There Is No World For ■■-Chapter 205: What Remains in the End (5)

Over the clouded eyes of the demented old man, a scattering spark flickered.

Two swords, one shield, and a single grenade.

The Commander immediately realized what was happening. That Earthling bastard had mimicked Pyroclastic Devastation.

It was a terrifying talent.

A martial art most people couldn’t even properly learn. And yet he had seen through it in the middle of that brief clash.

Talent on par with, or perhaps even beyond, the Marcher Lord.

Of course, it wasn’t a perfect imitation. The unsteady, flickering sparks were proof of that. But precisely because of that, the Commander felt even more astonished.

The grenade in the guy’s hand—without a doubt, it was meant to compensate for the lacking explosive power.

If someone like that had been by the Marcher Lord’s side... or even back when Stalin was toying with the Golden Barrel, how different things might’ve—

...Huh?

Aren’t we in the middle of a war right now? What the hell am I talking about?

The Commander closed his eyes, confusion and embarrassment washing over him. He felt the hot breath of heat drawing closer to his face.

Bang—

Beyond his shut eyelids, in the darkness, there was a familiar face.

Wearing priestly robes caked with battlefield filth and dust, hands clasped in prayer—a beautiful woman.

Blood tears streamed down from between her tightly closed eyelids.

Her name was...

—Saint?

[Commander? Commander, is that you?]

—Yes, it’s me. Saint, what are you doing here?

[I should be asking you that, Commander. Ah—wait. What year is it over there?]

—Year? I was buying time for my comrades to retreat. Didn’t you hear the retreat trumpet? You need to fall back immediately as well, Saint.

[Ah.]

Was it too hard to accept defeat? Her expression was somewhere between surprise and sudden realization.

[We lost, didn’t we?]

—Lost? Saint, even if we lose this land, as long as even one of us remains, we haven’t been defeated.

[So we lost. Just as fate intended.]

What the hell is she talking about? The Commander tilted his head, puzzled as he looked at the trembling Saint.

Then, she asked:

[Him... what happened to the Marcher Lord?]

—What could possibly happen to him? He’s someone who survived a nuclear missile strike. Who would dare—

[Nuclear missile?!]

The Saint interrupted with a scream-like shout.

The Commander waved his hand, trying to calm her.

—Yes. Even the missile Earthlings fired under the pretense of some monster couldn’t harm him. Though there were some complications from exposure to that vile thing called radiation—

He couldn’t finish the sentence. The blood pooling in the Saint’s eyes now ran down her cheeks.

The moment the blood that trickled down her chin finally dropped to the floor—

The Saint opened her eyes. Inside her empty sockets, blood and tears swirled together.

[Commander.]

—Yes, Saint.

[You will not be remembered as a hero. Not even as a knight. History... will record you as a butcher.]

...

[A madman who burned down two cities in a frenzy of vengeance, slaughtering Earthlings and his own kind without distinction.]

It wasn’t a curse. Nor was it some spell or precognition.

It was just a flat recitation of simple facts, spoken in a calm voice.

[Your massacre will drive Americans to the voting booths. And then, a lunatic who wants to strip dwarves of their voting rights and make our people second-class citizens will become president.]

After saying that much, the Saint bit her lips shut, stifling a sob. The Commander stepped forward and patted her on the back as she shook.

—Saint, don’t despair. The future can change at any time.

[I choose to believe that. Whether the die rolls a one or a six, we’re all still on the game board.]

Trembling hands. Flowing blood.

[There are no coincidences. Everything is fate. And the future version of you standing before me is undeniable proof of that, isn’t it?]

The Commander withdrew his hand from her back and sighed quietly.

—Saint, forgive my rudeness, but what does that matter?

[...]

—If defeat is predetermined, are you going to flee this war? I fight to win, and I won’t back down just because I fear defeat.

[That’s because you’re...]

—Perhaps it’s because I’m a knight. But both my comrades and my enemies alike are charging toward death. It’s no different for anyone.

The Saint didn’t reply. She simply looked up at him through her empty sockets.

A brief silence.

The Commander forced a smile, awkward and tight.

—This is what I believe: No tree stops growing for fear of lightning, and no bird stops flapping its wings just because it might fall. I may not be a tree or a bird, but... well—

[You mean, don’t bend to fate?]

—Yes, something like that.

He wished Sancho were here. Having spent a lifetime swinging weapons, the Commander now acutely realized how poorly he handled words.

But the Saint didn’t laugh at that clumsy line. Nor did she keep crying.

She simply clenched her fists and spoke slowly.

[To think such words would come from your mouth... It’s so shocking I nearly forgot the horror of the future.]

—...If it helped, I’m glad.

He couldn’t explain it, but the Commander sensed time was running out.

He tried to say farewell quickly, but once again the Saint cut him off and spoke.

[Commander, please—hold onto that belief. If, by any chance, your heart wavers, remember the recent coincidences you’ve experienced.]

—Coincidence? Didn’t you say there’s no such thing in this world?

The Commander objected, but the Saint pressed on, as if she didn’t have time.

[Please. Find the one who draws in coincidence. That’s the only way you can remain yourself. Remember. To wherever the coincidence leads—]

Bang—

Before he could hear the rest of her words, the Commander opened his eyes again.

Blood from the Vice Commander who had just been shot splattered across the demented old man’s clouded gaze.

****

The Saint opened her eyes and collapsed straight to the floor. The noisy barracks fell silent in an instant.

No one made a fuss—it wasn’t the first time.

Still, many eyes watched her with worry. The Saint paid them no mind and stood up.

She’d intended to head straight to her room... but no strength entered her limbs. She had held the Foresight for too long.

In the end, she barely managed a few steps before falling heavily into the nearest chair.

There were times when she cursed the gods who had given her this power—but not this time.

Right now, her small chest thumped with anticipation.

Maybe I changed the future. That single hope.

“Are you all right?”

Hoana Tule and the bearded Sacred Sword approached the panting Saint, but she didn’t tell them what she had seen.

The pain of knowing the future only grew worse when shared.

There was no need to burden those who had risked their lives for her with such agony.

Even if it meant she had to bear much more of it alone...

But this time, it might be different. She closed her eyes and used Foresight once again.

Crossing decades, she watched how the future of the Commander she had met within the vision had changed.

And when the vision ended—

She wept.

****

Even in the moment he infused the grenade with mana, Yeomyeong wasn’t confident of victory.

His razor-sharp instincts told him: at best, he’d blow off one of the Commander’s arms.

But even that—if he could disable one arm in this situation—would tip the scales in their favor.

His thoughts reached that conclusion, and just as he prepared to throw the grenade—

Bang—!

The gunshot came from where Jeon Yongseop was.

And even before the sound, a bullet had already pierced through Yeomyeong’s hand—faster than the speed of sound.

Blood sprayed from his wrist. The grenade fell helplessly.

Yeomyeong didn’t scream. He didn’t even dodge.

Instead, by reflex, he used telekinesis to shove Sancho away.

Luckily, Sancho had been focused entirely on Pyroclastic Devastation, and couldn’t resist the ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) telekinetic force.

Bang!

As Sancho’s upper body tilted ever so slightly, another bullet struck his chest.

A shot aimed precisely at his heart. But thanks to the telekinetic push, the bullet pierced his lung instead of his heart.

“Khk!”

It was still a fatal wound. It just changed from instant death to soon-to-be death. But Yeomyeong wasn’t discouraged.

If he’s alive, there’s still a way.

Whether it’s a potion or superhuman regeneration, he could recover and return. He’d already done it once before.

Predicting the next bullet and the Commander’s counterattack, Yeomyeong grabbed Sancho’s body and began to retreat.

He tried to retreat.

But the Commander’s Pyroclastic Devastation was just slightly faster than his hand.

Boom—!

Yeomyeong, still in the posture of reaching for Sancho, was swept away by the explosion and sent flying.

His body screamed in searing pain, but he clenched his teeth and extended his telekinesis to grab Sancho.

And as the two of them crashed down to the ground—

The Commander raised his shield and shouted.

“Sniper! We’ve got a sniper!! The Vice Commander’s been shot!! Priest! Where’s the Priest?!”

His voice was practically a scream. And the only answer to his desperate cry—was another bullet.

Clang—!

The Commander raised his shield and skillfully deflected the shot.

But from the point of impact, a clear surge of mana could be felt.

A mana-infused bullet. And not just any mana bullet—it was far more sophisticated than the basic rounds used in the old wars.

“Everyone! Take cover!! Take cover!! I’ll handle this!!”

The Commander’s mind was right back on the battlefield. He stomped the ground as he bellowed orders.

But before he could take more than a few steps, his left leg suddenly seized up.

A curse? No—it was magic. A spell no Korean could fail to recognize.

Rapid Hamstring.

A spell that hobbled the opponent’s legs—a killing art that had once been the signature move of Korea’s first great mage.

“Jeon Yongseop...”

As Yeomyeong turned his head, recovering from the explosion, he saw Jeon Yongseop twirling a wand full of bells.

With a smug expression, Jeon cast another spell. Yeomyeong couldn’t identify it, but one thing was certain:

Not a single spell was meant to kill.

Even the bullets aimed at the Commander—none were going for the head or vital organs. It was clear they were targeting his limbs.

“These crazy bastards...”

Seriously? They want to capture him alive? Then at least bring a goddamn helicopter, not just a few snipers.

The strategy itself wasn’t bad, but the force was laughably insufficient.

With attacks like that, all they’d do was piss him off. They had to act before the Commander went completely berserk—

As Yeomyeong thought this, Sancho, who had been regenerating his wounds on the ground, suddenly grabbed his hand.

His hand trembled violently, lips twitching.

With his lungs damaged, Sancho could only cough up blood and breathless air—but he tried to speak to Yeomyeong.

Don’t... let the Commander... into the city.

Yeomyeong looked down at Sancho’s mouth. Then, as if coming to a decision, he pulled a small potion from his inventory.

A healing potion he’d found in the underground bunker beneath Dreiterial. Pouring it into the gaping hole in Sancho’s chest, he said:

“Tell me the true intent of the Knights’ explosive martial art. Right now.”

Sancho answered with his eyes. Now? Why?

“I’ll hold him off. As soon as you’re healed, head into the city. This is just a temporary fix, so don’t even think about jumping back into the fight.”

Into the city?

“Yes. Go find my companions—especially the raven beastkin. If she helps, we might have a chance.”

That...

“Don’t bother pretending to feel sorry now. Just make sure I get a proper reward after this is over. Oh, and there’s this nice lady with a good vibe—ask her to heal you.”

Yeomyeong rattled off his words like a machine gun, his expression leaving no room for argument.

Sancho, seeing that, let out a laugh—bitter or amused, it was hard to tell—and coughed, lips trembling.

What remains in the end? That is the true intent of Pyroclastic Devastation.

“...”

For a martial art of such terrifying power, its essence was shockingly simple. Yeomyeong was about to ask if that was really it, but Sancho moved his mouth again to confirm it.

What remains in the end?

There was no doubt.

Yeomyeong stood up at once and leapt into the sky.

Not toward the Commander—but toward Jeon Yongseop.

****

Scarlett O’Hara and Dina watched the Commander closing in with heavy steps, and swallowed hard.

Is this really the right move? Trying to subdue a monster like that with just this force?

As the doubt grew heavier, Jeon Yongseop, still twirling his wand, spoke up.

“Tell Team A to prep anti-tank rockets instead of mortars. We’re taking out that fucking shield first.”

Scarlett obeyed without question. Though she wasn’t military, she immediately pulled out a military-issued phone and relayed the order.

A response came back confirming receipt. Cautiously, she added:

“Agent, this could lead to a major disaster. We may need to consider lethal force...”

A reminder that the original plan had been kill, not capture.

Jeon Yongseop glared at her.

“You questioning my judgment, Scarlett?”

“...”

“I’m not passing up this chance to uncover the true intent of completed Pyroclastic Devastation. If you’re that worried, call in the reserves.”

Just then, an explosion rang out in the direction the Commander was approaching.

The sound of an anti-tank missile colliding with a shield? No—it was the sound of the missile being deflected by the shield and exploding uselessly midair.

Right. You trained in all sorts of martial arts to fight Earth’s armies.

But this isn’t our first time meeting you, either.

Jeon Yongseop narrowed his eyes like a lion and gripped his bell-adorned wand with both hands. The mana from the elixirs he’d consumed responded as he wove the spell.

This time he was casting Terror Seal—a spell that forcibly distorts bodily mana. For a superhuman, it was practically a death sentence.

“Shin (申), Ja (子), Jin (辰), In (寅), Oh (午), Sul (戌)...”

With each chant, the bells on the wand began to tremble. And just as the completed spell began to form atop the wand—

Scarlett spotted something glittering in the sky and looked up.

She saw ice suspended midair—and falling between them was a familiar man.

The golden-eyed man she’d seen on the train.

The very same man who had been blown away by the Commander’s explosion—why was he falling from the sky?

The question was brief. The reaction was not.

“Agent! Above!”

Unfortunately, the man’s descent was faster than her voice.

He twisted gracefully in midair and slammed his foot into the back of Jeon Yongseop’s head.

Crack—! With a sickening sound, Jeon, mid-chant, went face-first into the ground.

He wasn’t dead, judging by the way his body twitched... but it was a blow that would leave his neck stiff for weeks.

The man who had done that landed gently on the rooftop.

“What the—what do you think you’re doing?! You—!”

Scarlett drew her pistol, but the man cut her off with a flat expression.

“Of course I’m fine. Miss Scarlett O’Hara, do you know who I am?”

“....”

She couldn’t find an answer. It had only been recently that she’d ordered people to find out exactly that.

The man glanced at the steadily approaching Commander and said:

“You people are interlopers. The Knights’ business is the Knights’ concern.”

“...The Knights?”

“This has nothing to do with the U.S. military.”

“You... you really are...”

Whatever she misunderstood, her hands were trembling. Yeomyeong didn’t bother correcting her. Instead, he picked up the unconscious Jeon Yongseop and said:

“Take all the mercenaries and soldiers here and head for the city. Build a defensive line, call for reinforcements—I don’t care. Just in case I fail.”

“....”

“Oh, and that wasn’t a request. That was an order.”

Thud.

Scarlett caught the limp Jeon Yongseop he tossed at her and stood frozen for a moment. Then she raised her phone and issued the order:

Retreat. Mission updated from capture to city defense.

****

The sudden halt in gunfire made the Commander raise both his shield and his guard.

The Earthlings were nothing if not thorough—they never spared explosives even while retreating.

But no matter how long he waited, the shells never came.

Instead, footsteps echoed. And out from the ruins emerged a stranger’s face.

“Who are you?”

Not a question he would normally ask. If someone was coming from the direction the bullets were flying from, they were obviously an Earthling.

But the illusion on the man’s face...

Black hair. Golden eyes.

That illusion was what compelled the Commander to speak.

“Who are you, to dare imitate his bloodline?”

As the Commander spoke, the man finally realized what he was talking about—and dropped the illusion from his face.

With golden eyes still gleaming, he looked directly at the Commander and said:

“My name is Cheon Yeomyeong. Commander.”

“...You know me?”

The man gave a bitter smile and drew his sword.

“I’ve introduced myself too many times already. So now, it’s my turn to ask a question.”

And with that, his sword ignited with aura—waves and starlight, milky will, blood-red killing intent, and... a spark burning red.

At the sight of it, surprise washed over the Commander’s face.

And then the man asked, even more shockingly:

“Commander, what remains in the end?”

“....”

A question only four people in the entire world knew.

The demented old man wandered briefly through memory, then raised his mace and answered.

“Vengeance!”

And as if to follow that lie, his mace blazed crimson.