Sword Demon Battle Ballad―― Finale of the Eight Arms

Translated by: @Ringo1748607337

Proofread by: @ShadowKoto

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???: [――Hey, Jumbo! You, do it over here too!]

Catching the excavation tools thrown at him alongside the vituperation with the arms on his back, the colossal man sluggishly upraised his face.

The gargantuan man measured close to two metres in height. The skin of his muscly, brawny body was blue, and affixed above his neck was a visage terrifying enough to scare away Witchbeasts in hurried escape. However, what was more peculiar about him than his face or physique, were his eight arms hefty as logs.

The Multi-Arm Tribe largely had individuals with four to five arms on average; even amongst them, those with eight arms were rare, and there was about only one renowned in history.

Anyhow, his presence was enough to compel anyone to re-examine whether they had the correct person to be treating roughly. ――However, to much misfortune, the person was not mistaken about who they were pushing around, and they possessed the right to be pushing him around, at the very least the party being pushed around believed such.

After all, the one pushing him around was the Supervisor of this site, and the gargantuan man was a prisoner beneath his employ.

Cuffed around his neck was a “Meteor” called the “Collar of Subservience”, and should he purchase the Supervisor’s displeasure, he would be granted punishment per his will in this position. The will to defy did not even as little as surge. ――To begin with, he had not a smidgen of intent to oppose.

Supervisor: [What’s thi~s? That defiance in your eyes. You got any problems?]

???: [None. This is how my eyes have appeared from the onset.]

Upon him shaking his head against the faults appended to him, the Supervisor’s eyes tapered with a hint of sadism. Expecting punishment to befall him upon this indication――,

???: [Supervisor Lehare! The Governor is calling you!]

Lehare: [Tch, lucky bastard… keep at it till I come back!]

Receiving a summon from the other side of the avenue, the Supervisor grimaced and left those words behind. Seeing off his frame, the gargantuan man looked down onto the digging stick in his hand and muttered, “Lucky, huh”.

???: [For me to be lucky, what an ironic thing, isn’t it, Stride.]

Murmuring this ruminative utterance, he raised overhead the digging stick for the construction site behind him―― the massive, enormous build of foundation for the rampart under construction.

△▼△▼△▼△

――Once, there had been a legendary warrior named the Eight Arms.

He came from the rare tribe, the Multi-Arm Tribe, living in the Vollachian Empire, and as his alias denoted, he used all eight of his arms to manipulate weapons, the strongest existence who vanquished every kind of adversary. Availing himself the name of the strongest per his will in the Empire that prized fighters, the Eight Arms befitted esteem.

――However, that was about thirty years ago.

Lionized as the strongest in the Empire, his name having promulgated far and wide, the Eight Arms declined as an unofficial felon for being a member of the party to have committed an act of war against the neighbouring Kingdom of Lugunica. Taking into account the achievements of the Eight Arms till then and even the strength that he possessed in person, he could have taken the option to enact his discontent through exercise of strength and firmly refused accepting such a position.

However, the Eight Arms abstained from doing so, and accepted the judgement the country cast upon him without resistance.

As a result, the Eight Arms was assigned labour without parole, and had been engaged in construction of the firm, powerful rampart of the Fortified City of Garkla in the northern region of the Empire, for days worth many decades and still counting.

With that flow of time, the legend of the Eight Arms became an old and rusted article, reaching a period where the many individuals who supervised him, as he pursued labour, were unbeknownst to who he was.

The people rounded up for the ceaseless construction work of walls, for it to be sturdier, for it to be firmer, were predominantly either criminals same as the Eight Arms, remnant soldiers defeated in battle, or roaming wanderers with no homeland.

And even amongst those in the same environs as him, the Eight Arms was disdained as a traitor to his appearance, scorned as a frightened old wolf who undertook neither rebellion nor resistance.

――Until that day arrived.

It should have been a day with nothing remarkable.

Light clouds convened over Mount Gildray which functioned as the provincial border with the neighbouring country, a refreshing breeze also penetrated into the Fortified City adjacent to the mountain. Lately the weather had been continually humid and sweat-inducing, so today’s labour would be given considerable respite, was the kind of talk also flitting about the construction site.

However――,

???: [――Sa~y, I’m telling you to bring forward the one responsible.]

Accompanying the remark akin to the tantrums of a displeased child, was fearsome destruction.

The discharged shockwave upturned the city’s ground, and every person, thing, and building set upon it was literally blown off by their roots, refashioned into a variegated meld of ruin. With just that, one-third of the extolled firm and sturdy Garkla collapsed, generating ten thousand worthless sacrifices.

A beat subsequent to the devastation, the screeches and wails resounding as cries of agony amplified, and the man who walked on trampling them underfoot ran a hand through his white hair,

???: [Goodness, on top of being made to bring myself to this dusty place, to run into someone so short of courtesy is truly such bad luck. Even though I’ve gone out of my way to come all the way here, such lack of consideration towards the toil the other party has had to undertake. The forethought one would call natural, you know.]

Grumbling complaints and discontent, the man casually snapped his fingers. ――The subsequent instant, a smaller scale of destruction coiled onto all that was ahead of his snapped fingers, further augmenting damage violating the city.

The man scattered about inexplicable destruction, as he then surveyed the devastation in apparent boredom,

???: [In the end, even after I so kindly identify their mistakes, nobody comes forward to apologize. The way they’re all such self-seeking humans is so repulsive. Don’t you think so, number one hundred and thirty four.]

No.134: [――Yes, I believe it is as per Husband-sama’s say.]

The one to quietly respond to the man’s inquiry was a brown-haired woman walking right behind him. The man nodded in satisfaction with a “That’s right” upon the woman’s reply, her features and conduct well-ordered, emotionless as a doll.

There――,

???: [――Stand in line, criminals! Be useful!]

A sharp voice tore through the space of agonising cries, followed by a succession of footsteps. Upon hearing that, the white-haired man furrowed his brows with a “What’s this?”, capturing in his sight the crowd deploying before him.

They were about thirty men in squalid guises, made to wield crude weaponry.

Their races and ages were sundry, but what they all shared in common besides their squalidness were the collars on their necks,

???: [So, now what? Do you, at last, intend to recognise the blunder you committed and welcome me all huddled together? I want to make it clear that I’m not particularly seeking any grandiose sort of hospitality. What I wish for is treatment natural for and as a human. And also, with what I’m looking for prepared. It’s not that I personally want it, but it’s something I was requested to acquire――]

???: [Do it――!!]

It was when the man was in the midst of verbosely elucidating his objective.

Behind the row of men, a person garbed in the Empire’s military uniform diffused his instruction and the weapons were cast. They rushed toward the man straight ahead, and coercively shut his yet prattling mouth――,

???: […I was in the middle of talking just now, wasn’t I? To interfere with that amounts to an infringement of my rights. That’s, not something I can forgive!]

The man standing upright stretched his arm, preventing only the thrown weapons from landing upon the woman behind him, himself defenselessly bathing in the lethal weaponry yet roaring without injury.

The man’s indignation also birthed damage onto the men lined up before him.

The avenue dissipated, however many people were turned to mincemeat, the ones who yet survived seemed to lack the option to run, wielding their fortunately saved lives as weapons, only able to bound towards the man all wearing grim expressions.

???: [All of them, a horde who just can’t listen to someone. ――From the bottom of my heart, I find it repulsive.]

Snapping his fingers at the one leading the vanguard of their plunge, the man retched in annoyance stemming from his heart.

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Lehare Yvsant, the Supervisor, was pursued by many decisions in the chaotic situation of turmoil.

For Lehare, who originally was nothing more than the Supervisor for the rampart’s construction work, the report and orders to manage that descended upon him patently exceeded his duties, but there was nothing he could do about it in the present circumstances.

After all, the Governor of the Fortified City of Garkla had been engulfed in the first range of destruction and turned to a spatter of blood.

The Governor’s aides had also been blown off altogether, so the official chain of command of Garkla at present was in absolute chaos. In the time it would take to confirm that, wounds might spread to a fatal extent.

Thus, Lehare had no option but to act as the temporary Governor representative. ――Naturally, it was not the mere Supervisor Lehare who made this audacious determination.

The one to push for this determination was――,

Lehare: [The enemy is, a singular individual, is it? And they are scattering the labourers to dust? This report…]

???: [――Is some kind of mistake, you think? Is that judgement what your common sense has illuminated to you? If so, then does the occurrence presently unfolding in this city conform to your common sense? Use your head.]

Lehare: [T-Then, Prince, do you truly think the city was reduced to this by one person?]

Prince: [Of course, I am also maintaining the possibility that they are not alone within consideration… the problem is, their goal.]

Setting a hand on his mouth, the one deep in ponderance was the person who had perchance been visiting the city for inspection―― before the wisdom of the young Prince about ten years of age, give or take, Lehare resolved in heart to follow his command with all his might.

That Prince, less than half his own age, had a ghastliness to him that did not accord with his age. A presence and dignity commanding to proclaim this was how the Sword Wolves of Vollachia ought to be.

Prince: […Albeit nobody but myself dislikes it most.]

Lehare: [Prince?]

Prince: [Ignore it. More importantly, further spread of damage must be stopped. Sear it in yourself to move swiftly and multifacetedly. ――Furthermore, the Eight Arms is supposed to be in this city.]

Lehare: [Y-Yes! …Yes? Wait, the Eight Arms, you say? That’s…]

His resolution immediately swayed, Lehare’s eyes rolled backward.

Whom the Prince had alluded to was a labourer in this city assigned to physical labour. Although a member of the Multi-Arm Tribe, he was unambitious, a being who failed to live up to any such alias as the Eight Arms.

Lehare: [In regards to him, Prince, how do you…]

Prince: [Fool.]

One word, a flat reprimand, and Lehare was sweating profusely whilst the Prince gazed outside of the window.

Viewing down upon the cataclysmic spectacle of the city without any safe zones left, hearkening the incessantly audible notes of devastation and impact, he resumed.

Prince: [Hearing your name, this is how many react. ――Do you find that acceptable, Eight Arms.]

[――――]

Unable to spot the blue sky beyond the light clouds, Kurgan straitened his eyes, fallen to the ground face-up.

The bones of his entire body creaking, apparent serious damage to his internal organs, difficulty breathing.

Whilst labouring, he was often recipient to punishment of electric shocks via the Collar of Subservience on the Supervisor’s whims, and was often beaten by other labourers as a distraction, but none of those ached as befitting of pain.

But, these grave wounds begot genuine pain. ――However, the one to enkindle this was far from a genuine fighter or warrior, a terribly contemptible and despicable being.

Kurgan: [That, my end…]

Would be something so trifling, was the sentiment that predominantly inhabited Kurgan’s heart.

Several decades ago, he had assisted his son, with whom he had no connection by blood, in his rebellion against the world, and after all of his comrades allied with it had died, he alone survived in solitude, a long time had elapsed since then. At the summit of having lived that long time in indolent dormancy, he would be killed by the absurdity called calamity in the shape of man. That was, the finale of Kurgan――,

Prince: [――You, do you find that acceptable! Fulfil your duty!]

Kurgan: [――――]

The subsequent moment, that voice seized hold of Kurgan’s soul as he verged closing his eyes in negligence.

The words he was pelted with, themselves were no different than instructions from the Supervisor impelling them to become meat shields towards the threat, making Kurgan and the other labourers obey through Collars of Subservience. Yet, different from the Supervisor who had been entangled in the attack and died, for what reason did this invigorate Kurgan’s soul.

Because in that voice dwelled the franticness for accomplishing something, with one’s life on the line.

This same franticness had also also dwelled within Kurgan’s son, Stride Vollachia――,

Prince: [Drop them!!]

Declared the same voice, and a heavy reverberation fell in proximity of the collapsed Kurgan. It was invisible to tell what that was from Kurgan’s position. But, he knew what it was even without seeing.

The note of slicing the wind, and the heavy low tone perforating into the ground, it was impossible for Kurgan to misapprehend that.

Kurgan: [――Demon Cleavers.]

Prince: [These are what your armaments ought to be, are they not, Eight Arms! They were things that happened to be present at this time, in this place! Thus you shall fulfill your duty! For you are a Sword Wolf of Vollachia!]

Awakening his body as though strummed, he bounded towards the voice’s point of descent, and impaled into the ground there were four sizable longswords of bulky width―― Demon Cleavers, he pulled them out and gripped them tight.

It had been however many decades since he had ascertained their weight and texture, but the void of time was replenished in an instant.

Naturally, bereft of maintenance, the sharpness of the longswords had strikingly declined, but――,

Kurgan: [Specifics, accepted.]

His low, murmuring voice, Kurgan himself felt astonished at its enlivening.

An instant prior, he had accepted death wielding nothing here. Heedless, the moment he ascertained the presence of his favoured longswords―― no, his surging fighting spirit was from a different impetus.

Ordering to turn over the Demon Cleavers to Kurgan, it was the black-haired youth atop the fortress―― imbued in his voice was the tenacity of the soul, which had catalyzed rebellion in the Eight Arms’s soul.

Here, he must not let the proprietor of that voice die. For which he must swing his longswords.

Kurgan: [――――]

An unhurried exhale, and Kurgan focused toward the front. Meeting eye-to-eye with the white-haired man at the end of the road, by whom he had been blasted away across the other direction.

And――,

Kurgan: [――Eight Arms Kurgan.]

Regulus: [Witch Cult Sin Archbishop, representing Greed, Regulus Corneas.]

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――It took about an hour for the Fortified City of Garkla to fall.

Many who heard of this truth were mightily, powerfully engraved with the terrifying essence of the Witch Cult Sin Archbishop, begetting an exceedingly swift annihilation of the city acclaimed as a firm bulwark.

However, that one hour was due to it being delayed or otherwise it would have originally taken less than its half, was a truth unknown to most humans.

The brief stretch of time the Eight Arms Kurgan had laboured for against the Sin Archbishop, a calamity of the world―― however, had borne the fruit of minimising the devastation brought by Greed to its lowest.

 

Kurgan: [――――]

All of the longswords he wielded shattered, and finally losing all eight of his arms altogether, shedding copious volumes of blood, Kurgan sunk to his knees.

Not a trace of injury upon the man before his eyes, he continued to nullify Kurgan’s attacks with some obvious foul play.

The man was not a warrior. Kurgan harboured not the slightest of deep emotion toward that.

However, upon witnessing an upraised flag behind the man in his vision bleared by the bloodloss, his lips untied into a smile.

The national flag of a wolf pierced by swords, it was a message by the one who had commanded Kurgan to battle that he had used this time to accomplish his purpose――,

Kurgan: [――Magnificent.]

Regulus: [Magnificent? It provokes no sentimentality to hear that after all this time. To begin with, it was fairly obvious before you did what you did up to this point that it would be useless. I don’t know if you’re just plain stupid or your brain is malfunctioning or what, but you robbed my time to its hilt just because you were unable to come to that realisation, so even if you do call me magnificent this late.]

The man blathered on with his grumblings, but nugatory talk did not enter his ears.

Ignoring it, Kurgan’s consciousness slowly faded. In his mind, the question whether there was any meaning to him having lived through that battle and subsisted in this place for a prolonged length of time.

Through his battle here, for him to have left something for the future, wishing for it to become even a slight blow onto the Observers of the heavens whom Stride loathed, was what sojourned in his mind.

 

――In the years to come, the young prince who had been present in that circumstance, endeavoured to restore the name of the Eight Arms.

The new Governor of the Fortified City needing reconstruction and revival, Lehare Yvsant, restored the Eight Arms’s broken longswords and adorned the topmost floor of the fortress with them, as a symbol to extol the rigidity of the city.

The battle was heralded by many as the vanquish of the Eight Arms, but only those who were saved in that hour, with Lehare at forefront, retold it as Kurgan’s triumph.

Such was the legend of the Eight Arms, who survived an old battle and died for a new future.