Chapter 17: Shiltina, You Look Like a Delicious Red Bean Bun
At the junction between the inner city and the harbor district, Shiltina pulled her rapier from the heart of an Iron Cross.
The ash-gray body before her collapsed with a thud, sending up a splash of ink-like black blood.
A barrage of gunfire exploded behind Shiltina.
It came from some kind of drum-fed automatic rifle still in its prototype stage during this era, yet to be widely adopted.
The Iron Crosses, whose physical capabilities had been enhanced, had excellent marksmanship.
They fired with uncanny timing, precisely when Shiltina was sidestepping to confront another Iron Cross charging at her from the front, leaving her unable to guard her flanks—an opening that, under normal circumstances, would mean certain death.
But Shiltina still reacted in time.
A brilliant silver gleam lit up in her eyes, and her rapier was also cloaked in a layer of silvery-white glow.
All the movements of the infected Iron Crosses before her, the trajectory of the bullets, the flow of the gusting wind, and the din of the chaos—everything around Shiltina slowed into a dreamlike sequence.
The only thing unchanged was the silver sword in her hand.
This was the effect of activating her Nightblade.
Shiltina’s Nightblade could bestow the concept of “weapon” onto any object and bring it entirely under her control.
Even a child with no strength could wield a branch with the lethality of a trained soldier swinging a longsword.
And Shiltina herself was a seasoned swordswoman honed through countless battles.
Her rapier, named Shimmering Morning Star, had accompanied her through innumerable fights in the Nightworld.
Thus, when she activated the Nightblade, her accumulated experience in wielding a sword was elevated to an entirely new realm.
She entered a unique state of mental flow.
The intersecting paths of over a dozen bullets, the flaws in her enemies’ movements, the weak points in the encirclement the Iron Crosses had formed—all of it surged into Shiltina’s mind as a complex stream of information.
In a split second, she processed it, analyzed it, and made it lucid and traceable.
To use the words from one of Rast’s martial arts novels from his past life, it was what they called “the heart of the sword illuminated, man and blade as one.”
Ding ding ding ding—a series of crisp, metallic sounds rang out as she intercepted every bullet with rapid thrusts that flashed like lightning.
Meanwhile, Rast beside her also opened fire.
Full-metal jacket bullets spun out at high velocity.
He didn’t aim at the Iron Cross gunner’s chest or head—those vital areas were protected by steel membranes, making a one-shot kill impossible.
And trying to duel an automatic rifle with a single-action revolver was meaningless.
Instead, Rast aimed at the Iron Cross’s gun-wielding wrist.
Amid the muzzle flash, the automatic rifle that had entangled the two for so long slipped from its wielder’s hand and fell, only to be trampled under the boots of the Iron Crosses coming up from behind.
Rast kept firing to both sides.
His bullets struck the gas pipes lining the street, and the bursting sparks ignited the leaking gas.
A scorching wall of flame swept across the entire street, momentarily halting the advance of the Iron Crosses.
But they couldn’t afford to stop.
From every direction except the one they came from, more Iron Crosses were closing in, lured by the scent of Rast’s blood and the evil god’s sculpture.
From a top-down view, the Iron Crosses flooding Deep Blue Port would appear like a tidal wave.
And Rast and Shiltina were like people who failed to return to shore before high tide, forever being pursued by the surging sea.
The two of them rushed toward the hazy outline of the harbor district in the distance.
It was the final stretch, but they could only go on foot.
The big red horse from earlier was no longer with them.
While leaping to avoid a bear trap set by the Iron Crosses, it had been struck mid-air by a stray bullet in its left leg.
All Rast could do was shoot it in the head before it was swallowed by the oncoming Iron Crosses.
“Everyone dies.”
Those were Rast’s murmured words at the time.
Shiltina didn’t know if that included the two of them.
…
Ten minutes later, Rast and Shiltina, bloodied and filthy, arrived in the harbor district.
Unlike the residential areas crowded with houses and people, the harbor district was sparsely populated.
A patchwork of munitions warehouses and steam factories dotted the landscape.
Rast checked his watch and stopped walking.
“Let’s rest for a bit.”
Rumble—
As soon as Rast’s voice fell, thunder rumbled overhead.
Shiltina looked up instinctively.
Just a short while ago, the sky had been bright with sunlight, but now it was shrouded in thick, dark clouds.
A few seconds later, rain poured down in torrents, showcasing the coastal region’s notoriously fickle weather.
Rast bent forward, bracing his knees, and panted heavily under the downpour.
“Iron Crosses mainly track by scent, but heavy rain washes away blood trails. For now, they won’t be able to find us.”
The silvery-blue brilliance in Shiltina’s eyes faded, returning to their usual light brown.
These Iron Crosses, capable of using firearms and even setting traps in advance, were far more troublesome than the zombies in movies.
The physical toll of their escape was only a secondary concern.
To deflect bullets, Shiltina had been forced to keep her Nightblade active the entire time, staying in what Rast called her “Sword Saint Mode.”
This state consumed immense mental energy.
After prolonged use, her mind was nearing exhaustion.
Now that her nerves finally relaxed, a wave of fatigue and drowsiness crashed over her like a tide.
But it was in that very moment of hazy relaxation that an intense, savage urge surged within her.
She looked at Rast in front of her and saw him as a clean and tidy puppet doll.
It made her want to rip him into shreds.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Rast’s limbs torn apart like a toy.
Fabric strips and clockwork gears—his stuffing—scattered everywhere…
Only his handsome head remained on his ruined torso, turning a full 360 degrees in her hand as she twisted it counterclockwise, a grotesque yet strangely beautiful vision.
Shiltina shuddered in horror.
Her Nightblade and War Chariot sequence hierarchy activated automatically.
A silver-blue blaze ignited in her eyes.
The pendants she carried flared with dazzling light, and glorious sigils surfaced.
Only after a long while did Shiltina manage to suppress the strange violent urge in her heart.
The silver flames in her eyes slowly died out.
On her right arm, a pitch-black cross-shaped mark gradually faded under the rain, eventually disappearing from her pale skin.
Shiltina forcibly tore her gaze away from Rast, who now seemed overwhelmingly attractive to her.
She feared that if she stared any longer, her urge to twist his head off might become reality.
“Rast, right now you look like a pretty little ragdoll to me, and I feel like a brat who just wants to tear apart a toy.”
“Totally normal,” Rast replied without lifting his head.
“Even though there’s no infection from a wound, the lead box can’t completely seal off that sculpture. A bit of the contamination leaked out and subtly influenced you.”
“But from the looks of it, your sequence hierarchy is high enough, and your mental resilience is strong. Without an open wound, the outbreak of the Iron Cross Plague can be temporarily suppressed.”
His voice remained calm despite the rain.
“By the way, Miss Shiltina, right now you look to me like a delicious, irresistible red bean bun…”
“Like someone just wants to bite through your white outer skin and savor the sweet red bean filling bursting in their mouth.”