At the final instant before the purple light of Hollow Technique: Purple was about to swallow the mountain peak where Samael and Petelgeuse were—
Even for the Sin Archbishop of Pride, Samael, who prided himself on his elegance and composure, a hint of horror appeared on his usually unflappable face.
He could feel it.
This was not magic in the ordinary sense. Its scale and energy level were enough to rival, or even surpass, those Large-scale Spells that required long incantations and the coordination of multiple high-level mages to cast.
However, the white-haired man opposite him had no lengthy incantations, no complex magic circle formations. He simply stood there, made a gesture, and then—
This ability to nearly instantly cast strategic-level magic was unheard of in the entire Dragon Kingdom of Lugunica... no, perhaps in the entire world.
At the very least, in Samael's long artistic career, he had never seen, nor even heard of, such an existence.
In a flash, the two Sin Archbishops, who had vastly different philosophies and mutual loathing, made the same decision.
It must be stopped!
Samael's mind worked at high speed, instantly reaching a conclusion: the power of such an instant-cast technique must be compromised and could not possibly rival true large-scale magic.
Besides, even if he failed, he still had his meticulously crafted "dolls" to die in his place.
That madman Petelgeuse surely had his "Fingers" as a fallback as well.
On Petelgeuse's face, only the most primitive survival instinct and rage remained in his crazed eyes.
Countless Invisible Hands erupted frantically from his twisted body, like a torrent of desperate black tentacles, colliding with that all-consuming purple light.
Samael raised his hands, and under his extraordinary control, the air instantly condensed, transforming into a giant barrier that spanned half the mountain. The barrier was thick and solid, its surface flowing with distorted light patterns, sufficient to withstand the bombardment of most magic.
This was the strongest response they could muster in their haste.
And then—
They were wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The power of Purple was not inferior to large-scale magic.
When the deep purple light touched the air wall Samael had condensed, that transparent barrier, which could have withstood an entire army, was like a soap bubble in the sunlight. Without stirring even a single ripple, it vanished within the purple light.
Petelgeuse's torrent of Invisible Hands evaporated the moment they touched the purple light, unable to even slow its speed.
The pupils of both men shrank to the size of pinpricks simultaneously.
The next moment—
BOOM!!!
Everywhere the light touched, the upper half of the mountain—along with the rocks, trees, the defenses they had set up, and the very ground they stood on—simply disappeared.
The purple afterglow did not dissipate immediately but spread out like an aurora, illuminating a vast stretch of the forest below, even briefly gilding the silhouette of the distant Roswaal Mansion with an eerie purple hue.
After a long time, as the light dimmed, the dust also began to settle. The flying stones and debris had long since ceased, and most of the broken trees and branches had been turned into fine powder in the aftermath of that strike.
What appeared in sight was a vast "platform."
— — —
"What exactly happened here?"
These words came from the mouth of Crusch Karsten.
Her voice was not loud, yet it echoed clearly in the deathly silent air, carrying a sense of shock that had almost never appeared on this military beauty known for her calm and decisiveness.
What caused the head of the Karsten House to lose her composure so was not the tragic remains of the White Whale's lower half seen earlier, but another scene now laid out before everyone.
After bypassing that massive, shriveled lower body and venturing further in, the group reached another, more open area. And then, they saw it—the upper half of the White Whale.
Unlike the relatively "intact" lower half from before, this upper portion of the remains presented a scene of even more thorough destruction.
The head was nearly shattered, with its one remaining eye staring hollowly at the sky, while the other socket was nothing but a gory pit.
The once-looming spiral horn was snapped off at the base, the breaks jagged and uneven.
Most shocking of all was the torso from the neck to the abdomen. It looked as if it had been twisted by some invisible, gargantuan force, with bones piercing through the skin and internal organs being squeezed out of the ruptures.
It wasn't just Crusch. Everyone present, including the battle-hardened Iron Fang mercenaries, the disciplined Knights, and even Anastasia and Julius, who had seen many storms, fell into varying degrees of shock and silence.
The man hailed as the contemporary Sword Saint, Reinhard van Astrea, also stood there quietly. He gazed at the miserable state of the White Whale's upper body, and deep within his eyes, a flicker of extremely complex emotion passed.
There was gratitude and also... guilt.
He lowered his gaze slightly, his voice so low only he could hear it. "Tsukasa... I shall keep your kindness engraved in my heart."
Although there had been no deal or agreement between Reinhard and Tsukasa, and he had not even spoken deeply with the man, at this moment, a heavy emotion mixed with relief and a sense of debt quietly germinated in his heart.
Not far from Reinhard's side, Wilhelm stood motionless. He held his head high, those eyes that had been filled with decades of hateful fire and obsession now staring unblinkingly at the shattered head of the White Whale.
Hot tears welled up and fell, yet there was no roar, not even a noticeable sob. There was only an emotion that carried a hint of liberation.
As the image of the White Whale's remains was reflected in the depths of his eyes, a brief memory surged up.
It was in the Royal Capital, the night before Tsukasa set out.
"I beg of you."
He had stopped the white-haired man who was about to leave, his voice hoarse as he bowed deeply. "Please let me go along with you."
Tsukasa stopped his pace and remained silent for a moment.
He finally spoke, his voice calm, "In that case, give me that loose coat of yours."
He pointed to the dark, slightly loose kimono-style coat Wilhelm was wearing. "Consider it as if I am taking your share with me."
Wilhelm snapped his head up. He understood the underlying meaning.
Tsukasa might have his own way of dealing with the White Whale's mist. But bringing along an elderly man with such strong obsessions would undoubtedly add variables. Furthermore, there was no deep friendship between them.
Tsukasa was going to subjugate the White Whale alone for the sake of the deal and the situation.
Bringing him? There was no reason, nor any necessity.
Wilhelm was silent for a long time. Finally, he slowly straightened his body, his movements somewhat stiff. Then, he raised his hands, untied the cord of his coat, took it off, folded it carefully, and handed it over with both hands.
"Then..."
His voice was dry, yet exceptionally solemn. "I beg of you. Please..."
Wilhelm took a deep breath, his bloodshot eyes staring fixedly at Tsukasa as he said, practically using all his strength, word by word, "Make sure to kill the White Whale."
Even without his participation.
Even if he could not personally taste the pleasure of this revenge.
Even if the credit had nothing to do with him.
He still wanted the White Whale dead.
It had to die.
If his momentary obsession caused a flaw in this man's plan, allowing the White Whale to escape and cause more innocent casualties in the future, he would never be able to forgive himself.
Tsukasa looked at him, the night and the old man's determined face reflected in his blue eyes.
He gave a small smile, one filled with a natural sense of certainty. "Don't worry."
He turned and walked toward the thick night outside, his voice drifting back with the wind, arrogant and confident. "I am the strongest, after all."