WeTried Translations

Translator: Hydrogen B

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

Chapter 766: Singing on a Small, Narrow Stage

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One who ends all this shall come!

A knight who will stain war and life itself in twilight!

We shall call him the Knight of the End!

The one who will bring all things to their conclusion! The hero who will end the chaos of war!

Zhoroslavb listened to a song that had been passed down through oral tradition in the village for generations. A few children outside the window sang it as though reciting holy scripture.

Across the continent, it had spread as a song of the Knight of War's End or the Knight of the End. The melody was similar either way, as were the lyrics.

Some called him the Knight of War's End, while others called him the Knight of the End. In certain regions, they called him the Knight of Twilight.

The original lyrics had been forgotten long ago, so different regions used War's End, End, and Twilight interchangeably.

And to these people, it was not merely a song.

'Knight of the End.'

Or the one called the Knight of War's End.

It was part of the legend that such a being would one day protect them.

"Do you truly believe that man is the Knight of the End?"

The end spoken of in the song meant the end of this world. And that world was the Cursed Ground. In other words, it meant a knight who would bring about the end of the Cursed Ground.

That was one interpretation, though it was not necessarily true.

Zhoroslavb looked at the people seated around the wide table in the village hall's meeting room. More than ten people sat there, more than twenty eyes in all looking at him.

Zhoroslavb was a realist.

So until now, this was what he had thought.

'It is nothing more than a song that sings of hope.'

From a practical perspective, the song existed because people needed it.

What was the most essential thing for a person to live?

Food, clothing, shelter? Even without one of those, people could scrape by somehow.

But when the spirit broke, that was where it ended.

What was the point of surviving like this? For someone who had begun asking that question, food, clothing, and a roof meant nothing.

Did life need a reason? Must one live even at the cost of becoming an Infiltrator? Must one cling to life even then?

If someone asked, there was only one answer. Of course they wanted to live.

There had been days when he watched a child smile and pretend that a mouthful of bland broth boiled with a parched turnip tasted good.

He remembered clearly the day that child was born.

They were neither prosperous nor peaceful nor comfortable, yet within all of that, these people found beauty in living. They could walk while watching the seasons change, talk with the person beside them, and love each other.

They longed for life so they could enjoy all of that, trying to survive no matter how pitifully. And one of the means of sustaining that life was hope.

Hope was the most essential thing for a person to live.

So, as far as Zhoroslavb knew, the song passed down through oral tradition was a tool meant to breathe hope into this community.

Someday, a hero would come, end what tormented them, and bring them a better life? And that hero was the Knight of the End?

That was what the song said. He had never believed it. At least, he had not.

Trying to survive even if it meant relying on the demon god for the rest of their lives, that was the reality these people lived. Zhoroslavb had believed in that reality until now. He had faced and accepted reality, rather than a mere song handed down through oral tradition.

"I have that feeling. I think he truly is that kind of person."

The words came from a friend who had spoken of reality even more harshly than Zhoroslavb, someone coldly cynical, but whose eyes now shone.

The eyes of those no one had cared for, who had been ignored and abandoned, were filling with hope.

It was the man from the song passed down through oral tradition, the man who had cut down the demon god's symbol without a moment's hesitation, then slain every Demon Creature and Magic Beast around him before turning his back and walking away.

A person who had entered the Cursed Ground expecting nothing in return.

To Zhoroslavb as well, that man looked like the Knight of the End.

A hand armed with goodwill had reached toward people who had never experienced even a scrap of hope. Could they turn it away?

No.

Because they too wished for a better life.

Everyone in the village prayed for the one who had stepped inside.

* * *

Teresa stood on the small, narrow stage she had made for herself. She had not drawn her sword. She did not need it now.

"I took in a bitch who knows nothing but fighting, and this is the gratitude I get."

Why was that memory surfacing now?

Those were the days when a Cult bishop had held everything of hers hostage. A time when the world had been stained only black and gray.

She had met Enkrid then. And for the first time, she found enjoyment in swinging a sword that had previously meant nothing to her. That was when it began.

'I will fight and fight and prove myself.'

That had been her answer to Enkrid's question. He had asked how she wanted to live if she were born again.

Every detail of that moment was still vivid.

The air, the temperature, all of it.

There had been hot breath, and a version of herself looking back over the years with regret.

And so Teresa of the Cult died, and Teresa the wanderer was reborn. She tried to hide inside a small mask for a while, but before long, she understood it was pointless.

'I will fight to the end.'

That was not something she said for the Giant's blood flowing through her veins. It was for the self she had been then and the self she would be tomorrow.

Fighting did not always mean throwing punches and drawing blood.

Teresa had fought against her past self. She had accepted a new god and learned the teachings of holy scripture.

Standing on the small stage she had made from her shield, she turned only her head to look behind her.

The hero who had saved her was gazing at her intently. Looking at him, she opened her mouth.

"Ah—"

An undeniably captivating rough sound vibrated from her throat.

She turned to face forward again. Looking at the Demon Creatures oozing pus as they closed in from ahead and the distant wall from which strange cries rang out, she began to vocalize.

Her voice found pitch, rising and falling, connecting and breaking off, until even the sound of her breath became like a note of its own.

In other words, she began to sing.

A moment later, a hymn praising God stretched into the sky and shook the ground.

* * *

Awakening divine power was a gift allowed only to the few. The talent to move someone's heart with song was also allowed only to the few.

In other words, awakening divine power and properly singing a chant required two separate talents.

If someone happened to be born with both talents and then put in unceasing effort, they could wield divine power through song.

The Order of Holy Knights reverently called such people Holy Canters. They were also known as Holy Canters.

Audin had glimpsed that kind of talent in Teresa and guided her toward awakening it.

When Enkrid had departed for Zaun before, the reason Ruagarne stayed behind to help was the same.

She could sing a unique battle song called Frog's Cry, and her cry affected everyone around her.

In a way, the principle was similar to a chant.

The half-Giant planted her shield, made herself a small stage, climbed onto it, and sang. Her voice flowing along the melody was beautiful and clear.

Whenever she raised a note, she belted it out so refreshingly that it felt as though something had burst open inside one's chest.

"Ah-ah!"

Just listening to it made one feel refreshed.

"This," Enkrid murmured. Something was taking shape in the space ahead of Teresa, following her song. The sight made the word slip from his lips.

"Ah, ah-ah."

Teresa's skill, turning even her breath into part of a wordless song, sent a shiver through him.

A gifted traveling bard knew how to play an instrument, and a great traveling bard could sing well too, or so people said.

The tones were deep, and the resonance broad. Grand, warm, and comforting.

An atmosphere so gentle that it was hard to believe they stood in the middle of the Cursed Ground wrapped around Enkrid and everyone nearby.

"May the Lord watch over us."

Audin murmured a prayer.

That comfort was not merely a feeling.

Her song was not especially loud, but it wove together with divine power and took form, stopping the Ghouls' advance. A wall of white light spread left and right, clearing an adult man's eye level with room to spare, though it was not as high as Teresa standing atop her shield.

The walls of white light pushed back the darkness of the Cursed Ground. That alone was a magnificent sight.

"She said she was inspired by what our brother, the commander, did."

"Ah."

Enkrid voiced a short exclamation of admiration.

It meant the Iron Wall he had shown when blocking Azpen's forces had been the source of Teresa's inspiration.

Back then, Enkrid had also loaded his voice with Will, and Audin added that it had influenced her as well.

Audin had always told him not to worry about Teresa.

Still, he had not imagined she would show them something like this.

"It's not perfect. They're getting through the gaps."

Ruagarne's large eyes darted around as she spoke. She was right. Between the walls built of divine power, a Ghoul was squeezing its body through, forcing its way in.

The parts caught in the white light sizzled and smoked, but the creature pushed through regardless.

It dropped to one knee with a thud, bent its fingers, drove them into the dirt, and tried to crawl forward.

And directly in front of it, it encountered a human casually swinging a Shortsword.

Shk.

Demon Creatures had bodies made of bone, flesh, and muscle like anything else. Jaxon knew exactly where to stab and slash to kill them cleanly, the angles at which a blade cut best. Cutting them down was far too easy for him.

But the reactions of those he cut were far from ordinary.

Shlrp.

Yellow pus swelled from the severed areas.

Pop.

The pus burst with a sound. Normally, it would have sprayed plague spores across the surrounding area, but Teresa's divine power pressed down on the spores and erased them.

The pitch of her song rose, and white light gathered over the burst Ghoul and pressed down.

Audin moved as well. There were several gaps. As his feet tapped off the ground in quick succession, he seemed to exist in three places at once, leaving afterimages through high-speed movement with an agility that did not suit a frame that large.

After moving like that, he casually extended a fist, and the Ghoul heads caught by it burst one after another. Pus swelled from the burst areas like a pig's bladder filled with air, then burst again.

Audin did not need Teresa's help.

He could not sing a hymn, but when it came to handling divine power alone, he was twice as skilled as she was.

He extended a hand over the head of the Ghoul he had killed. White light spread from that hand like the hem of a cape and settled over it.

The burst of pus could not break through the light.

Thud.

It only made a dull noise.

"Impressive," Ruagarne said with admiration as she took out her whip. Her weapon was longer than a sword, making it suited for mid-to-long-range combat.

It was also a relic that naturally kindled flames.

A plague Ghoul struggling to force its way through was struck by the flame whip, and its head shattered.

The weight at the tip of the whip was made of hardest iron. And a whip, in skilled hands, could deliver high-speed strikes with no more than an ordinary adult's strength.

But the one wielding it was a trained Frog. The leather of the whip was braided from Magic Beast hide.

Speed was proportional to strength, so there was no need to explain twice how great its power was.

Bang! Bang!

The whip tore through the air and burned Ghoul heads. Tracking its movement required at least the Dynamic Visual Acuity of a Knight. Pus burst from the heads and bodies of the Ghouls it struck, but even that only became fuel for the flames.

Ragna joined in as well. His languid stride, footsteps that seemed to have no destination, carried him toward the plague Ghouls.

The greatsword he had drawn shed a faint red light. Even as the sun began to set, there would be no shortage of illumination here.

Ragna swung the greatsword like a farmer cutting barley stalks with a sickle. He kept the blade's arc short, using only a snap of his wrist as he moved his feet. It was a series of simple, repeated motions.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

In place of barley stalks, plague Ghoul heads floated up before dropping to the ground.

The ones Ragna cut also formed membranes of pus over their severed surfaces and swelled, but they were extremely small.

Phsst.

They barely burst at all.

Ilchul rejected that which was wicked. It was called Ilchul because it carried the sun within it.

It was a relic passed down through the Zaun family for generations. This much was only to be expected of it.

Because the numbers pressing in were so great, quite a few slipped through one or two at a time. Or rather, by this point, it was no different from Teresa deliberately leaving openings for them.

She gathered her remaining divine power and seared most of the plague Ghouls with it. The Ghouls with their mouths sewn shut could not even scream.

As the Ghouls were swept away, Rem grinned and spoke.

"Hey, you two need to match my rhythm a little."

He was speaking to Ropord and Fell.

Teresa's hymn had built a wall of divine power, but that wall would not cover the space above their heads.

"Kreeaaah!"

That left the massive bird diving down from above.

But was that really going to be a problem?

It could not be.

Footnotes:

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