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{3rd Pov}
Theresia van Astrea, the previous Sword Saint, the beloved wife of Wilhelm van Astrea, the mother of Heinkel Astrea, and the grandmother of the current Sword Saint, Reinhardt van Astrea, had been reduced to nothing more than a corpse soldier under the control of the Witch Cult.
The shocking revelation sent tremors through everyone present, shaking them all to their very core. None of them could truly believe what they were seeing.
For Wilhelm, the truth hit the hardest.
He seethed with fury, his rage boiling within him like a storm about to break, yet at the same time, he was overwhelmed by a tide of emotions he could not control.
After countless years of grieving, he was finally able to lay his eyes on the face of his wife once again.
She looked exactly as he remembered—radiant, beautiful, and dignified even in death.
But this was not how he wanted to see her.
This was not how he wanted her memory preserved.
Instead of resting in peace as she deserved, her body was being manipulated, desecrated, and turned into nothing more than a tool for evil men.
It was a sight that twisted a knife into his heart.
"How dare you! How dare you desecrate my wife's body in such a vile manner!" Wilhelm roared, his voice carrying both anguish and fury.
He could barely restrain himself, his hand gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white, every part of him screaming to charge forward and cut Pride down where he stood, to sever the head from the shoulders of the vile creature who stood before him.
Pride, however, seemed unaffected by Wilhelm's rage. Instead, his expression twisted into one of cruel satisfaction, his tone mocking as he replied, "Filthy, you call me? At this very moment, your precious wife is serving as a Witch Cultist, whether you wish to acknowledge it or not. Alive or dead, her hands are stained in blood, and she has reaped the lives of many innocents under our command. That is her current truth."
His words, each syllable dripping with venom, pierced Wilhelm's heart like blades, forcing him to confront an unbearable reality.
"You vile scum!" Julius declared sharply, stepping forward with determination.
His sword gleamed as he raised it, the tip pointing directly at Pride.
His voice rang out with righteous fury as he added, "To take the body of a former hero—a woman who once stood for justice and hope—and twist it into a tool for your heinous crimes, is unforgivable. You bring shame upon all that is sacred!"
Pride only chuckled darkly, the sound echoing like a cruel taunt.
"For your information," he began, speaking with deliberate slowness to ensure his words sank into their hearts, "I only joined the Witch Cult yesterday. The corpse you see before you, however, has been in the Cult's service for many years. Do not misunderstand—this arrangement was not my doing, but hers. Her body has already been defiled and forced into servitude long before I came along."
He leaned forward slightly, his grin widening, his eyes locking onto Wilhelm's as though savoring the torment he inflicted.
"And let me shatter one last illusion for you, Wilhelm. It was not the White Whale that killed your dear wife, as you were led to believe all these years. No… her death, her suffering, and her ultimate fall into this fate—these were all the work of the Witch Cult itself."
Pride's revelation struck like a thunderbolt.
Wilhelm's entire body trembled, his rage and grief intertwining, the weight of decades of sorrow and mistaken belief collapsing onto him in that one, unbearable instant.
For countless years, Wilhelm had walked a single path—a path carved out of grief, vengeance, and unrelenting determination.
He had abandoned everything in pursuit of that one goal: revenge for his beloved wife, Theresia.
He had forsaken his title as the "Sword Demon," discarded his role within the family, distanced himself from bonds that might have healed him, and turned his back on the people who once cared for him.
None of it mattered.
To him, there was only one thing worth living for—the slaying of the monster that had taken his wife from him.
Every drop of blood he spilled, every scar he earned, every sleepless night he endured—all of it was for that singular purpose.
His quest for vengeance consumed his life. And, at last, after decades of struggle, his efforts had borne fruit.
Just a year ago, Wilhelm had succeeded in what he once thought impossible.
With the united strength of the Crusch camp, the Emilia camp, and even Anastasia Hoshin's forces, he had brought down the White Whale—the very beast he had been told was responsible for Theresia's death.
When its monstrous form was slain, when it collapsed into nothingness before his very eyes, Wilhelm believed his revenge had finally been fulfilled.
For the first time in decades, he felt a sense of closure.
He thought he had honored Theresia's memory.
He thought he had avenged her tragic end.
With the monster's death, a heavy burden lifted from his shoulders, and Wilhelm finally began to imagine a future not shackled by hatred.
He allowed himself to breathe, to let go of the ghosts of the past, and to believe that peace was within reach.
But now—now that he stood before the truth, staring into the cruel smile of Pride and the hollow eyes of his desecrated wife—everything shattered.
His revenge had not been fulfilled.
His suffering had not been vindicated.
All this time, all those years, he had been chasing the wrong enemy.
The White Whale had not stolen Theresia from him.
It had been the Witch Cult all along.
That realization burned into his soul like fire, filling him with a hatred so raw and bitter it threatened to consume him entirely.
Resentment boiled within him, mixing with a rage so violent it trembled through his very bones.
He glared at Pride with eyes that promised nothing less than death, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword until his fingers ached.
His blade lifted, gleaming with the intent to cut, and he roared, "You despicable scoundrels! To think it was you all along—to think it was you who killed my beloved wife! I swear upon my sword and upon her memory, I shall take your head!"
His voice carried the weight of decades of grief, his fury so intense it shook the air itself.
But before Wilhelm could move, before he could bring his vengeance down upon Pride, a figure stepped forward—Theresia herself.
Or rather, what remained of her.
The woman he had loved more than life itself now stood between him and his quarry, her body twisted into a puppet of the Cult.
Her sword, once a weapon of honor and heroism, was now raised against him, its cold steel pointing directly at his heart.
Wilhelm froze, his body betraying him as his eyes locked onto her form.
The sight was unbearable.
To fight his wife, to raise his blade against her, was the last thing he could ever imagine.
Yet here she was, forced to stand in defense of the very monster who had defiled her memory.
Pride, reveling in Wilhelm's torment, let out a mocking laugh.
"Yada, yada," he drawled, his tone dripping with cruel amusement. "Why don't you claim your wife's head first, before you talk of taking mine?"
His words were like poison, deliberately designed to twist the knife deeper into Wilhelm's heart.
Everyone present felt their blood boil at Pride's shameless cruelty.
Julius, Alderban, and even those who usually carried calm composure could not hide their fury.
Their glares locked onto him, sharp enough to cut.
If looks alone had the power to kill, then Pride would have perished a thousand times over at that very moment.
His body would have been reduced to ash under the weight of their hatred, yet still, he stood there smirking, savoring the chaos he had sown.
"I do have a question, though," Pride said suddenly, his cruel voice breaking the tension like a dagger.
His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, a mocking grin spreading across his face.
He raised a finger and pointed directly at Heinkel, who was still disguised as Reinhardt.
"Aren't you supposed to be her grandson? Then why did you just call her your mother?"
The question hit like a blade, and for a split second, Heinkel flinched.
His body stiffened as the weight of Pride's gaze fell upon him, and that tiny slip made everyone present tense up in alarm.
The place seemed to grow heavier, the danger pressing down on them.
If Pride realized the deception, if he caught on to the truth that this was not Reinhardt standing before him, everything would fall apart.
Their entire plan hinged on maintaining the illusion that the Sword Saint himself was here, holding his blade in reserve, waiting for the moment to strike.
The fact that Reinhardt had not yet attacked was intentional.
He was still waiting, carefully biding his time, watching for the one and only opening that could ensure Pride's destruction.
If the Witch Cultist grew suspicious and stayed on guard, Reinhardt might never find that chance.
That was why they had to keep him distracted, make him believe their strongest warrior was present and engaged.
If Pride saw through their bluff, the opportunity would vanish, and their chances of victory would collapse with it.
Everyone's eyes turned to Heinkel, their breaths held in anxious silence.
For a moment, it seemed as though everything might unravel.
Then, against all odds, Heinkel spoke.
He lifted his chin, forcing confidence into his voice despite the nervous sweat on his forehead.
"She might technically be my grandmother," he said, his words sharp and filled with defiance, "but to me, she has always been like a mother! She raised me, she guided me, she is more than just a figure of the past. How could someone like you possibly understand the bond of love between family? You're nothing but a monster!"
His voice trembled at first but grew steadier with each word.
Heinkel's outburst carried just enough conviction to mask the truth, and for the moment, it worked.
Everyone in the group felt their chests loosen as they exhaled in relief.
Heinkel's answer, though clumsy, had patched over the dangerous gap.
His words had given Pride no reason to doubt the disguise, and that was enough to keep their fragile plan intact.
Subaru, who had been observing closely, chose this moment to step forward.
As he moved, Beatrice's small hand tugged at his sleeve.
She looked up at him with worry in her eyes, silently urging him not to act recklessly.
Subaru glanced back at her, gave her a firm nod, and whispered reassurance with nothing but his expression.
Reluctantly, Beatrice released her grip, biting her lip in frustration as she let his sleeve slip from her hand.
Subaru's mind had been racing the entire time.
From the very beginning, he had been testing the waters, probing Pride's personality, trying to learn how the enemy thought and behaved.
And now, after watching long enough, he had reached a conclusion.
Pride was the kind of man who thrived on power.
He delighted in flaunting his superiority, in mocking others, in crushing their spirits before striking them down.
Killing wasn't enough for him; he wanted to break their pride, humiliate them, and strip away every shred of dignity before delivering the final blow.
That was exactly the kind of person Subaru hated most. And it was also the kind of person he knew how to deal with.
Otherwise, with such overwhelming power and advantage on his side, Pride would have already wiped them out completely.
The only reason they still stood was because he hadn't deemed it necessary to go all out yet. Subaru understood this better than anyone.
What he was about to do wasn't just reckless—it was practically a death wish. Still, that didn't matter.
If his life was the price to pay, then so be it.
Even if he died here and now, what mattered most was creating an opening—just a single, precious opportunity for Reinhardt to strike down Pride.
That was all it would take.
And Subaru had something no one else did.
Even if he fell in this battle, even if his body was crushed and his blood spilled on the ground, he had the power to redo everything.
He could return by death, relive the moment, and try again and again until victory was achieved.
As long as Reinhardt succeeded in killing Pride in at least one of those attempts, all of their sacrifices would not be in vain.
That knowledge gave him the courage to move forward, no matter how terrifying the risk.
Clenching his fists, Subaru lifted his head, his determination burning in his eyes.
He jabbed his finger forward, pointing it straight at Pride as if challenging the embodiment of arrogance itself.
His voice rang out, sharp and bold despite the fear clawing at his insides.
"I want to have a duel with you!"
The sudden declaration shocked his comrades.
For a brief moment, several of them nearly cried out in protest, their instincts screaming at them to stop him from doing something so suicidal.
But then, as the weight of his words sank in, they began to understand.
This was Subaru.
He never acted without a reason, never threw himself into danger unless he had some kind of plan.
The realization calmed them, and though their hearts still pounded with anxiety, they bit back their words and stayed silent.
Pride raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the challenge.
His lips curled into a smug smile, and his voice dripped with mockery as he responded.
"Oh? A duel, you say? And why, exactly, would I waste my precious time and energy entertaining such nonsense with you? When I could just snap my fingers and end your pathetic existence right here and now?" His tone was amused, like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
Not only Subaru, but even the others reacted to those words.
Their expressions shifted ever so slightly, and in their eyes appeared a faint glint—an unspoken realization that something important had just happened.
'He took the bait,' Subaru thought, biting down hard on his lip to keep himself from smiling outright.
This was exactly the reaction he had been counting on.
Pride's arrogance was his greatest weapon, but it was also his greatest weakness.
Subaru had dangled the hook, and the Witch Cultist had bitten down on it without hesitation.
Even the others began to understand what Subaru was aiming for.
"Of course, you can kill me with a snap of your fingers," Subaru continued, his tone steady though every nerve in his body screamed at him about the danger.
"But wouldn't that only prove how weak you really are? That you can't even face someone like me in a fair fight without relying on cheap tricks?" Every word he spoke was a gamble, every sentence was another step closer to death.
He fully expected that at any second, Pride might lose patience and erase him from existence.
But he pressed on anyway, because this was the only way forward.
Around him, his teammates watched in tense silence.
Their faith in Subaru was unshaken, even if their hands trembled with fear.
Over time, they had come to believe in the impossible miracles he always managed to pull off.
They didn't know—couldn't possibly know—that those "miracles" were built on countless corpses, on all of Subaru's past failures, on the power that allowed him to return from death and try again and again.
That was the truth Subaru carried alone.
The miracles they believed in were nothing more than the product of his suffering, of endless deaths that only he remembered.
And now, once again, he was gambling with that same fate, using his own life as bait to draw Pride into making a fatal mistake.
Subaru thought he was done for.
But instead of striking Subaru down immediately, Pride only grinned, his cruel smile widening as if savoring the moment.
He let the silence drag out, enjoying the unease it created, until Gloria suddenly stepped forward with a huff.
Her eyes narrowed in contempt, her words sharp as a blade.
"Weak? Do not underestimate my father, you filthy mongrel. Even if he were stripped of his Authority, even if he were reduced to nothing but a man, he would still wipe the floor with all of you without breaking a sweat."
Her voice carried the same cold, condescending tone as always, dripping with disdain for those she deemed beneath her.
But Subaru did not flinch.
Instead, he pushed his luck even further, his grin widening though his heart pounded in his chest.
"I am the weakest combatant here," he declared openly, his voice carrying across the chamber.
"My gate is broken, my physical strength is no greater than that of an ordinary soldier. Compared to everyone else in this room, I'm nothing. So tell me, Pride—are you scared of battling someone like me?"
His words hung in the air like a taunt, and for a brief, tense moment, silence swallowed the entire space.
The Sin Archbishops and the corpse soldiers shifted uncomfortably, their expressions flickering with mixed emotions.
It was Frill who finally broke the silence, stepping forward with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
"Master, allow me to end his insolence. Let me take his head and silence him once and for all."
But Pride, still grinning, lifted his hand and gestured for her to stop.
The command was clear, and Frill froze in place, retreating obediently behind him.
Pride's eyes locked on Subaru, filled with twisted amusement.
"Very well," he said at last, his voice slow and deliberate, carrying the weight of a promise.
"I will accept your challenge, Natsuki Subaru. A duel it shall be. But hear me clearly—if any of your allies dare to interfere in this fight, their heads will be rolling down across the floor before they can even draw another breath."
With those words, Pride moved in a way that chilled everyone watching.
For the very first time since their encounter began, he rose from his throne.
The act alone carried a sense of dreadful significance.
The self-proclaimed embodiment of arrogance, who had been content to sit above them all this time, was now willing to step down and face Subaru directly.
Subaru forced his trembling legs to carry him forward.
Every step felt like walking toward certain death, but he did not falter.
He walked straight toward Pride, his whip clutched tightly in his hand.
As he approached, the Sin Archbishops standing in formation began to shift aside.
Even the corpse soldiers moved, creating a path for Subaru. Kurgan's massive frame and Theresia's elegant but lifeless figure turned just enough to open the way, their dead eyes watching without emotion.
And then Subaru suddenly broke into a charge, his whip snapping as he swung it toward Pride in a reckless attack. But at that very instant—
Boom
A shockwave ripped through the air.
Reinhardt had moved.
He accelerated with such unimaginable speed that the air itself screamed in protest, his movement breaking past dozens of times the speed of sound.
In less than a fraction of a fraction of a second—before even a tenth of a second had passed—Reinhardt was already behind Pride.
His sword gleamed with a brilliance that seemed absolute, raised to deliver a strike so fast and so powerful it could end everything in a single blow.
But just as his blade descended, the impossible happened.
Frill Shiranui was suddenly there, interposing herself between Reinhardt and his target.
With nothing but a wooden stick clutched in her hands, she met his full-powered slash head-on.
The force of Reinhardt's strike, which should have cleaved through steel and stone alike, was stopped cold as sparks of raw energy burst into the air.
Reinhardt's eyes widened.
For a man who had never truly known failure in battle, the realization hit instantly—he had been stopped.
His attack had failed.
Without hesitation, he pulled back, retreating at once as his instincts screamed danger.
Projectiles of light rained down upon him immediately after, forcing him to twist and dodge with desperate precision.
But then it happened.
Pride, still facing forward and without even bothering to turn his head, snapped his fingers.
Thud
The sound was chilling in its finality.
Reinhardt's eyes, once sharp and filled with purpose, instantly dulled.
The luster drained from them like a candle being snuffed out.
His body went limp, collapsing without resistance, and in the next moment, the Sword Saint—the strongest warrior alive—fell lifelessly to the ground.
Silence fell like a crushing weight over the battlefield. Subaru and the others stood frozen, their eyes wide with horror as they stared at the fallen figure behind Pride.
Reinhardt—Reinhardt van Astrea, the Sword Saint, the strongest among them, the man who embodied the very concept of invincibility—now lay motionless on the cold ground.
His once-bright eyes were lifeless, his body limp, and in that single moment the hope they had clung to shattered completely.
The strongest warrior in the world, their greatest trump card, the one person they believed capable of striking down the Sin Archbishop of Pride, had been defeated without even leaving a scratch on his enemy.
"Reinhardt!" Felt's voice cracked as she cried out, her face twisting with despair.
Subaru echoed her cry, his throat burning with anguish.
"Reinhardt!" His shout carried not just grief but a sense of disbelief, as if saying the name louder might somehow wake him from death.
Pride, however, stood unmoved.
He did not even glance at the corpse behind him, as though Reinhardt's death was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Instead, he turned his gaze on Subaru and the others, his grin stretching wider, his voice venomous as he mocked them.
"Tell me—who is pathetic now? Is it me, the one who accepted a duel on your terms, even restraining myself from using the Authority at my full disposal? Or is it you, whose so-called greatest ally attempted a cowardly sneak attack and failed miserably? The Sword Saint himself could not touch me. What does that make the rest of you?"
His words stabbed into them like daggers, twisting the knife of despair deeper into their hearts.
Subaru clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his skin, his teeth grinding together until his jaw ached.
For a fleeting moment, his thoughts spiraled in the one direction he knew too well.
Should I just end it now?
If he killed himself here, he could restart the loop.
He could go back, undo this failure, and try again.
It would mean throwing away this moment, but at least it wouldn't be the end.
At least he could try to fix it.
The temptation gnawed at him, heavier than ever.
But Pride was not finished.
His cruel laughter echoed through the air, chilling and mocking.
"However…" he drawled, dragging out the word with deliberate cruelty, "I am feeling generous today. If you all surrender right here, if you lay down your weapons, bow your heads, and swear absolute loyalty to me, then perhaps—I might allow you to live. I might even be merciful enough to spare your lives and make you my slaves."
He threw his head back and laughed, the sound booming, arrogant, and merciless.
Not a single person answered him.
No one dared to move, to raise a weapon, or even to breathe too loudly.
They all understood the truth.
The moment anyone spoke out or tried to fight, it would no longer be a battle—it would be an execution.
A one-sided massacre where none of them would leave alive.
Pride had already demonstrated his power.
He had killed Reinhardt, the strongest of them, with nothing but a snap of his fingers.
Compared to that, the rest of them were insects waiting to be crushed.
And yet, the silence was not born only from fear of death.
It was the crushing despair of knowing that even their sacrifice might mean nothing.
Every single one of them was willing to fight to the death if it would stop Pride.
They had accepted that possibility from the very beginning.
But the question now was different.
If Reinhardt cannot kill him… who can?
That thought hung in everyone's mind like a death sentence.
If even the Sword Saint, the man hailed as the mightiest existence on the continent, could not bring down Pride, then there was no one else in the world capable of stopping this monster.
Their wills were strong, their courage unshaken, but courage meant nothing in the face of an enemy who stood above all reason, all strength, and all hope.
To be continued...
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