FSFSLU 34

“It’s unfair.”

Gerolt truly felt wronged.

He had spent so much time and effort preparing meticulously to obtain the cursed sword.

To prevent the unthinkable—his subordinates stealing it—he had ordered the other Gerolters to roll down the slope under the pretext of obstructing Isabel, while leading Dyke, his most dangerous rival, into an area saturated with dark mana.

That wasn’t all. He even prepared barrier scrolls to protect his body from any lingering magic.

He hadn’t expected Dyke to resist the corruption and charge toward the cursed sword—but even so, Dyke had been a dying man. The closer one approached the sword, the thicker the concentration of dark mana became. With his barrier, Gerolt was certain he would reach it first.

If only that damned priest hadn’t interfered out of nowhere.

“It’s unfair!”

And so, Gerolt despaired—more deeply than ever before.

The fact that all his efforts and plans had been reduced to nothing dragged him into an emotional abyss.

Frustration and fury blurred the last thread of sanity within him. Now, he began to sink into vengeance far beyond what any normal man could feel. When he struck down the barrier before him, it was no longer Gerolt—it was rage given form.

But even such vengeance could not shatter Isabel’s divine barrier. It was like endlessly ringing a bell that would not sound.

His emotions spiraled into extremity—into obsession without end.

And then, Gerolt obtained something beyond human hatred.

At that moment, something astonishing happened.
The dark mana that had been painfully seeping into his body suddenly felt sweet—ecstatically so.

A sense of fulfillment, as if he could do anything. A twisted comfort that warmly enveloped his warped mind.

He thought he could hear a voice.

“It’s okay to feel wronged.”

It was his own voice. But he didn’t recognize it as such.

What filled his head was self-justification, wearing the mask of kindness.

Yes… it’s fine to feel wronged.

It’s fine to surrender to this desire.

Gerolt accepted that. Why wouldn’t he? The burning emotions within him had become the most important thing in the world.

And so, Gerolt willingly threw himself—
Into a depth from which there would be no return.

*

Isabel was sorrowful.

Even as she blocked Gerolt’s twin blades with Angelos Rod, sadness clouded her heart.

Gerolt’s mutated arms had taken the form of the longswords he once loved so dearly. With those, he bore down on Isabel with sheer strength.

As they struggled, her body slid backward across the floor of the Dragon’s Lair, leaving twin trails behind her.

“Ugh!”

Isabel endured as best she could—but strangely, her strength was waning.

She had felt this sensation before: during her first trial, when the Demon King’s schemes had weakened her divine blessing.

The holy power needed to maintain her Blessing of Physical Reinforcement was being scattered—dissolved by Gerolt himself.

‘Why?’

Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Even if her blessings unraveled, she could have renewed them again and again.

But Isabel had spent the entire day running the relief shelter, using her divine power without rest. She hadn’t slept while searching for the cursed sword all night.

She had also taken time to heal Tronn, the fallen Gerolters who had tumbled down the slope, and even Dyke, who had been corroded by concentrated dark mana.

Fatigue had piled up without her realizing it. Holding onto her fleeing divine power became increasingly difficult.

Meanwhile, Gerolt only grew stronger, absorbing the residual magic from the Dragon’s Lair itself.

“Please… come to your senses!”

Isabel pleaded earnestly—but Gerolt didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

The sides of his head, where his ears should have been, had no openings left. There were no ear folds, no ear canals—only sealed flesh and bone.

Perhaps it was the manifestation of his desire to hear nothing anymore.

Isabel’s heart ached. She endured her sorrow.

But her strength was fading fast.

With a weary voice, she whispered—

“Lord Smiel…”

*

Damn it.

This has gone completely off the rails.

A mutant—a being I didn’t even encounter until the middle of the story in The Long Tale—and Isabel has to face one now?

In the first playthrough, this never happened. Gerolt had been killed by Dyke right after losing the cursed sword.

That’s how it should’ve gone this time too. I should’ve remembered that he had the perfect temperament to become a mutant!

“Quite the mess, huh?”

That mocking tone made me glare at Yuga.

Still in her beautiful female form, Yuga lay on her stomach, her arm dangling through the bars of her magical cage.

“That Gerolt guy must’ve hated priests even before corruption,” she said lazily. “See how her divine power’s scattering?”

Yeah, she’s right.

In The Long Tale, mutants always transformed according to their personalities and traits.

A deranged killer would become a slaughter-obsessed monster.
A manipulative sociopath would turn into a shapeshifter who could mimic others at will.

Gerolt hated priests—and right before mutating, he’d been cursing Isabel’s holy barrier. That’s why he gained the ability to dissolve divine energy.

In short, his type and Isabel’s were the worst possible match.
And with Isabel utterly exhausted, this fight was hopelessly unfair.

“I could fix this for you,” Yuga cooed.

I turned back sharply.

With her finger pressed to her lips, she smiled sweetly.
“How about lifting my restriction?”

“You’re saying if I free you, you’ll take care of it?”

“Have you forgotten? I’m a cursed sword. Just let me be wielded by your little priestess—mutants like that are nothing.”

She wasn’t wrong. A weapon that could even wound a hero could easily slice through a mutant.

But still…

“You expect me to trust you?”

There’s no way I could let someone as soft-hearted as Isabel touch Yuga. If she did, I might lose control over Yuga entirely.

If Isabel fell under the sword’s influence, the world would be doomed.

“If you don’t trust me, then fine,” Yuga said coolly. “But if you do nothing, your priestess dies for sure. So why not gamble?”

“A gamble?”

“Let her die, or trust me and survive. Two options. Simple, right?”

My head spun.

She was scheming again. The moment the balance of power shifted, she changed her tone.

Maybe this whole situation was orchestrated by her—to make herself useful again.

So what should I do?
How do I kill Gerolt, save Isabel, and keep Yuga under control?

I thought quickly.

Ah.

There was one way.

“…What does Isabel have to do to wield you?”

Yuga grinned. “See that ‘window’ the angel talks about? If I jump through it, I’ll appear in her hand as a cursed sword.”

“Got it. Wait here—I’ll get her permission first.”

Yuga giggled behind her hand.
“Smart choice!”

Yeah, right.

I ignored her and focused on the more pressing matter.

Taking a deep breath, I created an illusion before Isabel’s eyes.

[A quest has appeared.]

[Permit the descent of Smiel. (0/1)]

Isabel understood immediately.

It meant Smiel himself wished to take action through her.

She knew what that meant—he would confront Gerolt in a way far different from her own.
Perhaps in a way she wouldn’t approve of.

But her hesitation didn’t last long.

As she gazed sadly at the monstrous Gerolt pressing down on her, she whispered,

“Please… Lord Smiel.”

*

Good. She accepted.

I widened the spiritual window and turned back.

“Isabel gave permission.”

“Knew she would,” Yuga said brightly. “Now, release me.”

She looked far too pleased, her mind spinning with schemes—perhaps debating whether to kill Isabel herself.

Fine. Let her imagine whatever she wants.
It won’t matter.

I waved my hand, dissolving the prison that bound her.

The instant she was freed, she lunged toward the opened window.

But I caught her wrist.

She flailed in panic, unable to shake my grip thanks to the restriction preventing her from interfering with my domain.

“W-What are you doing?! You said I could go!”

“If you jump in, Isabel will hold you as the cursed sword, right?”

“Yes! So let go!”

I met her eyes and said firmly—

“Not Isabel.”

“…What?”

The dumbfounded look on her face was almost funny.

I pulled her back behind me and stepped in front of the window myself.

“She won’t be the one using you.”

I looked away from her and spoke quietly.

“I will.”

“W-wait—!”

Realizing what I meant, Yuga screamed—but I didn’t stop.

I leapt into the window—dragging her with me.

And once again, that familiar sensation of Descent washed over me.

A burning sting spread across my skin.

But before I could orient myself, Gerolt’s mutated arms slammed into me, breaking through the Angelos Rod defense.

Not good!

Klang!

Just swinging the sword caused a massive shockwave, deflecting his blades and hurling him back.

A single slash had carved a long diagonal wound across Gerolt’s abdomen and flank.

“Graaagh!”

He stumbled back, dripping viscous black blood, and glared from afar.

That was close.

‘Aagh! How did it come to this?!’

Yuga’s furious scream echoed inside me. I smirked.

“You thought I’d hand you to Isabel? You’re mine. You may be a cursed sword, but you can’t control an angel.”

‘So what?!’

She was fuming now.

‘Do you even know how to fight? If you swing clumsily and lop my arm off, I’m not helping! Die for all I care—I’ll just wait for the next master!’

“You’ll help,” I said evenly. “Because if Isabel dies, I’ll haunt every master you ever meet—just like I’m doing now.”

A shocked gasp followed.

Yeah, it was a cheap bluff.

The truth was, as a unique angel, I could only descend into Isabel.
But Yuga didn’t know that.

She wasn’t an angel—she had no way to tell I was lying.

‘You’d follow me… forever?’

“I’ll torment you endlessly. Maybe start by locking you in a dark box for, oh… three hundred years?”

‘You’re insane!’

I laughed. I could feel her agitation fade, the trembling in the sword calming.

That’s right, Yuga.

You don’t have a choice.
Work with me—or perish.

Now then…

I swallowed hard.

The mutant Gerolt was hideous—his hands were blades, his mouth stretched like a beast’s maw, his face shriveled like a dried fruit.

Panting heavily, he stared at me like a predator eyeing prey.

I was scared—but I had to kill him.

Otherwise, Isabel would die.

Of course, I’d never wielded a sword like this—as an angel or a human.

So I wasn’t going to duel that monster head-on. That’d be suicide.

But there was one skill I knew—one only wielders of the cursed sword could use.

“Yuga, I’m using Demon Sword Art: Second Form. Support me.”

‘How the hell do you even know that?!’

Because I’d played through it—over and over again. I’d memorized every move of the Black Knight versus the Hero battle scene.

Dark mana defies the laws of space and time itself. The Demon Sword Arts manipulate that principle into lethal techniques.

Of the four known forms, I’d use the second—
The simplest, fastest, and straightest slash in existence.

Dyke, after becoming the Black Knight, had mastered this move flawlessly.
I knew its mechanics completely.
With Yuga’s support, I could replicate it.

“I know the flow. Just help me control the mana.”

‘Ugh… fine!’

I felt Yuga’s energy merging with mine. Exhaling, I gripped the sword with both hands and raised it high above my head.

Perhaps sensing danger, Gerolt roared and charged.

“Graaaah!”

I ignored him.

The Demon Sword Art doesn’t aim for a target.
It’s a movement—nothing more.
Anyone caught in its trajectory is simply unlucky.

The opponent isn’t Gerolt—it’s the world itself.

The essence of the art… is deception—to deceive the world.

Yuga responded on time; dark mana wrapped around the blade.

I imagined—not the act of swinging—but a sword that had already been swung.

And then I fused imagination and reality within me.

Just as observation creates phenomena, thought creates change.

Drawing the power of that thought into my body, I began deceiving the world.

A slash is the process of starting, cutting, and stopping.
By using the chaotic nature of dark mana, I cut out the middle frame—linking the beginning and end directly.

The sword was never swung. I hadn’t even begun the motion.

And yet—

The tip that had been raised above my head now rested against the ground.

“…”

The world had been deceived.

And as the twisted law corrected itself,
I recalled the power of the dark mana.

The world had missed its own mistake. It hadn’t realized the sword had already finished its descent.

But soon—it did.
And in its confusion, to make sense of it, it filled the gap with one act:
the cut.

Thus—

To reconcile the contradiction, the world itself split open.

Cheng—!

A technique that forces space-time to rend itself to correct causality.

The simplest, fastest, and straightest strike.

Demon Sword Art, Second Form — “Severance.”

And the one caught within that line—Gerolt—

“Gr… ghh…”

Couldn’t even scream.

Oozing with gelatinous blood, his body split cleanly in two.

Between the halves of his collapsing form, a single straight scar remained carved into the ground of the Dragon’s Lair—

Not a single stroke out of place.