time, we’ll win.”

Mm. But it remains that you and your party are the ones who will reach the deepest depths of the dungeon first, you tell him.

“Guess so,” the boy says, smiling ruefully. “If you ever make my friend cry, I’ll never forgive you.”

‘Who needs your forgiveness? We won the fight, so I can do what I want to her.’

Female Bishop turns bright red at that, and the priest exclaims, “Why, you—!” Your cousin bursts out, “Dummy!” and is off and angry again, while Female Warrior gives you an especially vicious jab with her elbow. You groan aloud, provoking a chuckle and an “Oops” from Half-Elf Scout. Myrmidon Monk looks as if he’s trying to ignore the whole thing.

Argh, that was embarrassing. The magic knight looks genuinely relieved seeing how uncomfortable you are; he lets out a bellow of laughter. Huh—so you didn’t resent one another after all.

Strange as the situation may have been, the fight is over now, the outcome clear, and so that’s the end of it. The boy exhales once he stops laughing, wiping at something that moistens the edges of his eyes as he says softly, “Hey, Teacher. Train with us again. And then next time—”

“Too bad! I’m afraid your adventure ends here!”