Ishura - Volume 3 - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Psianop the Inexhaustible Stagnation

The vast Gokashae Sand Sea, on the eastern frontier. There, in that expansive, unmapped region sat a labyrinth half sunken into the sands.

It was a vault of knowledge from the Beyond, known as a “library.” And if there ever came a visitor capable of transporting a large number of the tomes and actually reading them, they would say that the knowledge contained within was worth as much as an entire country. One such person accomplished this feat—a merchant woman. And by using the knowledge she gained from the seven volumes she managed to return with, she was able to rise through the societal ranks and become Central Kingdom nobility.

The sand labyrinth itself had books scattered all over the place, as it was little more than a hollow ruin lined with bookshelves. It wasn’t the sort of labyrinth laced with traps and dead ends to discombobulate intruders—nevertheless, its impregnability and difficulty to traverse earned it the title of labyrinth all the same.

In the Gokashae Sand Sea, there existed those who made it their duty to impede and interfere with any and all exploration of the sand labyrinth’s depths.

Thus, an armed merchant caravan, two hundred and eight strong, was seeking this perilous knowledge. It was the first large-scale organized expedition in seven small months, and the host of bodyguards with it presumed they would be engaging with the obstructors to their plans.

There were two people spying on this massive column from a clifftop. Although they wore clothes much like minia wore, their bodies were coated in thick, coarse fur while their heads were shaped like those of wolves. They were lycans.

“……About eighteen, I’d say. I’ll bet they can put up a fight, too. Must be the first big haul in a while.”

The far-sight spyglass that the stout, gray-furred lycan, Heng of the Shallow Step, looked through was an item that belonged to notable adventurers and caravans of the past. An item they had plundered.

The people obstructing any exploration of the sand labyrinth were a pack of brawny and unrivaled lycans—the Zehf tribe. Every one of them sought martial prowess, having no interest in the sand labyrinth’s collection of books. If anything, they considered the literary treasures to be no better than worthless garbage.

However, that was not the case for the minia and dwarves who would be periodically drawn to the sand labyrinth—and in particular, the commodities they’d bring into the barren desert to support their exploration. This was exactly why the Zehf tribe had established a base camp in the middle of the desert.

Behind Heng as he looked out that caravan was another lycan of fairly large build, with white-and-brown fur. He looked to be much younger than Heng.

“Brother, just look at them all…! The back of their l-line… I can’t even see it! It goes all the way to the crags!”

“Steady, Canute. Don’t be fooled by visual numbers. There are only eighteen of them that pose any real threat. The day has come for Heng of the Shallow Step to put his training to the test. I’ll kill all eighteen of them myself.”

“E-eighteen people…”

Canute’s eyes bulged as he repeated the words of his respected elder brother.

“…A-all… All by yourself?!”

Trembling excessively, Canute forgot to pull his tongue back into his mouth again.

“Hmph…… You think I can’t?”

“B…Brother! I will bear witness to your feats!”

Heng solemnly took up his specialized weapon in hand. A polearm with a curved blade affixed at both ends of the shaft.

From inspecting the enemy to forming the optimal strategy, he handled everything himself. The Zehf tribe’s training began before combat even started.

“Ngrah!”

Heng’s deep-throated bestial roar echoed. As he did, he picked up speed. Then…

Heng’s attack lasted about as long as it simply took for him to reach the back of the caravan. Slipping through the tight opening directly underneath the carriages, interwoven with beguiling mirages from his martial movements and dodging the hail of arrows, he gave most of the guards a moment to defend themselves before cutting them in two and ending their lives.

However, this was not so for the final two he fought.

A leprechaun wielding a strange mechanical scimitar, Rook the Shredding Trineedle.

A minia in possession of an otherworldly knife-throwing ability, Albert the Summer Rain.

Underestimating either of these powerful opponents would mean certain death. Even for Heng, if the scales of fortune tipped the other way even slightly, he would become just another corpse lying in the Gokashae.

“Koff, damn…you…”

Sent flying by Heng’s attack, Rook the Shredding Trineedle’s rent upper body was only connected by one side of her rib cage. The final result of the life-and-death battle.

“Rejoice. Your heads will be honored for seven years to come.”

“Th-this technique… Where did you…? And from who…?”

“The training I’ve endured is far different from yours. We’ve been mentored and trained by Neft the Nirvana, from the First Party. An adequate explanation for when you reach the land of the dead.”

“Heh… The First… So that’s, it……”

The Zehf tribe was not a simple pack of lycans. It was, if anything, a school of thought.

Worshipping the legendary lycan Neft the Nirvana, still alive but little more than a corpse, the Zehf tribe devoted their time to studying and practicing the martial arts bequeathed by him.

This type of life-risking training was also a natural rite of passage.

The reason behind employing peerless bodyguards like Albert and Rook, as well as why a single person hadn’t been able to reach the labyrinth, no matter how prepared they were for the Sand Sea’s dangers, was entirely because of these Zehf lycans.

“Brother, that was incredible! You really are the strongest around! Awooo!!”

“Ha… I said you needn’t worry… But you do the plundering. Don’t let these minians escape with any of it.”

Heng chuckled, despite the blood gushing from his open wound. His upper-right side was pierced with a countless number of knives.

“I—I… I’m going to become like you someday, Brother!”

“Fool… Do you have any idea how long that will take? Ha-ha……”

The inexperienced Canute successfully intimidated the remaining survivors, and the entire cargo of the two-hundred-strong caravan became provisions for the Zehf tribe.

The lycans, classified as members of the monstrous races, did eat minians, of course, but they didn’t have a marked preference for them.

The Zehf tribe sought slaughter in part to use prominent and powerful individuals as practice to show off the results of their training, but dictated all noncombatants and the weak be released unharmed.

This area was barely the beginning of the Gokashae Sand Sea, but even then, there were likely many without the stamina to get to town before dying of thirst. Heng and the others didn’t pay this possibility any mind.

As long as they stepped into these lands, even these weaklings were adventurers seeking knowledge, fully aware of the risks. Much like the lycan warriors challenging whole armies themselves, they were fated to put their own lives on the scales.

In the Gokashae Sand Sea, without any minian settlements, this was the lycans’ law—survival of the fittest.

“…Strange.”

“What’s wrong, Brother?”

The odd phenomenon came as the pair were on the way back to the village.

“You smell blood?”

“Huh, now that you mention it…”

The two suddenly broke into a run. With his wounded right leg and arm, Heng lagged slightly behind Canute, but he still ran with all his strength. Even from a distance, he could see the warriors on guard duty weren’t there.

“Hrm?”

It didn’t take long for Heng to figure out where the sentries had gone.

They were embedded in the stone wall. Their eyes had rolled to the backs of their heads, and they were convulsing as foam bubbled from their mouths. There were even spots where they had been slammed into the wall so hard that the thick stone itself had broken.

“What happened?”

It was clear they had been slammed at frighteningly high speeds. The possibility of explosives crossed Heng’s mind, but he couldn’t smell any gunpowder. Neither could he imagine that the warriors entrusted with protecting the village would let a simple explosive get the better of them.

When they passed through the gate, they were greeted with something even more frightening.

“B-Brother.”

“I know. This is…”

One warrior was pierced through a house’s roof.

There was another lying on the ground with all four of their limbs bending in the wrong directions.

There were ten times as many who had coughed up blood and blacked out, as well as those who’d had their weapons (and extremities) shattered.

All the warriors in the village had either lost consciousness quite a while ago or could do little more than groan in pain. Every single person that Heng checked on had been rendered unable to fight.

What in the world.

The lookouts had been totally snuffed out.

A colossal wurm, a beast that would’ve proved too much for a pair of their assistant instructors, lay dead and leaking an unsettling amount of grayish-brown liquid. In other words—

Whatever it was, it didn’t go that far with the Zehf warriors. Does that mean this enemy can still defeat this many of our warriors at once, without killing them? Impossible. It can’t be.

Lycans greatly surpassed the technical skill and physical strength of any minian race soldier. The etiquette of taking down caravans or punitive forces solo was something carried by all the warriors above Heng’s level, too.

A village of such powerful warriors was submerged in a sea of blood; not a single resident was spared. Less than half a day had passed since Heng and Canute had headed off to the day’s training.

Heng found one of the warriors, just barely clinging to consciousness, and slapped their cheeks.

“What happened? Can you see? It’s Heng of the Shallow Step.”

“…That…that thing…”

Heng’s comrade answered, gasping for air through broken teeth.

“That thing’s… It’s not right… No living creature, should be like that…”

“Be more specific. It would be a much more serious matter if a normal living creature had been able to defeat us so.”

“B-but. Th-that thing, really didn’t have any proper form.”

“Is it a ‘guest’?”

“…Yeah, b-but not from…outside the Sand Sea, but from inside…”

Sometimes there were eccentric freaks that would aim not for the library, but arrive seeking to destroy the village itself.

Punitive expeditions sent from cities beyond the Sand Sea, for example, and similar entities were called guests, but of course there were no examples in their tribe’s history of any such attempts leaving this much damage in their wake.

Not only that, but the guest had come from within the Sand Sea.

“Curses!”

When Heng gritted his teeth in frustration, Canute jumped up and shouted.

“…Eek! Master?!”

“Canute?”

“Master… Master’s…floating in the pond!”

“Don’t be a fool. You’re talking about the master. He surely must’ve thought up a new method of training.”

“I—I see… So this is training that you can do even with your left leg broken, then.”

Heng looked to see that their terrifying instructor was indeed floating belly up in the village’s central reservoir.

Just as Canute had said, their left leg had the joint twisted in the opposite direction, clearly completely broke.

That’s the master I know…

It was the same aging master as always, acting on their most dreadful whims. Heng tried to convince himself.

Of course he’s not…

Then, standing at the bank of the reservoir was the murderer responsible—or at the very least, someone who seemed to have witnessed it.

Though it was a light-green substance, transparent like water, and in the shape of a rough circle, it was still a living creature.

“……An ooze.”

“Indeed.”

The creature answered. Though they were only supposed to possess a limited intelligence, the ooze effortlessly spoke in the common language. Not only that, but it was using a pseudopod to flip through the pages of what looked to be an aged and worn-out book.

“Ooze. Name of Psianop. There should be someone here who recognizes that name. I want you to lead me to them.”

“Nonsense. You’re free to choose your future. Be reduced to the dew on Heng of the Shallow Step’s blade or leave here as fast as you can. One or the other.”

“Brother……!”

“You forgot the third option.”

“What?”

Before a comeback could leave his mouth, a strange sting ran through both of Heng’s knees.

Then came the quiet thud of the book hitting the ground.

It was fast. Too fast. Even his nerves couldn’t respond fast enough.

Psianop, an ooze, previously perceived to be an unintelligent race, had already crept by Heng and stood behind him.

Unable to turn around to face the ooze, a faint chill began to slowly shiver through Heng. He didn’t have any external wounds. He could tell that his knees’ ligaments—and only the ligaments—were severed in two, almost as if they had been pierced by an invisible drill.

Canute screamed.

“Brother?!”

“…I could tell by the center of gravity on your first step. A martial form that shifts one’s center, then. Two steps forward, diagonally to the left. One to the right. Misdirect the trajectory of my defenses, fatal blow with left claw. Am I correct in my estimation?”

“Impossible.”

One step forward, diagonally to the left. That was as far as Heng’s movements had gotten.

Speed unbecoming of an ooze. Not only that, it read and saw through the flow of the combat style he had put together, one that only existed within Heng’s mind—and all from a single step.

There was no doubting that the attack to Heng’s knee was a blunt strike. But what sort of martial tricks did it have beyond that? Did it read his mind? Or maybe it could see into the future. No matter what the explanation may have been, the reason didn’t seem consistent with any normal ooze.

“I’ve come to fulfill a promise. A promise from twenty-one years ago. As long as that is so, I am in the right. Brown-haired one, will you challenge me, too?”

“Aroon… I—I can, I can—!”

“That’s enough. The fight’s over.”

Interrupting them was a deep murmur, as if rumbling up from the depths of the earth.

“Oh……!”

Heng suddenly cast his eyes at the ground and venerated the voice coming from the inner sanctum. Now, with their instructor killed, there was only one warrior stronger than him who came to mind.

Assuming, of course, they truly lived and could act themselves.

“Honestly, I swear. Rude, disrespectful… Koff, you hopeless ruffian.”

The lycan that emerged out of the inner sanctum’s darkness hadn’t a single hair on his body.

His parched dark skin was covered in wrinkles, and his emaciated physique, looking like little more than bone, was less than two-thirds of Heng’s height.

Nevertheless and even with his injuries, Heng prostrated himself before him.

Any of the Zehf tribe warriors that were still conscious did the same.

“Been a long time, Psianop.”

“…Twenty-one years all told, Neft the Nirvana.”

“Well, with a body like this, I don’t pay attention to the months and years.”

“It’s unnecessary. I’m counting.”

Neft the Nirvana. All the Zehf warriors had built up their training and discipline in front of this legendary cadaver.

They drilled themselves to be worthy under his unflinching yet harsh glares, feeling his silent pressure; and with this, the Zehf tribe had been able to grow so strong.

…But how? It shouldn’t have been possible.

“My lord! You’re able to move?!”

“Quiet.”

The living idol of worship flicked his ears, looking deeply annoyed.

Then he turned to the inferior ooze and spoke.

“Your wish?”

“Right now. Right here. You’ll bear witness with me.”

Neft the Nirvana.

The First Party, the very first group to face off against the True Demon King.

Of the seven who challenged the True Demon King, there were only two counted as survivors—Romzo the Star Map and Neft the Nirvana.

In that case…

What about this all-too-abnormal ooze, attempting to challenge such a living legend as equals?

Where did it come from, and who were they?

“…All of you still conscious right now,” Neft said, an annoyed tone in his voice.

“You all have potential… I want you to believe that.”

He bore his specialized weapons, thick, semicircular blades, in each hand. They resembled axes, but with an extremely primitive design, nothing more than a handle inside the open semicircle. Though the weapons that gave birth to all the Zehf tribes’ martial forms, no warrior besides the founder Neft himself could perfectly display all the techniques of prototypical dual axes.

“Surely none of you are foolish enough to choose idleness when presented with the founder’s skills before your eyes…”

No longer were any of Zehf’s warriors allowed to remain unconscious.

Neft the Nirvana was going to fight.

Psianop was also deeply honing his own mind. The two fighters were already within melee range.

“A low kick.”

Together with Psianop’s murmur, the lycan’s opening move was a low sweeping kick, mowing down the ooze’s feet, the part of its surface connected to the ground. While the movements were clearly visible, they were over in the blink of an eye.

Psianop retreated back slightly and dodged. Before Neft could start moving, he needed to be outside the trajectory of his attacks. There wasn’t a trace of wasted motion in Neft’s movements.

It would be too slow to watch his initial motion before dodging. Psianop readied himself to guard against the next attack.

“—or so you want me to think, before keeping the same rotation speed, you’ll hit me with the axes behind you. Not once…”

Neft’s combat motion wasn’t over yet. In order to cleave Psianop after dodging, he launched a surprise attack with an ax he had been holding behind his back. A thick circular blade, meant to hack and chop up opponents.

Much like it was for Heng’s halberd, this was the fundamental base of the Zehf tribe’s martial style—a weapon that could transfer rotatory movement from the waist up to the wrist, and that could serve as a shield as well.

“But twice.”

Two noises—a shrill crack and a cacophonous splash—raced across the sky.

The wild ax slashes simply slid off the ooze’s surface. How it managed to block the attacks and avoid harm completely were a total mystery.

The sound of a counterattack rang out. The ooze struck as blade crossed blade, faster than the eye could catch, as though aiming for a momentary break in his opponent’s spin.

The emaciated lycan was blown away like autumn leaves. He, too, was uninjured.

On the ground where Neft landed was a geometric locus, like a bizarre and complex ripple. He owed his relatively safe landing to his exemplary defense training. He had completely mitigated the impact from the terrifying blow.

“Was my estimation correct, Nirvana? You’ll never defeat me, decrepit as you are. If you don’t believe me, come at me with everything you’ve got.”

“Big words, slimeball. You think the passage of time is enough to age me? To make me wither?”

“Are you saying you haven’t? After movements such as those?”

“Grrr… You know nothing of the Life Arts.”

The lycan spun Word Arts, his voice rumbling from the depths of hell, exacerbating tension between them.

“Weft wogm. Wymuf wonffeer. Wwrhey wat. Wengefhornef. Wutzeiheart.” (To Neft’s pulse. Return smoke to frozen drops. Pastel fresh green. Reversed trajectory sunlight. Circulate.)

Psianop didn’t use the opening during the Word Arts incantation to attack. He knew his efforts would be fruitless, and being lured in by the opponent might very well cost him his life.

…More than anything, it was meaningless if he didn’t force Neft to fully exert himself and use every last ounce of his strength. If Neft didn’t go all out, the victory would feel hollow.

“My lord!”

“My lord…!”

“Silence.”

The other lycans venerated their master, letting out primal growls.

There had been no change in Neft’s gaunt and emaciated form. Instead, as a result of regaining his usual bodily functions, his leathery skin sagged even further, and he seemed to be growing even weaker.

At least that’s how it appeared on the outside.

The fighting spirit he radiated was another matter entirely. Not merely greater than the combined powers and fighting spirit of the rest of the Zehf tribe, but a great deal beyond that as well.

Heng of the Shallow Step looked at his little brother-in-arms. He was anxious he might be dead. Soon his apprehensions were proven true, with Canute remaining still, foam bubbling from his mouth.

“My lord…!”

It was not the sort of vital energy that was visible from the outside. Touch. Taste. Heart rate. He was willingly dulling any and all bodily functions not wholly devoted to battle.

This was the undying Life Arts user, a standout even among the rest of the First Party.

Neft the Nirvana had, over twenty long years, remained completely immobile as he stored his energy.

“You can see now… In the time it takes you to count to eight hundred and fifty, know me as the same Neft the Nirvana you knew from days past.”

“Then, with everything I’ve got, I’m going to kill you five times.”

“Grrr. The immortal never die—”

Shwoop.

The ooze’s gelatinous body squelched across the ground.

He timed his movement with Neft’s first step forward. They were within contact distance.

Then came the bombardment.

A heavy overlapping sound, that could only be described as such, echoed the moment his pseudopod made direct contact with Neft. This time, however, Neft wasn’t blown away.

No—he couldn’t be blown away.

It was as if a surging tidal wave crashed with all its might into a huge tree. Without Neft’s extraordinary skills, the force would’ve been enough to blast a person apart, limb from limb, leaving nothing behind.

However, the giant tree that had successfully taken the full impact again withstood the destructive power and made an unbelievable move.

Every party of his body—from his left arm to his pulverized spine—contorted in unbelievable ways.

If forced to describe the noise, it sounded like a short buzzing.

It was the sound of an eighth of the ooze’s body being instantly blasted away, along with the ground beneath him.

The extremely fast direct hits came one after the other, creating an awful din.

“……Kah!”

“……!”

The two combatants reeled, regrouping after their fierce exchange of blows.

They simultaneously condemned the other.

“Wutzeiheart.” (Circulate.) “Dual ax style: flicker.”

“Eight Extremities, Persistent Mountain Lean.”

With that single phrase, Neft’s skeleton was instantly reconfigured. He had purposefully taken the previous attack, after all. Psianop couldn’t cleanly settle things with his intense single attack because the counterattack came after an attack that would’ve killed any other living creature.

Neft’s Life Arts, capable of this high-speed healing, both without causing any deformities or circulatory shock, were beyond the realm of comprehension for anyone who laid eyes on it.

However, the technique that Psianop produced with precision moments prior was just as much of a system that stood beyond the comprehension of anyone else.

Similarly, the technique that Psianop performed was from a martial discipline outside anyone else’s understanding.

“I’m unfamiliar with that technique. Grrr… So that’s the strength you’ve amassed over these twenty-one years, is it?”

“That’s right. All that time, I’ve been learning and training inside the sand labyrinth.”

For the past several dozen years, there wasn’t a single minian race that had reached the sand labyrinth.

Nor did the lycans themselves show any interest whatsoever in what existed inside its walls, either.

In which case, what if there was already someone there in the labyrinth?

What if there was a person who never took a step outside, single-mindedly focused on amassing all the knowledge within, more valuable than an entire country?

“I spent two years on the first tome I picked up…… But I learned everything.”

The intelligent creatures of this world were inferior at leaving behind written words and deciphering them.

In the past, several visitors had tried to establish a fixed, unified alphabet, but to this day, the writing used among the common people was the simple script of the Order.

Much like the people of the Beyond being unable to utilize the true power of Word Arts, for those who had lived in a natural state of being able to speak and communicate across varied linguistic systems, the establishment of a systematic written language was, in practice, an extremely difficult concept.

Though visitors of the past left behind their transgressive knowledge in book form, the ones capable of comprehending their content would be limited to a select stratum of intellectuals, like the scholars of Nagan, for example. However.

A primitive, amorphous life-form, one that normally would possess a limited degree of intelligence, had done exactly that.

“…Amusing. I admire your tenacity, Psianop!”

“I’m stronger than you!”

There was a whirring noise in the air; the sound of the dual axes rotating.

Neft was now performing his inescapable weapon techniques in peak physical condition.

Psianop did not deflect this series of attacks. His amorphous physical body was chipped away, yet despite this, he continued evading, without losing his core at the center of his viscous form.

Guarding. Parrying. Gelatinous flesh was sliced and scattered.

Taking advantage of a small gap in the onslaught, Psianop released a lethal jab. The lycan shifted his body immediately before the ooze’s blow could land a vital blow. Thus, Psianop missed his mark—Neft’s heart. Bits of dried skin and bloody flesh were torn from his body, but Neft’s life was not yet forfeit. Both axes closed in from his blind spots. Psianop attempted to evade.

In that moment, a kick connected with his gelatinous body.

He couldn’t be crushed. The pseudopod aimed at the sole of Neft’s foot, conversely shattered everything up to his waist with the impact.

Once again, Psianop had successfully predicted his opponent’s move.

In the middle of a fight too quick to even catch one’s breath, he remained two steps ahead.

“Cold Power.”

“……Ngh, wutzeiheart!” (Circulate!)

Why was Neft the Nirvana of the First Party, with such an extreme degree of martial prowess, allowing the ooze to counterattack as much as he was?

Even for Heng of the Shallow Step, it took him far too long to arrive at a conclusion.

It doesn’t have any arms or legs.

It was a hard fact to accept that there could be such a terrifying martial artist.

There wasn’t any visible footwork in Psianop’s techniques. They were legs that generated action from the earth using his whole body’s surface connected to the ground, able to step in unexpected directions without the restrictions brought by two legs.

There were no joints behind its strikes. They flowed like liquid, without any limits to its range of motion or any advance indication of the incoming blow.

Neft the Nirvana was following along with this frightening hand-to-hand combat prowess, relying entirely on his godlike sixth sense.

Before this battle, was there anyone who knew such potential dwelled within the body of the base and primitive ooze?

Without question, Psianop was the only one within the annals of history to ever be capable of exhibiting said potential.

What sort of obsession could’ve resulted in this degree of focused study?

“Grrr… Outstanding… To think that former encumbrance could progress so far…”

“It will take time to repel the left ax… In that case, another kick—”

But before Psianop could complete the thought, the ooze was blown back by an almighty strike. His flight split the two-story stone wall behind him in half.

There likely wasn’t anyone alive who could perceive the course of events from Psianop deflecting the ax to being sent flying with a kick. The speed of their previous movements was on another plane of existence.

“That estimation of yours is right on the mark.”

He was growing stronger. The First Party member, already at heights no other could reach, was aiming higher.

Slowly circulating the vital force he had built up over the long years, Neft the Nirvana had temporarily acquired physical abilities that surpassed his maximum potential.

Barely protecting his nucleus from being smashed or cleaved in two, the ooze dropped to the ground with a splat.

“Why? Why…?”

“…Grrr. Speak up now. My hearing’s not great.”

“……Why…did you leave me behind?”

The legendary warrior did not answer. His wrinkled face twisted even further into a sneer.

Neft believed it had been the obvious decision. He needed to make Psianop understand that once again.

Even now, after so much time had passed, Neft remembered his comrades in the First Party. He could recall the faces of those he had lost, never to return again.

…There was Alena the Benighted White Wind. Izick the Chromatic. Yugo the Guillotine.

There were friends at times, and enemies at others, but he could still remember the names and voices of the seven members, spoken of as legends. Though all their ideals and objectives were different, just once, at the end of their journey, they combined their powers. It was all for the sake of putting down the True Demon King. That’s what the world believed, at least.

But it wasn’t the whole story…

In truth, there was an eighth member of the party. Neft had never forgotten his name, not even for a moment.

“Are you going to make me repeat my past warning…? Psianop. You are absolutely no match for the True Demon King.”

“Popoperopa. Parpepy. Peep por ppe. Por pupeon. Perpipeor.” (To Psianop’s pulsation. Suspended ripple. Tie the sequence. Full large moon. Circulate.) “…That—”

The ooze chanted regenerative Word Arts. They were unmistakably the same kind of Life Arts as Neft the Nirvana’s own. He had even acquired the techniques of the powerful apex master he witnessed in the past.

Twenty-one years. Neft wasn’t the only one whose thoughts harkened back to the days of yore.

“That’s wrong, Neft the Nirvana. Both then and now.”

“……”

“……I’d be able to win. Back then… If I had been there, we would’ve been victorious. Isn’t that right, Neft?! I want to believe so now more than ever!”

“Cretin!”

Neft dashed to pepper the ooze with more lethal ax blows.

A slightly rare, and somewhat eloquent, weakling ooze—and nothing more.

All the party members believed it was the obvious decision to come to.

“Dual-axes style—Troubled Star!”

For the one left behind by these legends, what harbored emotion made him able to continue his limitless, devoted study?

The First Party was defeated by the True Demon King. Ending up all too powerless, like the many heroes who followed after them. Simply wasted away, together with the hopes of the people of the time they carried with them.

Nevertheless, for him…for the eighth member, Psianop.

“Neft. I told you.”

That battle still wasn’t over.

Even now, with the True Demon King long since slain.

The bygone era still wasn’t over for him and him alone.

Psianop’s extended pseudopod was slashed during Neft’s spin and scattered about.

No—it was a pseudopod. He could grow pseudopods, even ones feigning attacks, ad infinitum. Hand-to-hand combat choices that demanded endless diverging paths to consider. Neft the Nirvana had fought too much under the enormous mental strain.

Did I go too far forward?

Negligence.

Reinforcing his nerves to their maximum potential, Neft could now read the flow of battle to its end point.

The leg that stepped forward tread on the pseudopod that stretched out just before it. To ensure Psianop would be unable to dodge—and blown apart with his next attack. The lunging ax in the other hand missed its mark on the ooze’s vitals, as if the direction of the attack was being pulled toward his own.

Psianop, at this point, was using three arms.

For an ooze, that wasn’t the end of it.

His fourth arm was now touching Neft’s stomach.

“I told you I’d kill you five times!”

A staggering concussive tremor echoed throughout the lycan’s body.

He was forced upward at an angle, defying gravity, as if dragged into the sky by the impact.

There was no violent striking sound nor an explosive increase in speed…

…because the full force of the impact resonated internally.

“Hyaauck!”

Neft the Nirvana coughed up a large amount of grayish-brown liquid.

With this lethal blow, unlike anything the ooze had unleashed up until that point, he realized then that Psianop had been going easy on him.

What he vomited up was his own liquified viscera.

“Spit out your brain next. Roaring Liquid Heavy Decapitation…!”

“Wutzeiheart…” (Circulate…)

Neft understood, too. For the next exchange, there would be no time to switch to the counterattack.

“Low Palm!”

“Gnnngh… Wutzeiheart.” (Circulate.)

Psianop steadily remained at close range.

His opponent, Neft, continued to recover with his unreasonable Life Arts, and yet—

“Spiral Knifehand!”

“Wutzeiheart…” (Circulate……)

“Linked Leg!”

“Wutzeiheart…” (Circulate……)

“Thirteen Steps!”

“………………”

The red sun was sinking red below the horizon.

That day, the warriors of the Zehf tribe witnessed two spectacles.

They witnessed a true legend, Neft the Nirvana, alive and well.

And they witnessed that very Neft…overwhelmed by an ooze appearing out of nowhere, until finally collapsing before him.

“……I’ve finally come to keep my promise, Neft the Nirvana,” the ooze said, amid the sandy gusts.

In the past, Neft was considered one of the strongest beings in the world, and yet the ooze had laid him low.

“I promised that one day…I’d grow stronger. I promised I would catch up to you all.”

The True Demon King was long gone.

The opponent who he was supposed to bring down at the end of twenty-one years of arduous training had disappeared from the world.

Psianop had learned this from a wyvern that had visited the sand labyrinth two big months prior.

The pack that Neft established to ensure this ooze’s isolation, the ooze their party had set free, had long lost its meaning. Even if Psianop left the Sand Sea, he wouldn’t go off to his death by challenging the Demon King.

It was an era where everything had ended.

“……Brilliant.”

Lying on his back, the lycan founder’s face beamed.

He looked to be savoring his defeat, making up for all the lost years.

“……”

The Zehf warriors, still able to move, gathered together to help their leader to his feet.

Even after disgracing themselves with their pitiful defeat, even though their Hero had already lost to the Demon King from the start, Neft the Nirvana was their martial arts instructor whom they respected above all others.

Psianop felt the same way as well.

“Who am I supposed to defeat now? Who’s next? What can I do to wash away the regrets from that day?”

“Aureatia.”

Neft answered. Even when isolated from the outside world, the rumors had reached this pack.

…According to them, the Hero who defeated the True Demon King, identity unknown to all, would appear at the Royal Games there.

“Head to Aureatia. If you believe you could beat the True Demon King…go and show…that you can defeat the one who slayed the True Demon King.”

“……”

“Psianop. Do you have a second name?”

Psianop stopped briefly and answered.

“…No. Ever since that day I traveled with you seven, I’ve always been and have remained Psianop.”

“I see.”

Neft smiled as he was carried in his disciples’ portable shrine.

Though covered in wrinkles, unrecognizable and withered away, it was the same smile Neft had worn on that fateful day.

“From now on, call yourself the Inexhaustible Stagnation.”

Psianop didn’t look back toward his master.

Picking up his dropped book, he started off toward the next opponent he needed to defeat.

Thus, his reply simply echoed out from behind him.

“……Gladly!”

He mastered the extensive and numerous martial arts of the Beyond, lost to this world.

He possessed endlessly branching combat abilities, rendering strikes, throws, chokes, and even the reading of his own moves ineffective.

He was capable of launching strikes that brought true instant death, impossible to perform with a commonplace body construction.

Among the First Party, glorified by all, he was the final member who still knew no defeat.

Grappler. Ooze.

Psianop the Inexhaustible Stagnation.