Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 72

Night fell fast in Rubena. The sky grew darker by the minute, and by five in the afternoon, the sun had already dipped behind the mountains. Soon, its light was gone, and the city was plunged into darkness.

Stars hidden by the sun’s glow now revealed themselves, and the moon rose to take its place. It was the hour when vampires could roam freely.

From the ruins where they had hidden, the two Vampires—Tepes and Roman—emerged and leaped onto the roof of a building in the city center. It wasn’t so much a jump as it was an effortless movement, with no sense of weight at all.

They hadn’t spent the daylight lazing around, either. Tepes had used his projection to communicate with Leon, and in that process, learned that the Holy Iron Inquisitors had arrived.

And now, the two key forces of this operation were finally meeting. Waiting for them on the rooftop was Angela, the Holy Iron Inquisitor.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Angela,” said Roman, the older of the two vampires.

She couldn’t speak, so she simply dipped her head once.

Roman knew this already and showed no sign of displeasure, calmly summarizing their plan.

“I’ve heard the situation. My prince and I are to fight alongside you at the holding facility, then help the prisoners escape and regroup afterward. Is that correct?”

Angela nodded again.

The two high-ranking vampires were powerful allies, but Count Rubena surely knew to expect that much. He would have prepared traps and countermeasures that worked especially well on vampires.

The holding facility—a target they couldn’t ignore—would be secured more heavily than anywhere else, and it was already confirmed by Roman during his earlier recon.

“There aren’t many guards at the facility, but there’s an expert-level knight stationed there full time, and the whole place is covered in magical barriers that replicate sunlight. We can’t do much in there,” Roman said with regret. “If someone destroys the core of those barriers, we could approach... but...”

What he was saying was no different than asking Angela to handle such a big task alone. However, she didn’t waver in the slightest.

She slowly closed her eyes, then opened them again, scanning around as if to measure every weak point of her target. She was neither tall nor short, clad in a mix of priest’s garb and plate mail. That was always how Angela appeared as a Holy Iron Inquisitor.

She pressed her gloved hands together like she was praying, and the silver gauntlets scraped, letting out a faint metallic hiss. A pair of mithril gauntlets has been her partner for decades.

How many skulls had these fists crushed? How much evil had they broken? Angela herself didn’t know the full count. She just kept moving forward, believing that one day, all that blood would finally dry up.

“Three minutes,” Demain said.

Unlike Angela, Demian, versed in sacred spells, would handle a different role tonight. He would join Leon’s group to confront the Count, try to subdue him, and if possible, bind him in place.

However, they wouldn’t be enough to overpower the Count alone. Angela had to take the holding facility as fast as possible, free the prisoners and then join the fight.

“Lady Angela?”

When it was nearly time, Angela gestured a few times for the vampires to step back. She was known in the Holy Iron Inquisitors for her utter lack of finesse. No weapon suited her, so she simply used her fists.

Light gathered with a light hum. From Angela’s clenched right fist, an immense power radiated outward, pressing on the air around her.

Holy power and Aura swirled together in resonance as she prepared her Holy Fist.

In all of the Holy Iron Inquisitors, she was the one who proved her strength with her bare hands alone. She was the woman whose punch had once shattered a city gate, a story still whispered from city to city.

With a voiceless roar, Angela threw her punch—and a burst of light exploded from her gauntlet.

***

A thunderous crash shook the ground somewhere in the city, startling Leon. Whatever technique was used, it was unimaginably strong.

Leon silently measured the force and couldn’t help but admire it. In sheer density, it was below his own Merak, but in total power, it was almost equal. If that blow even grazed someone, they would be pulverized without mercy.

Demian, walking a few steps ahead, murmured, “That’s Angela.”

“Excuse me?” Leon asked.

“That impact just now. That was her.”

Having worked alongside her on missions before, he knew exactly how terrifying that small fist really was. She created a force that could shatter an armored knight’s lance charge head-on. Anyone foolish enough to underestimate her because of her size or gender ended up rolling in the dirt after a single punch.

Her silence was a huge limitation. Unable to use words meant that in every mission, she had to break through with pure strength alone, and that was how Angela had survived for decades as a Holy Iron Inquisitor.

“In raw strength, she’s probably twice as strong as I—stronger than most of our seniors, too,” Demian said.

There was a reason why he had sent her alone to hit the holding facility.

“The real problem is here, though,” he added.

This was the group that had to confront Count Rubena himself: four B-rank mercenaries, one B-rank adventurer, one A-rank adventurer, and last but not least, Demain himself. Considering that a high-tier mage’s power multiplied several times over on their home ground, even with a lineup that seemed beefy, at best they were evenly matched.

If even one person dies or loses the will to fight... the entire battle could flip in an instant.

Gustav and Leon must have read the rest of that unspoken thought, because they both tensed but said nothing as they moved forward. Reaching the Count’s manor took no time at all. At the main gate, the guards stepped forward to block them.

“What business do you have here? Do you think it proper to visit the lord at this hour? If you know your place, turn back at once!”

“It’s you who must stand aside.” Demian stepped forward and raised a hand, saying, “I am Demian, Thirty-Eighth Seat of the Holy Iron Inquisitors of the Holy Church. I declare that we are here to judge this land for the crime of heresy.”

“W-what? The Church?”

“The Holy Iron Inquisitors...!”

The startled guards wavered, looking at each other in confusion—and then an elderly man emerged from the manor behind them. The old man, dressed in formal evening wear, was the Count’s chief butler.

He bowed low with perfect courtesy and said, “My lord bids you enter. Please, follow me.”

Meeting an Inquisitor with a butler at the door was brazen beyond comprehension. Leon’s group was briefly taken aback, but they soon realized there was no reason to refuse and stepped inside.

The atmosphere was completely different from their daytime visit. The dark, silent halls of the grand house were lifeless, empty of any warmth.

“He awaits you inside,” the head butler said, stopping once they had arrived at the door to the reception room as if to say his duty was done.

Demian reached out and pushed the door open. Whatever trap lay within, they couldn’t turn back now.

The Holy Iron Inquisitors were the will of the Goddess. In the face of heresy, there was no retreat.

The Count—Andrei Rubena—looked at them with a calm, relaxed smile and greeted, “Welcome, Demian of the Holy Iron Inquisitors.”

Gone was any trace of the wrath they’d seen days ago. Perhaps it had been fake all along, or it simply wasn’t worth the emotion anymore.

“I regret that I can’t offer proper hospitality on such sudden notice. And I suppose you won’t want tea when you’re here to accuse me of heresy, hm?”

“Don’t play dumb, Count. We didn’t come here at this hour for jokes and tea,” Demian said with his gentle manner vanished, replaced by an edge of steel. “You stand accused of imprisoning the Wallachia clan, who fulfilled their labor sentence for the Holy Church, and of stealing power by using the blood of innocent people in this land.”

“Oh? And how did you learn that, I wonder?”

“You don’t even try to deny it.”

The Count took a slow sip of the wine in his hand and replied in a lazy drawl, “Why bother? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

He emptied the glass, then turned his eyes to Leon’s group standing behind Demian. A sharp, mocking laugh escaped his lips.

He continued, “You peasants really deceived me. Working hand in hand with those bat vermin, wrecking my property behind my back—bold, for gutter scum. I promise you this: none of you will die a peaceful death.”

“Funny,” Gustav barked out a short laugh that cut through Andrei’s threat. “You call them bats—so what does that make you, when you drain them dry all over again? A leech? And you’ve got the gall to admit your heresy right in front of a Holy Iron Inquisitor? Seems like the fool with no fear is you.”

“Listen to yourself barking like a dog, you peasant.”

“And yet you seem to understand every word. Doesn’t feel like we’re that far apart after all, does it?”

A noble and a mercenary—everyone knew who’d win in a battle of words. If this were a courtly banquet, maybe Andrei’s silver tongue would hold up. However, mercenaries could dig up your parents’ graves if it helped get under your skin.

Just a few barbs and the Count, who moments ago had looked so composed, stood trembling with rage, at a loss for words.

“Do you truly wish to die, dog?”

“What’s this? You promised not to let us die a peaceful death, did you already forget it, you old man? Hah. Must be that senile mind of yours rattling around.”

Andrei’s patience snapped in an instant as he shot to his feet.

“You...! Using that foul tongue to shorten what little life you have left! Fine! I’ll kill you right here!”

The room’s air changed in a heartbeat. The pendant at Andrei’s neck shattered, and the surge of magic that burst out filled the chamber to its walls.

Leon’s group turned pale in an instant.

“That magical energy... That’s insane,” Hansen muttered.

“How did that rotten old man hide that all this time?!” Karen shouted.

“That pendant... it must’ve been a suppression charm.”

They exchanged a few quick words and scattered, shifting positions in a flash. The Count’s reception room was spacious—big enough that all seven of them could spread out without crowding each other.

Andrei simply watched them form up, arms folded, eyes blazing with contempt and fury. He didn’t move a finger as if to say any struggle they made was useless.

“You still don’t see it, peasants?”

He spread his arms wide and rose into the air. He was only a few meters off the ground, but the sheer weight of the magic swirling around him was suffocating.

Leon’s group glared up at him, eyes wide. A mage’s weakness was close combat, but this was his stronghold. Any reckless move could be punished instantly. Until he showed an opening, they couldn’t afford to waste their strength.

Hovering in midair, Andrei spread his palm toward them.

“Why do you think I never called my knights? Why do you think I summoned you here? Curse your arrogance and your ignorance and die!”

In that instant, black lightning burst from Andrei’s hand, smashing into Gustav’s zweihander just as he barely managed to raise it. The next moment, Gustav flew like an arrow, slamming into the far wall.

It had sent a near A-rank Aura wielder, stronger than most, crashing away like a toy. No low-tier spell could do that.

Demian’s eyes widened as he roared, “Casting a high-tier magic wordlessly...?! Did you use sacrifice rites, you bastard?! Was the blood of the poor not enough—you stole their souls too?!”

Andrei ignored Demian’s shout and kept going, voice dripping with venom.

“You lapdog of the Church. There’s always been one thing I wanted to ask you. You self-righteous hounds branded us black mages as heretics. You banned entire branches of magic—Drain, Sacrifice, all of it. Nearly every spell I researched was outlawed that way.”

Black magic had once been just another branch of sorcery. Before the world saw just how vile and cruel it could be, it had served as a powerful tool for those who lusted after strength.

Especially the powerful—for them, their people were just resources. Countless ancient empires rose and fell on the back of the abuse of black magic.

“Why? Why forbid such efficient magic? A few worthless lives could buy decades. One could have immortality for the cost of the worthless. Why does the Goddess forbid it? Why make mortals stay mortal?”

“You want me to preach you a sermon?”

“Hah, as if.” Andrei’s mouth twisted into a jagged grin and then his eyes flared blood-red as he screamed, “I will show you what I mean!”

Corrupt power surged out. The force erupting from Andrei’s body resonated with the manor around him, the wave of it rattling Leon’s group where they stood.

It wasn’t even an attack, just his hidden power laid bare. Yet the fighters who were all B-rank or stronger felt their heads spin.

This was the black mage of seventh-tier or higher, a man who’d stockpiled vast sacrifices and now wielded his entire domain like a blade in his palm.

El-Cid’s voice came sharply in Leon’s mind.

—Be careful, Leon.

Andrei’s frail old frame was gone, and in its place stood a young man, neat and cold, overflowing with power. A presence worse than the priest of Evil Leon had faced back in Blaine. Not the same scale as the monster that it had tried to summon, but with the power gathered here now, their odds of victory were less than thirty percent.

—The holy sword’s light works on black magic but not like it does on exolaw. It’ll only weaken it, not nullify it.

What if I tried to block that lightning strike from earlier...?

—It won’t send you flying like Gustav, but it’ll rattle your bones. You won’t break through him in one swing.

Ah, sounds like it’ll be tough.

Despite his words, Leon didn’t flinch at all. He swung the holy sword once, pushing back the oppressive air in the room, then stepped forward, pointing its tip at Andrei. His companions, still frozen a moment ago, fixed their eyes on his back.

Leon declared, “Let’s get started.”

He felt Karen’s presence slide up to his side and let out a fearless grin. Gustav had run his mouth so well, it made Leon want to laugh.

“Leech, huh? What a name for the old man.”

“Peasant!”

Enraged, Andrei flung out his hand and Leon swung his blade. The lightning shattered as the Holy Sword cleaved through it and Andrei’s eyes widened in shock.

Demian didn’t miss his chance and pressed his palms together. Black magic’s bane was sacred spells. Even on ground that Andrei controlled, that truth would not bend.

“O Goddess, shine your light into this dark, cold shadow. Let them see the mercy you grant—let them see the cruelty of their own deeds.”

Light flared from Demian’s body, flooding the room. The barrier of black magic that had gripped the manor flickered and the flow of mana into Andrei slowed.

That was the opening.

“Now!”

At Demian’s signal, the Steel Claw mercenaries surged forward as one.