Blood ran down the outside of his glove.
There was no way to tell whether it was blood flowing from his shoulder or blood belonging to the human he had just cut down.
One thing, however, was certain.
It kept making the sword in his hand slip.
The young man—or perhaps the boy—pulled off the glove he was wearing. He felt the bitter northern air brush against his bare skin.
“Haa.”
It was cold, as though he had plunged his hand into a lake with chunks of ice floating across its surface.
It stung just as badly.
Yet instead of shuddering at the pain, he abruptly spun around.
“Die, you fucking monster!”
Crunch!
His hand, already beginning to freeze in that brief span of time, caught the bandit's sword.
It took barely an instant for the blade to pierce his skin and carve open a wound.
But even if it wounded him, grabbing it was still grabbing it.
Considering that the enemy could no longer move the sword, it was certainly fair to describe it that way.
Whether one took the footpath or the mountain path, all that mattered was reaching the castle in the end.
Slice!
And so the young man extended his other hand straight out and swung it.
A white liquid burst from his sleeve, momentarily taking the shape of a sword before cleaving the bandit's body cleanly in two.
[How about taking a little better care of your body? You're wasting Demonic Energy.]
He pulled out the blade still lodged in his hand and tossed it aside, then withdrew Ratel, which had protruded like an extension of his arm.
Thrust!
Something burrowed into his back.
No, there was no need to call it merely something.
Cold. Hard. Sharp.
It was the familiar…