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TRAS Chapter 99: His One Hypocrisy
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 17:21:58 +0000 UTCThe knights atop the wall were still occupied by the shadow beasts which remained. For now, Sigurd was alone facing the two unique shadow beasts—the first like an elephant, the second like a leopard.
As if it were part of the miasma, Sigurd dispersed the sentiment that had encroached his mind and weakened him.
He had no intention of dying here. The aches of his body, and the breathlessness he felt seemed to fade into the background.
Despite the desperate situation, his mind sharpened once again into careful observation and analysis. Sigurd had never seen shadow beasts like this. And he was still uncertain of the full threat they posed.
He took it upon himself to gauge exactly that.
The leopard which had injured him moments earlier drew up within striking distance yet again, its head bobbing and weaving with anticipation, as if it were raring to finish him off.
Then it leapt, moving faster even than before, more efficient in the way it aimed directly for his throat.
Still, Sigurd would not be taken by surprise twice, and the leopard’s snapping jaw missed his neck by a hair. He intended to counter by returning in kind, swinging his blade at its throat to sever its head—yet the leopard easily parried his blade with a claw.
This exchange repeated itself: the leopard attempting to swiftly end the battle with speed alone, followed by Sigurd seeking a conclusion through a decisive counter.
But neither gained an advantage over the other. All the while, the elephant inexorably marched forward. Soon it was upon him.
“Your Grace!”
A score of knights, including his cousins, came rushing from the wall to meet him. Yet, as if to dash Sigurd’s hope, a new throng of tigers, wolves and vultures sprang forth from the miasma.
The miasma had been pushed back, yet the battle began anew—a second stage, a few hundred meters from the wall.
Sigurd’s eyes widened, as he realized a freshly spawned tiger was about to enter the fray. He had no hope in a three-on-one.
“Sigurd!” Camille came sprinting forward, so struck by the dire situation that even she dropped her formalities. “Divert them westward!”
His eyes snapped in that direction, spotting an open stretch of plains. And as Nicolas drew to Camille’s side, momentarily distracting the trio of beasts, Sigurd made a desperate dash through the elephant’s legs—imbuing his blade with holy aura and attempting to slice through the beast’s belly as he did so.
Clink!
But he was thwarted from the start—not only did its edge fail to cut through, it had bounced off with a ringing noise as if he’d struck metal.
How strong was this beast’s armor?
He took a fleeting glance backward.
Camille and Nicolas had taken the tiger’s full attention, yet the leopard sought Sigurd out. It seemed to regard him as its primary prey.
Sigurd gritted his teeth. But he had no time to think, as he deftly dodged the elephant’s stomps. Catching sight of the leopard about to pounce, he took a running jump from beneath the elephant’s legs, mustering as much aura as he could to slash at one as he passed.
Faintly, he caught the leopard in the periphery of his vision, leaping toward the spot he’d just been.
Then he felt an unexpected resistance—a tug from his blade. His forward momentum, combined with the backwards pull of his sword, yanked at the same shoulder the leopard had injured earlier. Sigurd stifled a scream of pain.
His blade had been caught.
To fail to cut through a shadow beast—and for his blade to get stuck—it was an experience he hadn’t faced since he was a child.
Was his holy aura flagging? Was it mere exhaustion, or was he also struck by fear?
He tried to catch his breath, as he watched the leopard get inadvertently stomped by the elephant as it tried to pounce through. It was just as Sigurd had planned. Yet he had little hope.
The leopard dispersed into miasma, and reformed itself in short order.
Sigurd sprinted further westward, hoping the leopard would swiftly follow.
The desperate knight commander had two paths before him. He could either stall for time, waiting for the assistance of the other knights. Or he could annihilate the leopard in one decisive attack, leaving only the slower elephant—which he and the knights could surely outpace in a retreat to the wall.
The calculation was quick.
Though he was almost certain the intense battle had run the well of his divine blessing dry, Sigurd dug deep. His aura hummed—quietly, and its glint around his sword was barely visible.
The elephant marched toward him with little hurry, but the leopard was as eager as ever to finish him off.
Sigurd raised his blade, inviting its strike.
When it pounced, he crashed his blade down where it landed, and unleashed a blinding concentrated flash of aura.
But the leopard wasn’t there. It had dissolved into mist right as he struck, and flown ‘through’ him.
Reforming itself right behind the knight commander, the leopard made not a moment’s delay as it pounced again, ready to end his life.
Except it was met with a backward thrust of Sigurd’s blade. Without so much as a glance behind, Sigurd’s sword pierced through the leopard’s open mouth and rent its body.
Once again, there was a blinding flash.
The leopard did not reform.
Now he truly was exhausted. Leaning against his sword which he stuck into the ground, Sigurd worked desperately to recover his breath. His legs were unsteady, he’d used so much of his aura.
Eastward, the knights were still dealing with the tigers. If he shouted now, surely one would be able to rush over to carry him back to the safety of the wall. He was certain he could bridge some of the distance himself—he had not the energy for a sustained sprint, but he could surely dash fifty meters.
Ahead of him was the elephant, now only ten meters away.
Though his legs still felt weak, and his abdomen felt as if it had been stabbed through, Sigurd sheathed his sword, ready to shout and make a sprint for his life.
Unfortunately, Sigurd did not realize just how fast an elephant could run. Seemingly sensing his intent to make a tactical retreat, the elephant broke out into a sprint of its own—so swift and thunderous in his approach that he immediately understood trying to outpace it would be futile.
Wearily, he took a fleeting glance at the knights in the distance, who were shouting at him to run.
He could barely hold up his sword. And now that he tried to muster his aura again, he realized he truly was spent.
He had none.
What he had were regrets. Despite himself, images of his family flashed through his mind. His mother, who had protected the duchy for so long. His father, who was a kind man despite his unfortunate life as a duke diminished.
He saw his aunt and cousins, who’d always tried to survive in their own way in this bleak place.
His idiotic brother’s face ran through his mind. As well as the face of the more idiotic of his two sisters. He’d never once acknowledged her as such.
In fact, since the duel, he hadn’t even acknowledged his youngest sister as family. Yet her tear-streaked face from the last time they’d truly spoken surfaced unbidden.
And finally, right before the elephant struck him, Sigurd’s final regret belonged to that woman waiting for him in ark-Chelon. He’d only seen her from afar, these last few years.
Her and…
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Only once in Sigurd’s life had he been a hypocrite.
Those who plotted against Sigurd underestimated him, for outwardly he still seemed to be just a boy donning armor.
He was only eighteen, but he was calloused and decisive beyond his years. And the moment Sigurd heard of his mother’s death, he made a decision.
Mustering as many knights as could be afforded from the northern wall, Sigurd broke through the gates of the west and marched into the city of Amière. The battle with the Blancs’ knights was brief, as the Argent Guard had never known true war.
As far as the Azure Knights were concerned, that’s what the endless battle against the shadows was—a war for survival.
The rage that Sigurd felt that day due to his mother’s death was not like a flame. It was cool-headed, and systematic. He did not desire grand retribution—he only wished for equal reprisal.
The intent of the Blancs was to wipe out the entire eum-Creid lineage. Thus, it would only be fair if their punishment was to receive what they’d intended to deal.
He would kill no servants. Where he could, he would kill no knights. And he would not raze their decadent city.
Sigurd intended to do one thing, and one thing alone: to march into their palace and slaughter every single member of the Blanc family.
He even gave them the chance to duel for their life.
In straightforward combat, Sigurd slew the Blanc family’s patriarch, Alaric. Next was his scheming sister Marcella, whose command of the divine blessing was potent, and then their drunkard brother Hildebert.
He spared Alaric’s wife and Marcella’s husband. They did not have the blessing.
Seven members of the Blanc family were killed in such a fashion—in single battle against Sigurd, as his most trusted knights watched on.
The truth was, Sigurd had no compunctions about extinguishing even the younger members of the Blanc line.
The Blancs had tried to kill Renea too. There was no need to give them a chance for revenge.
But as Sigurd looked down at the youngest scions of the Blanc lineage—some shivering and crying, and others glaring in hatred and defiance—a single thing stayed his hand.
It was a girl. About his age. Dark-haired unlike her cousins, her clothes seemed rather tattered for a child of high nobility. But in Sigurd’s eyes, she was beautiful.
Her name was Ciel. Ciel Blanc. She was Marcella’s daughter. And it wasn't difficult to figure out where the bruises visible upon her skin came from.
She was not pleading for her life. Nor was she defiant. She seemed resigned to death, as if it were what she’d expected all along.
And when she saw Sigurd’s eyes fixed upon her person, she laughed emptily.
“Would you prefer a duel to ease your conscience?” she asked, her voice thin and hoarse.
“...I will make it swift,” Sigurd said quietly. Then, despite himself, he made a useless apology. “I’m sorry.”
He raised his sword. And Ciel flinched.
Now that her death was moments at hand, the flash of fear ran through her eyes. She was as afraid of dying as anyone else was.
If she’d begged for her life from the start, Sigurd’s sheer anger, and his natural recourse to duty and duchy, might yet have trumped the stirrings of his heart.
But seeing a girl who seemed so hopeless suddenly realize—in what should have been the last moment of her life—that she truly wished to live, made his heart ache.
It made him remember that just days before, he’d lost his mother. And just minutes before, he’d killed hers.
Sigurd’s hand fell limply. He’d lost all his will to take another life that day.
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A musical note rang through the air, as consecutive flashes halted the elephant in its tracks. Soon, the tough exterior that surrounded its upper body started to crack.
With each flash, the cracks grew, until they shattered all at once. The elephant was left vague and nearly formless, just as the leopard was. But still, it had no recourse, as the flashes continued.
They dispersed it. Yet it reformed. Then it was dispersed again. And thus it went, in a process that almost seemed as if it would continue ad infinitum.
After a few minutes, however, the elephant finally fully dispersed.
Sophie, conjuring her aura so fiercely and from so far away, had vanquished it.
Sigurd hardly had the strength to glance back.
At this distance, he could not see her face. But he was certain there was a hurt scowl upon it, the way she swiftly turned, even as he felt his shoulder heal.
As the frantic knights—now freed of the shadow beasts—came rushing to his aid, Sigurd let his consciousness wane.
“Your Grace! Are you alright?!” Camille shouted. “Bring him back to the watchtower!”
The moment the knights were there to hold him up, Sigurd was out cold.
