Siegfried was astonished by how calm he remained despite the turmoil of emotions boiling within him.
Throughout his three-year-long career as an adventurer, he had weathered countless fierce battles.
Even his very first proper “duel” seemed farcical now—perched on a golden-maned horse alongside an unwelcome companion, evading short bows and long spears while repelling enemies with mounted archery. It was clear this task of the soot-black adventurer wasn’t meant for him.
The subsequent jobs only worsened. To Siegfried, they were a heap of waste.
The second time he traveled in company, it escalated to single combat against the nefarious knight Jonas Bartlinden. Not only was he driven to retreat alone, but it seemed that fate, masquerading as the Test of the Divine, wouldn’t let him escape encounters with bandits, thieves, and horse-thieves.
In his journal, started with dreams of heroic poetry, Siegfried stopped detailing anything beyond basic notes about locations, times, and the loot received from bandit attacks after the tenth entry or so. He had seen too many ambushes; his experience in battle had become monotonous routine.
To him, the thin ale that dulled the mind and allowed him moments of forgetfulness became a frequent companion. The overwhelming chaos of battle seemed strangely absurd in his cool thoughts. Even the multiplication of enemy limbs—six grotesque arms swinging twice their normal length—had become manageable through experience. It was all due to the unrelenting chaos he had been thrown into over the years, whether he liked it or not.
Above all, in just the last few hours, he’d grown fully acquainted with the absurd persistence of undead beings. Severed heads or slit arteries meant nothing when the foes could regrow three, four, or even more grotesque arms as casually as if it were an everyday affair.
Truthfully, there was nothing new here; he had faced worse.
The necromancer’s conjured plants—sprouting massive tendrils from a single sapling, intent on strangling him—paled in comparison to the current chaos. Even the duel against a golden-haired warrior, where multiple swords seemed to strike from every angle, felt easier in hindsight.
The main body remained stationary, while four elongated limbs and the massive primary arm unfolded, lashing out like whips. In the spaces between these attacks, Siegfried dove, dodged, and parried, deflecting the blows that his armor couldn’t handle and focusing on avoiding the vital, exposed areas that could prove fatal.
A polished yet repetitive pattern was how his experience made him feel uneasy.
Automated magical constructs were inherently weak against improvisation. Even the most calculated spells, built to predict a vast range of scenarios, could not transcend the preconceived boundaries of their design, constructed as they were on theoretical foundations.
Imitating a master’s movements without embodying their intent meant the same as any amateur’s movements. Regardless of how refined, they lacked the essence of expertise.
Targeting the redundant motions inherent in such mechanical precision, Siegfried swung his blade, slicing at the vulnerable joints where the construct appeared weakest. No matter how swift or precise the blades, as long as the base remained fixed, reading their movements came easily to him in his current state.
Compared to the nerve-racking experience of being surrounded by numerous bandits, thrusting through unpredictable spear strikes and arrow salvos, this felt akin to casually handling newcomers in the courtyard of a silver-wolf tavern. How effective were an opponent’s swift attacks if the final move was simply sidestepping out of their reach?
Slicing the construct’s limbs one by one, shortening them gradually, he anticipated the moment the torso would charge forward in a desperate, reckless strike. Sidestepping effortlessly, he kicked the construct toward a nearby tree, then swiftly drove his blade through its unguarded back.
Even after dismantling these disturbing mechanical puppets created by mages, no surge of passion erupted within him. Instead, as he retrieved a dagger from the discarded hands of the vanquished construct, a methodical calmness persisted. He leaped into action, dismembering the other undead constructs where his fellow adventurers struggled in combat.
Any regular swordsman, faced with such powerful anomalies, would quickly meet their end under the divine hand of the gods they served, yet the adventurers here fought bravely, their valor worthy of epic verse despite their injuries. Their battles were commendable.
Still, to Siegfried, it was unbearably frustrating. It seemed the enemy didn’t fear attrition, while allies’ movements were less precise than usual. Fatigue was evident, but more importantly, the dread of a simultaneous fatal strike against an adversary who wouldn’t perish lingered in everyone’s minds.
“Stop waving your swords around like amateurs!!”
Enraged thoughts surged through his body, pushing him beyond physical limits, while the simultaneously cold and detached part of his mind imposed optimal movements onto his heated body. Two contradictory halves of him coalesced into a chaotic order, generating unforeseen levels of performance.
Against three constructs, he dismantled every function, but the heat they emitted never subsided.
“Big brother Dee, you’re overdoing it…”
“Shut up, if you’re hurt, stay back and hand over your sword!”
Forcing a struggling guild member into a sitting position, Siegfried seized a sword discarded by the same due to its edge dulled by ichor and bl**d. His heightened emotions, caught between control and unbridled fervor, still screamed deep within him.
“B-but brother Dee, your arm…”
“Therefore, be quiet, you idiot! What use is this thin arrow when you can’t even stop it?”
k*ll, slay. The projectiles Siegfried endured from the construct with bow-like forearms became mere pricks alongside the cacophony of violent urges in his own mind. Disdainful for the design prioritizing penetration and mobility, Siegfried snapped the arrows at their base and pulled them out from the opposite side without giving it much thought.
“No muscles or arteries are hurt. Don’t cry like a baby over a single arrow—you aren’t a virgin after all! Now be quiet and hand over that sword!”
Though pushing his body dangerously, Siegfried felt a peculiar ease in his movements, as if consciousness had subjugated the overexcited adrenaline coursing through his veins.
If this could be done voluntarily, then…
“I will k*ll.”
His thought processes abruptly cut off as his gaze landed on the grotesque monstrosity writhing with increasing ferocity amidst the battle.
Amidst the fray, struck by an overwhelming wave of heat—not unlike the sensation he had faced days ago—the previously human-like construct had transformed beyond recognition. It was no longer something Siegfried could comfortably refer to as an undead construct.
Flesh blistered, burst, and regenerated repeatedly, releasing boiling fluids that scorched everything in contact. Bundles of sinew writhed and grew into tentacles that surged in erratic patterns, their chaotic swarms evoking images of marine creatures to anyone informed on the matter.
The tentacles thrashed, enveloping the air with caustic mucus that bleached the air white, and Siegfried understood instinctively that contact was far from advisable, despite lacking any scientific knowledge on the subject.
“Disgusting monster.”
Though cognizant of the danger, it did nothing to quell the fiery resolve within him. Not even the fumes from the dissolving creature could suppress his battle spirit as he took a step forward. This was far from the elegant and heroic figure he had once aspired to emulate, the dragon-slaying knight Siegfried.
Heroes eliminate evil through virtue and noble purpose.
They bisect with swords, pierce vital points with spears, and shatter minds with precise arrows—refreshingly clean victories.
Engaging in brute warfare, employing ruthless and unconcerned violence, throwing efficiency to the wind and manifesting sheer malice—it was not the form of a hero’s struggle.
But it was fine. If it meant avenging fallen comrades and those who had suffered under the hands of the enemy, how they perished mattered little. Even if direct action seemed futile, it was still a minor issue.
Certainly, he felt confident that one particular gentleman, destined for a punch post-battle, would find a way to settle this.
Then it was fine. If eliminating these odious foes was the end, all questions became moot.
“Stand agape ye fools! Grab anything nearby and throw it at this!”
One day, I’ll be capable of eradicating all obstacles with my own hands. Infusing this vow into action, he hurled a large rock, crushing a newly formed tumor swelling from the grotesque mass…
The great evil usually perishes by fire.
But… this certainly wasn’t predicted.
No matter how many times I slashed, the adversary didn’t d*e easily. Thus, I unleashed my incendiary thermite, only for it to backfire. Instead of perishing, the construct transformed into a grotesque abomination, something worthy of a mythical entity in its hideousness.
Its outer skin was charred and blistered, showing a nauseating palette of colors—raw flesh, burnt black, and even iridescent hues reminiscent of oil slicks. Distended growths and tumors dotted the unstable, pulsating frame. Occasionally, it would extend bundles of tentacles through gaps in its flesh, frantically searching for “material” to reconstruct itself. Often, these tentacles would snap under their own strain, writhing on the ground as broken appendages.
Likely, the construct’s internal repair mechanisms absorbed the “sticky flames” while trying to heal from massive damages during my refined years of practice. Using advanced nanocatalysis, I had developed a super thermite that required significant recovery time after use. The intense fires intensified, rapidly searing and melting the enemy more efficiently within short bursts, but my trump card had backfired.
The notorious thermite chemical reaction ignores water and atmospheric oxygen, continuing until its fuel depletes. Effective as a weapon for cremation, but now complicating the enemy’s condition far beyond prediction.
Initially meant for neutralizing undead with intense heat, which historically proved effective, it now resulted in an unexpected explosion of regenerative capacity. While the burning touch had disabled the masked vampire earlier, preventing regeneration, it was clear the current combatant was a far cry from those encounters.
The chaotic lashing of the tentacles required constant fending off. Throwing picked up stones with invisible hands only seemed to produce temporary indentations. Even as Siegfried’s group hurled more projectiles, fatal damage or even noticeable harm remained dubious.
Even the vampire’s magic could barely withstand the burn before regaining consciousness after forced quelling. Normally, melting under thousands of degrees would render it ineffective, yet here it not only regenerates but endures brutally.
Exceeding human limits with a controlled fury of rage is no trivial feat according to tribes swallowed up by empires in their rise, who bred berserkers capable of such feats. This situation felt akin to that—troublesome, yet manageable.
Setting fire to the monstrosity seemed ineffective, and simply waiting it out wasn’t practical either. Cutting off one of my prized trump cards left me contemplating the next steps, yet it was troubling.
Regeneration at this level suggests a controlled undead construct rather than a living being—something too strained for even the brain or spirit to endure. Records from Lady Agrippina’s archives of the magic academy spoke of past alchemists attempting unnatural transformations, leading to their spirits crumbling under the foreign structures of their new forms.
Thus, either this construct is remotely controlled or autonomously overseen by advanced spectral forces likely linked to necromancy. Either way, revealing one hidden trump card—among many—seems unwise when facing something capable of carrying knowledge away.
Still, letting this high-powered construct remain unchecked is far from desirable—an entire manor could be half-destroyed by such an entity’s unexpected advance. Persistence against foes declaring “d*ath” cannot go unfulfilled.
Shall it then be the unveiling of that secret technique born out of my euphoria upon obtaining the sacred artifact known as the “Radiant Vessel”? A failure, though, still remains the most explosive option currently attainable.
“Maximum firepower is unleashed! Everyone, stay clear of the vicinity!”
Summoning the catalyst from the pouch at my waist, I set the invisible hands to retrieve the pentagonal metal wedges, each meticulously engraved with potent magical inscriptions. Arranged around the boiling and regenerating enemy, the five glowing wedges outlined a boundary. Thankfully, the enemy, caught in its agony, failed to notice my preparations amid Siegfried’s distractions.
Companions truly are invaluable. Casting such preparatory grand magics solo would otherwise be laborious and painstaking.
As the wedges glowed, the boundary within took shape into a magical array, emitting a resonant hum, drawing vast quantities of mana from my core. A more refined magical staff would be preferred for such complex spells, but the simplified “Moon Ring” aimed at accessibility comes at a cost of efficiency, manifesting in this strain.
The formed symbol, a perfect circle enclosing a pentagram, might evoke associations with arcane impressions, the divine principles of yin-yang, or ancient symbols of banishment to old gods, depending on one’s perspective. Indeed, it encapsulates all such virtues.
Conceptually juvenile at times, yet undeniably logical, I once defended its design against no one in particular. The pentagram for exorcisms, the enclosed space symbolized by a continuous stroke design, and the burning pillar concept central to the ancient runes—all brought together for maximum effect.
By the time the array’s construction completed, my mana was on the verge of depletion. Complex incantations taxed the mental faculties, inducing an almost tactile dread akin to cerebral scratching.
The extravagance of such intricate arrays is why wizards disdain their use, though in this moment I wished dearly to admonish my younger self for this excessive ambition.
“Circuit of the round, shine forth, beacon to an unknown path!”
A viscous sensation crossed my lips mid-incantation—a result of mana depletion manifesting nasally, though it remains tolerable if it doesn’t emanate from the ears. A throbbing, amplified hangover-like pain waits in the next couple of days, yet I’ll survive, making it ultimately a small expense.
The space groaned as the isolation ward erected by the magical array separated internal and external realms, temporarily bending the laws of physics. Magic that modifies physical laws, given a direction, operates efficiently, yet must compartmentalize affected regions lest the caster risks catastrophe, swallowing both space and caster in flames. Thus, the bulk of the prodigious mana consumed constructs this spatial barrier.
“Compress the arduous journey, abandon temporal howls, enshrouding pillar to clothe and contain!”
Originally devised for space transference, the array performs a laborious duty ill-suited to its intended purpose. Lady Agrippina, witnessing this, would undoubtedly laugh heartily at her expense, then persistently question for hours the rationale for such an abomination.
Further yet, this elaborate setup proves useless for physical human transference, warranting more mockery surely.
Indeed, success rates hover at a mere sixty percent for my attempts, which translates effectively to nil with my current skills. This remains very much a “failure” regardless of the excitement over initial progress.
Nevertheless, unwilling to waste years of cultivating spatial transference expertise, I adapted it with an additional layer—Lady Agrippina utilized only a thin veil for efficient movement, yet I’ve enhanced it for combat purposes—redirecting the focus towards destructive magic.
“Molten terminus awaits, obliterated pathways alight, fall and gaze upon an emptied sky!”
The physics rewritten within the isolated domain interfere with atmospheric particulates, mandatorily neutralizing electrons and protons, decomposing molecules into ions and electrons. The process causes space itself to boil, manifesting in what we call plasma—an ubiquitous phenomenon in daily life from cooktop flames to fluorescent lighting, metal welding, and etching, to the celestial glory of the sun itself.
“Start of the journey is its end, coil and close the knots, open the threshold!”
The conceptual pillar of fire stands at the center, preventing the unleashed heat from scorching beyond the containment zone. Absent these constraints, the concentrated energy would indiscriminately sear the surrounding lands.
“Terminal circuits culminate here! Come and go, traveler unto oblivion!”
A scorching hellstorm erupts for but a fleeting moment, consuming all tangible existence within. Simultaneously, as the isolation barrier groans to near-collapse, spatial rifts open, redirecting the chaotic heat into an interdimensional void, safeguarding the realm from catastrophe.
Balanced precariously between control and chaos, this amalgamation of insufficient techniques dissipates, leaving behind only the molten pentagonal wedges as relics of the failed yet effective conflagration. Burning the enemy with meticulous care, the residual heat dispels the threat entirely.
The perfect annihilation of that which evades destruction—a failure too grotesque to bear witnessing, and a second hidden technique I prefer to keep secret—proved effective, and I’m glad for it.
Still, against a remotely controlled enemy, it offers no second chance. This explosive debut, a genuine first-encounter slayer, will not repeat, and the mana expenditure leaves a bitter taste.
Truly, this leaves me destitute. If someone insists on another climactic showdown after this, I’ll have the game master suspended upside-down until proper atonement is made. Lack of reflection will warrant further delay and even more days of restorative isolation.
“Guh…”
Whether from relief or exhaustion after defeating the enemy, the world suddenly spun. Supporting my head against the throbbing pain revealed an unpleasant moisture around my ears.
Ah, this isn’t good. Attempting a desperate maneuver, I underestimated my mana reserves, it seems.
Though the roaring in my ears muffles external sounds, I inwardly apologize to Siegfried, who charges toward me shouting something indistinctly.
For the cleanup, I humbly entrust you with the task…
One cannot overlook the fact that my collapses post climaxes have become somewhat habitual with Erich.
Whether it be the climaxes from my Book of Volume 1, the Magical Sword Dungeon, or the recent familial dispute climax… all have led to this predictable finale.
