Chapter 13: No One Wants to Die

After the good news that Poirot only knew the Haste Spell reached them, our opponents exchanged smiles and surrounded us again. Perhaps they felt it was beneath their dignity for four people to deal with two wet-behind-the-ears recruits, while the temptation of capturing a Mage alive was also very appealing, so that squad leader left us behind and charged straight at Poirot.

Poirot let out a scream, turned around, and ran, quickly leaving his pursuer behind. With the speed he showed while fleeing for his life, I didn’t have to worry too much about him.

Actually, it wasn’t that I didn’t need to—I simply had no time to worry about him. The small sword formation formed by the three men in front of me kept me scrambling and barely able to cope.

Suddenly, Fred’s voice came from beside me:

“Hold off the one with brown hair—whatever you do, hold him off!”

Was it because the danger before me had scared me senseless, or was it out of absolute trust in Fred? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I had already rushed recklessly at the brown-haired Winston soldier and swung my sword at him.

My sudden abandonment of blocking in favor of attacking caught him off guard, and he was forced to break his sword rhythm and switch from offense to defense. In a daze, I only saw my short sword swinging down at the enemy in front of me at great speed. Though the movement was clumsy, it carried a crazed, irrational ferocity that forced him into a humiliating defense. Although I didn’t gain any ground, I did manage to hold off my opponent.

I didn’t gain any ground, but over by Fred, things had changed.

He was surrounded by two soldiers, one on each side. When one soldier thrust his sword at him, Fred raised the blade in his hand slightly.

It was a feint—he didn’t use his blade to block. If the soldier had kept up his thrust and attacked him at that moment, he would have run him straight through.

What he was betting on was that his opponent feared his weapon.

He won.

The soldier quickly pulled back his longsword, and on Fred’s other side, the other soldier was just beginning his attack.

Fred moved. He rushed straight at the first soldier, almost faster than the longsword was being pulled back, as if his whole body was charging in faster than the other man could retract his arm.

He wouldn’t have been able to before, but now he was under the Haste Spell.

This young man, raised in a noble family, understood magic far better than these lowly foot soldiers before him. He used the spell that had been cast on him and his enhanced speed to launch a counterattack.

That soldier hadn’t expected him to arrive so quickly and wanted to thrust his sword out again. But the momentum of his full-force pullback made it impossible for him to make any counter move.

When he fell to the ground, only half his head remained.

After the successful strike, the second soldier’s longsword was already close to Fred’s back. If the tip had advanced just one finger’s length further, Fred would have been badly wounded.

But it was impossible—the longsword’s force was spent, and it could not thrust forward even a fraction more.

Fred turned and slashed back, a flash of red light. Blood flowed down along Ink Shadow onto the ground, yet not a trace of red stained the blade.

Using speed against slowness, responding to stillness with endless changes, Fred easily cut down two enemies in an instant. I even suspected that he could easily take on five by himself, and that his earlier predicament was only because he had to look after me, someone unable to protect myself.

The remaining opponent quickly lost his life under the joint attack of Fred and me. Although this was the second time I had killed someone, I couldn’t help feeling nauseated when I pulled my sword out of his body—no one likes killing, even if I had every good reason.

Just as we were about to go rescue Poirot, who had fled in panic, his scream came from behind us:

“Help…”

The Winston squad leader who had chased after him was running back with Poirot held under his arm. The frail Mage’s face was covered in mud and grass, his gray robe covered in dust, and he was struggling nonstop.

The squad leader hadn’t expected to come back and see his men lying broken on the ground. Seeing Fred walking toward him with his blade in hand and a cold expression, his heart turned cold, and he put his longsword across Poirot’s neck, shouting:

“Don’t come any closer! Come closer and I’ll kill him!”

I was instantly at a loss, looking at Poirot, then at Fred, not knowing what to do.

Just as I was helplessly flustered, Fred said something I never expected.

“Go ahead and kill him. That worthless Mage is of no use to me.” Fred’s voice was heavy with coldness, and he took a big step forward.

“Don’t come closer! I really will kill him!” The officer hadn’t expected such an answer and took a step back. His hand tightened, drawing a bloody line on Poirot’s neck.

“That Mage only knows the Haste Spell. You know that too—he’s no use to us at all. Kill him, and then it’ll be just you against the two of us.” I had never seen Fred so terrifying. When he mentioned killing Poirot, he was actually still smiling, as if it were something amusing.

“Fred, what are you saying!” I couldn’t help shouting. “You—you—you really…”

“This idiot almost got us killed, and you still want to save his life?” Fred suddenly shouted, cutting me off. It made my heart tremble. Did he really want Poirot dead? Was this Fred still the young recruit who would risk his life for the word “friend”? Was he still the young soldier who had protected his comrades outside the Valley of Death? Was he still the warrior who had received the respect of loyal and brave Knights?

I couldn’t say anything. I could only watch the three of them in silent confrontation: Fred’s eyes gleamed with ferocity, the officer’s eyes were full of fear, and Poirot? That bad-tempered, lazy, young, lousy Mage—why was he so silent at the moment of life and death?

I wondered if I was seeing wrong. After hearing Fred’s words, that carefree, handsome silver-haired youth looked dejected, with two glints of light in his eyes—he was actually crying. Even though he was being held hostage, there was no fear on his face, only a lonely, despairing expression.

I even nearly rushed at Fred and started fighting him. How could he hurt a companion’s heart like this? Even the dull Dakla and the timid Roll had never been insulted like that.

Before I could charge over, Fred had already dashed out, shouting as he ran: “Fine! If you won’t kill him, I will!” He actually swung his blade at Poirot.

Poirot watched helplessly as Ink Shadow chopped toward him, not even struggling, as if stunned with terror.

The officer was greatly alarmed. He had originally grabbed a Mage to use as a shield to threaten his opponents. He hadn’t expected the enemy to ignore that and actually charge in swinging. Subconsciously, he pulled Poirot in front of himself and turned to dodge the blow.

Fred turned his wrist, let out a loud shout, and slashed again—his target was still Poirot.

The officer was extremely embarrassed. Not daring to actually kill Poirot, he could only dodge again.

And so it went back and forth several times. The one who was supposed to save the hostage turned to killing, while the one who was originally the killer did everything he could to protect the hostage’s life.

In this scene, I was completely useless. I could only stand aside and watch anxiously. But as I watched, I suddenly noticed something, and my heart leaped with joy:

True, I was a novice at fighting, but I wasn’t stupid. I was also a trained soldier. I knew the weapon in Fred’s hand was a divine weapon. If he really wanted to kill Poirot, all he had to do was close his eyes and sweep it around a few times—Poirot and the Winston officer holding him would have been cut in half long ago.

Although he kept attacking Poirot, his real purpose was to distract the officer and create as much space as possible between the two, making an opening for rescue. But he also couldn’t push the officer too hard, lest the man, in desperation, hurt Poirot. So Fred himself tried hard to avoid contact with the officer’s longsword, afraid that if he sliced through it, new trouble would arise. Compared to just now, when he had taken on two enemies and killed them in an instant, Fred was now displaying even more superb and delicate martial skill.

I couldn’t help exulting: Fred was still that resolute, decisive, brave, and wise Fred—still my friend Fred. It seemed I had never thought he might fail, never thought that if he died under the enemy’s sword, Poirot and I would definitely be no match for this officer and could only wait for death. He seemed born to be someone people looked to and trusted.

Finally, the chance came. To parry, the officer naturally pulled Poirot to the left with his left hand, leaving a gap between the two wide enough to strike.

Ink Shadow swung down with the sound of wind. The intent was clear—sever the left arm and save the hostage.

It could not fail!

But at the very moment Ink Shadow swung down, Poirot’s face appeared right in the path the blade was taking. Facing the flash of the blade, he didn’t even blink. On his face was the tragic solemnity of one determined to die and a lonely sorrow.

The blade stopped, just a hair’s breadth away. Fred stared at Poirot in shock, not knowing what he was doing. Neither did I.

He really wanted to die.

Could Fred’s words just now have made him so desperate? I didn’t understand.

For an instant, Poirot looked at Fred with a complicated expression. I understood that expression—it held surprise, understanding, joy, and regret.

No one truly wants to die.

But it was too late.

Although the officer didn’t understand what exactly was happening, he still knew to seize the moment and thrust at Fred. If Fred died, the two of us remaining would be easy to deal with.

Luckily, Fred dodged quickly, but the longsword stabbed into his right shoulder. His hand relaxed, and Ink Shadow fell to the ground.

The officer kicked Fred to the ground with a single kick, then raised his longsword high, clearly about to chop down at Fred.

I raised my sword and charged toward them, but unfortunately I was too far away to save him in time.

Fred lay on the ground clutching his right shoulder, unable to dodge.

At that moment, Poirot moved.

Poirot broke free from the officer’s arm, stood in front of Fred, and reached out with his eyes closed to catch the longsword. He had misunderstood Fred’s good intentions and caused him to be hurt. Now, he wanted to make up for his mistake with his life.

“No!” Fred shouted from the ground.

The longsword chopped down at Poirot. I cried out in shock, but I couldn’t help at all.

Just then, I saw the most unbelievable sight of the day:

In Poirot’s hands—more precisely, in his gloved left hand—a mass of black light suddenly bloomed, blocking the falling sword. I know it sounds strange to say “black light,” but I swear by the God of Wealth, Shlemodia, that it truly was a mass of black light—so black it was dazzling, yet so bright it was blinding.

The mass of black light grew brighter and brighter until it finally exploded in Poirot’s hand. With a miserable scream, the Winston officer was blown to pieces before our eyes by that black light, flesh and shattered bones splattering across the ground like a rainstorm. An eyeball rolled to my feet; the life in its gaze had not yet completely faded.

The change came too fast—I didn’t even feel fear.

The first to react was Poirot. He collapsed beside Fred, trembling all over and vomiting violently, as if he wanted to throw up his very guts. Fred’s whole body relaxed, and he went limp on the ground, unconscious.

My concern for my friends overcame my fear of the human flesh scattered everywhere. I hurried over, tended to Fred’s wound, and then helped Poirot to the side. His body had no injuries at all, but perhaps because of the overwhelming shock, his eyes were dull and staring straight ahead, as if he had lost consciousness.

Before long, Fred woke up. His wound was serious, but it hadn’t harmed the bones or tendons, so I wasn’t too worried. As for Poirot, I still didn’t know what he had done, but just a moment ago he had blasted a living person into pieces of flesh right in front of me. That was truly terrifying.

“No more, no more…” Suddenly, Poirot clutched his head with both hands and screamed in despair, then fell to the ground and wept bitterly. Fred and I stood beside him, looking at each other, not knowing what to do.

Suddenly, Poirot gradually stopped crying and looked up at us. His gaze was very cold now—so cold it could freeze water.

“Yes, it was me.” He looked at the blood and gore all over the ground and said one sentence, whether to us or to himself.