Vol 3 Chapter 65: “Immortality”

The battle begins.

Between Sukui and the forces summoned by Martiel Shaun, chaos erupts.

As Sukui’s knife slashes with precision, cutting down those nearby, the blade extends its reach with a whip-like motion, indiscriminately spreading bloodshed among the summoned knights and followers.

“Interesting,” muttered Martiel as the scene unfolded.

In mere moments, Martiel appeared directly before Sukui. This was no ordinary move.

The knights and followers summoned by Martiel were not shields—they were reserves of life.

Martiel, carrying the stock of a hundred lives, faced Sukui alone. None of the summoned knights joined the fray. Their interference would only hinder Martiel, whose power far exceeded theirs.

“You kill indiscriminately, even those unaware of the situation. They say you only kill villains, but it seems the rumors of your allegiance to death are not entirely unfounded.”

As Martiel approached, they mimicked the motion of raising an arm to strike. Yet Martiel lacked arms, eyes, ears, or even a tongue.

Despite this, the clarity of intent behind the gesture made Sukui react instantly.

In an instant, Sukui was sent flying backward.

“As expected from the hero who decimates organizations,” Martiel muttered as Sukui hurtled away.

In the blink of an eye it took for Martiel to close the distance and strike with an invisible arm, they had already been killed by Sukui three times.

Behind them, chaos reigned.

Followers screamed for help, their confusion drowned in the spray of their own blood.

“My magic prioritizes speed in attacks, yet it costs me three lives just to land one blow against you,” Martiel remarked, continuing forward with calm assurance despite acknowledging the difference in their abilities.

Sukui, regaining their stance, analyzed Martiel’s magic. It was a spell that compensated for the loss of the body by granting an even more powerful one in return.

Stronger arms, sharper senses.

While this sounded advantageous, the appearance remained disfigured, and the magic’s effects only persisted as long as it was maintained. Though the magic seemed to have low mana consumption, it was not hard to imagine the hardships of living under such conditions.

“In exchange for sacrificing lives, I can reach even those stronger than myself,” Martiel said. Their tone was almost reverent.

“Remarkable,” they added. Sukui, still focused, posed a question.

“The people behind you—are they your followers? They don’t seem to share your conviction. They’re crying and screaming. Is that acceptable to you?”

Martiel appeared slightly puzzled by Sukui’s lack of direct acknowledgment of their magic, but they were equally perplexed by the question.

“What nonsense. Self-sacrifice is the very doctrine of our religion of love. Humans can only attain great things through sacrifice.”

Just as I sacrificed my body for strength, the followers sacrifice their lives to fulfill the church’s purpose.

Sacrifice. It was a familiar concept to Sukui.

The greater the loss, the greater the reward—a belief not uncommon in their experience. Sukui concluded that Martiel believed more in the concept of sacrifice as doctrine than in love itself.

At the same time, Sukui acknowledged the overwhelming power of Martiel’s magic.

As an invisible arm descended upon them, Sukui raised their left hand to guard, only to realize that their arm would no longer move.

“My arms are invisible, strong, and capable of paralyzing the parts they touch.”

“So that’s why you aimed for my head.” 

This ability was tailor-made to counter someone like Sukui.

A spell that paralyzes versus an unyielding immortal.

The spell, which renders those it touches immobile, proves effective even against Sukui, who had previously evaded death at the hands of the organization’s boss, Felte, whose magic failed to kill him.

Now, a single touch—whether on his body or head—would spell Sukui’s defeat.

Meanwhile, his only path to victory lies in killing Martiel Shaun 101 times.

Sukui quickly grasped the situation.

As his mind cleared, he stepped toward Martiel.

“With 100 lives to spare and magic that counters yours, you’ve realized it, haven’t you?” Martiel said.

The difference in raw ability between us isn’t that significant.

“Of course, it’s thanks to the physical abilities granted by the magic of love. Still, I remember you stepped in to stop Horo and me from fighting not long ago.”

Martiel referred to the incident at the mansion.

Indeed, Sukui had intervened to prevent a confrontation between Horo and Martiel, anticipating the disastrous outcome of such a clash.

“You knew, didn’t you? That I have the ability to rival you to some extent.”

Martiel’s tone turned introspective.

“Because you and I are alike. We both know the strength that comes from loss.”

Sukui remained silent, analyzing Martiel’s words.

“You, who accept death as sacrifice, and I, who embrace it, are not so different. The conditions and paths we take to attain something extraordinary are strikingly similar.”

And now, here we stand—two pseudo-immortals facing each other.

“I can see it in your eyes. You and I are the same.”

Then Martiel added, as if driving a dagger into Sukui’s psyche:

“You killed your parents, didn’t you?”

With those final words, Martiel fell silent and sprang into motion.

Light footwork, like someone skipping, followed by a sudden lunge that closed the distance in an instant.

The target? Not the head.

Martiel threw a speed-focused punch toward Sukui’s face, one that didn’t require strength—only a touch.

The goal was clear: paralyze Sukui’s right arm, just as his left arm had been rendered useless earlier.

By immobilizing both arms, Sukui’s mastery with the knife—the very tool cutting Martiel down repeatedly—would be neutralized.

But even this wasn’t the true objective.

The punch toward Sukui’s face served as a feint to narrow his vision, both physically and mentally, creating an opening.

Using that moment, Martiel extended an invisible leg toward Sukui’s foot.

Martiel had no visible legs. They too had been sacrificed to the magic of love, replaced by transparent limbs with the same paralyzing touch.

If successful, this strategy would immobilize Sukui’s right arm and one of his legs—enough to render him incapable of fighting.

“Now, allow me to correct a few things,” Sukui said, his voice calm even as Martiel’s attacks closed in.

He stood still, not even bothering to adopt a defensive stance, his only movement being his lips.

“First, death is not a sacrifice. It is salvation. It is not about accepting something unpleasant but rather embracing the beauty of death.”

Sukui’s tone was measured, his words devoid of heat or passion.

Martiel sneered at the contradiction, assuming Sukui was still lost in thoughts of the villagers’ deaths.

However, Martiel’s punch aimed at Sukui’s face failed to make contact.

Instead of striking as intended, it veered off course.

“Second, I do not condone the act of sacrifice,” Sukui continued.

Martiel’s expression shifted as he realized Sukui hadn’t blocked the punch—it had been redirected.

It wasn’t Sukui’s right hand that redirected Martiel’s attack—it was his left.

The left hand that Martiel Shaun’s magic had rendered immobile was now twisting the trajectory of the incoming punch.

“To sacrifice for ambition is only natural. But to think merely losing something guarantees gaining something in return?”

Sukui’s voice was cold.

“That’s just indulgence.”

Martiel wasn’t fazed by Sukui’s words. They had anticipated the possibility of Sukui moving his left hand by leveraging his body’s motion—using his hips to swing the paralyzed limb.

But even then, they hadn’t expected that motion alone could stop their enhanced arm.

What Martiel hadn’t foreseen was the sharp, invasive force now locking their arm in place—Sukui’s finger.

“A finger…?”

Sukui’s immortality magic allowed him to reattach severed parts. If a limb was completely destroyed, it would regrow.

The moment Sukui realized his arm was paralyzed, he severed one of his fingers.

He cut it into smaller pieces with his knife, then regrew the finger entirely.

That newly regenerated finger, unaffected by Martiel’s magic, was now free to move.

Though Sukui wished to do the same with his entire arm, his regeneration wasn’t fast enough to attempt such a gamble. A single finger was the only option.

Martiel understood this but remained puzzled.

Sukui had no magic to enhance his physical strength. Yet, that ordinary finger had pierced Martiel’s magically reinforced arm.

The truth was simple: Sukui’s body had undergone a lifetime of brutal training.

His middle finger was as hard as steel.

Martiel couldn’t have imagined the kind of torment Sukui had endured—splitting the skin of his own hands, breaking bones, and letting them heal repeatedly to harden his body.

It was a daily regimen of agony, resulting in an unparalleled physical toughness.

“The act of losing something is easy,” Sukui continued. “No matter how precious it may be, loss itself is just letting go.”

Sukui moved with unassuming precision.

Though he could blend into the crowd, appearing weak and unremarkable, Sukui’s seemingly untrained body hid the strength of a seasoned warrior.

Training was something Sukui disliked. Becoming visibly strong was never a priority for him. Yet, that didn’t mean he hadn’t done it.

Martiel now saw the steel-like quality of Sukui’s hardened body, forged through relentless discipline.

They also realized the fatal mistake they’d made.

Though Martiel’s leg had touched Sukui’s foot, paralyzing it, Sukui remained steady.

His balance didn’t waver.

“You think I stopped Horo from fighting you because you’re strong enough to rival me?” Sukui said, his voice calm but firm.

No.

Though it was a simple act—standing—it was the mastery behind it that made all the difference.

Sukui stood with his feet evenly spaced, distributing his weight perfectly across both legs.

Even though one leg had lost its ability to move, Sukui’s refined sense of balance kept him upright.

Through years of training, Sukui had developed a perfect awareness of his body’s movements.

“You and your beliefs weren’t worthy of her,” Sukui said.

“She will move forward. She will build happiness, love, effort, and success.”

“I wouldn’t allow her to be influenced by someone who so easily accepts the loss of what is most precious.”

Sukui, though a believer in death’s salvation, did not deny the value of a fulfilling life.

Martiel sneered. “You speak as if you deny death itself.”

“Finally,” Sukui said, cutting off Martiel’s taunts.

Martiel now understood. They had failed to neutralize Sukui’s dominant hand. Behind them, there were no more followers left alive.

The gap between them was undeniable.

Martiel looked at Sukui’s finger—an instrument forged through suffering—and his perfect posture, a testament to unyielding discipline.

Martiel didn’t think lightly of their own sacrifices. They had faith in their magic, their belief in sacrifice as power.

But this wasn’t a matter of faith.

It was a matter of what had been built.

They weren’t the same.

The greatest difference between them was one thing—resolve.

Martiel Shaun had never before faced someone who could so casually dismiss the act of losing everything.

For the 101st time, Sukui’s invisible blade struck Martiel’s neck.

For the first time, Martiel collapsed.

“Ah,” Sukui exhaled.

He checked his body, confirming that both his left arm and paralyzed leg had regained their function.

Though Sukui had dismissed the fight as one-sided, in his heart he acknowledged Martiel as a formidable opponent.

The stock of lives Martiel wielded, combined with their faith in sacrifice, made them a rare and deadly foe.

But Sukui couldn’t dwell on the morality of their magic now.

Because Sukui knew.

The one responsible for the village’s destruction—the true mastermind behind the attack—was still out there.

Sukui took a step forward.

The ground beneath him cracked.

Sukui’s eyes widened.

It wasn’t a trick of the light. The ground under Martiel’s corpse, as well as the hundred other bodies, fractured and began to collapse.

A massive sinkhole formed.

The scale of it made it impossible to dismiss as coincidence.

“Ah, so serious, as always,” came a voice, playful and mocking.

“You’re no good like this, you know. You need to lighten up.”

The words, dripping with mockery, whispered directly into Sukui’s ears.