Chapter 70. Mikhail (3)
Tap!
Michael pushed off the ground and cut horizontally through the Mikhail standing at the very front. Before the acidic blood could splash onto him, it evaporated from the White Flame surrounding Durandal.
Hissssss!
Scorched marks appeared on the Mikhail who had been cut in half. Michael extended his hand toward the severed body, releasing aura that spread over it.
Fwoooosh!
The aura covering the body immediately transformed into White Flame and reduced Mikhail to ashes, preventing him from dividing any further.
"Marbas won't get the result he's hoping for."
Michael swung his sword toward the next Mikhail.
Every time he swung his sword, every time he reduced the number of Mikhails by one, and every time he set their bodies on fire, memories of the old Mikhail overlapped with the figures before him.
When he was young, he lost his parents and began hanging around with a group of little thieves on the streets.
STAB!
Michael drove his sword into the back of a Mikhail who was slowly crawling toward him because his legs hadn't regenerated.
He tried to steal the bread I was about to eat, got caught, and received a thorough scolding.
Slash!
Michael cut off the head of a Mikhail attempting to attack him from behind.
After Helena gave him some soup, he made such a fuss about wanting to follow us.
STAB!
Michael thrust Durandal straight forward, skewering several Mikhails approaching in a line.
In the end, he followed us and grew into a young man who took up the sword with the dream of becoming a knight commander.
SHRAAAK!
With the back of his hand facing upward, Michael spun his body in a complete circle and cut down the Mikhails surrounding him.
Later, he swore an oath to Lady Helena and officially joined the Twelve Holy Knight Orders. He nearly lost his life fighting demons more than once, but...
Slash! Slash! Slash!
Michael could no longer distinguish the Mikhails in front of him. He simply swung Durandal wherever his hands guided him, cutting down anything that approached.
Eventually, he became a middle-aged man who earned his place as one of the twelve commanders.
By the time Michael came to his senses, he had already eliminated a considerable number of them.
But Mikhail, you... The Twelve Knight Orders... You were all grains of sand erased from history by the plague Marbas unleashed.
Michael saw the faces of the Twelve Knight Orders in the Mikhails who were dying before him.
They were people who had laughed after winning battles against demons, cried after losing their companions, argued when they couldn't work together, been forced to reconcile by their commanders, and ultimately faced death together.
Michael raised his hand toward the sky, where the stars were faintly visible, like a man reaching for the people he wanted to meet again.
"It's time to free yourselves from the past. libértas [Libertas]."
Fwoooosh!
The freely moving white flames sought out the Mikhails Michael had already defeated. As the flames gently settled over the bodies that had been writhing in pain, their movements stopped, as though they had finally found peace.
When the flames disappeared, only small piles of ash remained.
SPLURT! SPLURT! SPLURT!
"Uh. Ah. Uh. Ah."
For every Mikhail Michael eliminated, another appeared behind the others, making strange noises as it emerged.
"Right. There are still so many of you left."
As Michael cut down the Mikhails, he was also cutting through countless memories of the past. He had already come too far to turn back and mourn every memory one by one. Now that he had decided to move forward, he would cut down everything standing in his way.
Having strengthened his resolve, Michael charged toward them once again. His sword and flames, which had begun burning away the past, showed no signs of stopping.
Hissssss!
As he continued cutting and burning, some of the blood and flesh that scattered from the Mikhails inevitably landed on Michael. A splash of blood struck his cheek and began corroding his skin.
"Something like this is nothing..."
Michael casually brushed away the blood. The skin that had begun to decay immediately regenerated. Cellular tissue mixed with acid was nowhere near powerful enough to seriously injure him.
Michael tightened his grip on Durandal and looked straight ahead.
The Mikhails were still continuing to multiply.
Tap!
Michael pushed off the ground and swung Durandal again. There was no hesitation in his expression as he cut through the Mikhails. Whenever he had defeated a certain number, he raised his arm.
"libértas [Libertas]."
White Flame reduced the fallen Mikhails to ashes.
Then Michael charged toward the remaining Mikhails again. As though determined not to leave behind even the smallest remnant of the past, he continued swinging Durandal.
"...Is it over?"
How many had he cut down and burned? Eventually, everything except the original Mikhail had been reduced to ashes. The cassock Michael had changed into was already in tatters from the acid.
Whooooosh.
The cool night air brushed against the exhausted Michael. Stepping across the ashes, where only a few dying embers remained, he opened his hand and felt the wind passing over it. The cold breeze felt almost as though the people he had sent away were protesting his decision, unable to accept it.
Michael spoke quietly.
"You haven't been forgotten by history."
Grip.
He pressed his open hand against his chest.
"Because I am living history. My very existence is proof that you were here."
Small tears gathered at the corners of his heavy eyes.
These were the unspoken words of the subordinates and companions who had been erased from history.
"It doesn't matter if nobody else acknowledges you. I will. It doesn't matter if your names are erased from the records. I'll become the record that preserves them. It doesn't matter if your families no longer remember you. I'll become your family."
Michael wasn't abandoning them. He wanted to ensure that something of them would remain.
And he would do that by helping Helena save the world from the Omen.
"So... Please, stop crying out in sorrow and enjoy the feast waiting for you in Heaven."
After finishing his words, Michael opened his hand once again to feel the wind. It was calm.
He didn't know whether their souls had accepted what he said. Still, he decided to believe they had. After all, Michael knew them better than anyone else.
Step, step.
Michael approached the last remaining Mikhail. Unlike the Mikhails created through division, the weakened original could no longer multiply.
"Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah."
Having lost his jaw, Mikhail couldn't speak. Having lost his legs, he couldn't move. With only his right arm remaining, he looked lonelier than anyone else.
"Perhaps it's better that you can't remember."
Michael held Durandal in a reverse grip and placed the tip of its blade against Mikhail's chest. Mikhail's eyes, which had already given up on everything, were completely empty.
"I suppose guiding someone also means stopping a reckless child when he strays down the wrong path."
Drip.
