Hard Carried by My Sword-Chapter 29

Chapter 29
Phantom Armors were completely different from Living Armors. They were, quite literally, armors inhabited by ghosts. Armor controlled by malevolent spirits would not fall until all their malice was exhausted. Even if destroyed by force, they would simply rise again and again.
There were three ways to completely eliminate a Phantom Armor: Expel the spirit with powerful magic, sever the link between spirit and armor with Aura, or purify it with holy power.
“So that’s why the one I cut down didn’t regenerate,” Leon muttered.
The pinnacle of holy weapons was the Holy Sword. Even if it was sealed, its divine power hadn’t vanished from the blade itself. The Phantom Armor that Leon had just slain had been directly struck by that blade—it was only natural that it had been annihilated without even a chance to scream.
El-Cid agreed with the thought, —Looks like all the Living Armors in this abandoned mansion were actually Phantom Armors. Anyone unfamiliar with them would easily mistake them for Living Armors with stupid high regenerative abilities.
“They didn’t show their smoke until they were exposed to the Holy Sword’s light.”
Phantom Armors were an ambiguous existence. They were merely armors inhabited by evil spirits—the armor itself wasn’t corrupted, nor could they be classified as undead.
Of course, if left alone long enough, the spirits would form ectoplasm to create a body, evolving into high-level undead known as “Phantom Knights,” but until then, the only reliable method to distinguish them from Living Armors was holy power. The problem was that because Phantom Armors were so rare, this method of identification was virtually unknown.
“Most ordained priests start at C-rank, so... yeah, I guess they had no way of figuring it out.”
El-Cid agreed, —Yeah, if you hadn’t been here, they likely would’ve been left alone until they turned into Phantom Knights. And Phantom Knights have power on par with those who can materialize magic—there would’ve been at least hundreds of casualties.
“Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”
They had found the spark before the fire could spread. Agreeing with El-Cid’s assessment, Leon glanced around.
The Phantom Armors weren’t pursuing him, likely because he had moved away with the Holy Sword’s light. If he moved closer again, they’d probably charge him as viciously as before.
What should I do...
Leon hesitated. Retreating for a day was also an option. Unlike Living Armors, Phantom Armors drew their power from evil spirits, meaning it would be easier to fight them in the bright light of midday rather than now when the sun had fully set.
There wasn’t even a time limit on the quest, so coming back at noon the next wouldn’t be a problem.
Just then, El-Cid spoke.
—
Hmm,
these things weren’t made deliberately. The armor is poor in quality, and they go into seizures when touched by the holy light. Unstable as hell. Hard to believe, but maybe... they’re a product of chance.
“Chance? Then you’re saying there was no one behind this?”
—Not quite.
Causality wasn’t that simple. Just because the Phantom Armors had arisen by chance didn’t mean the phenomenon itself was innocent, especially so when it wasn’t just one or two but every suit of armor in this mansion had turned into these monsters.
Even with proper magical formulas, failures would normally occur. Yet dozens had emerged without a single mistake? It was absurd.
—They must’ve failed countless times, and only the successful ones remain. Dozens? Not even close. There’s no doubt hundreds, maybe even over a thousand spirits flowed into this mansion.
“No... no way,” Leon cautiously denied the claim. “I haven’t heard about any wars near here. No plagues either. Sure, a lot of mercenaries and adventurers die, but hardly anyone dies
in
the city...”
His voice trailed off as his face went pale. He realized, mid-denial, what El-Cid was getting at.
“People
are
dying in the city...?”
—Exactly.
“And not just a few—over a thousand?”
—Easily several thousand.
At worst, it could be tens of thousands. Understanding the horrific scale of the situation, Leon barely held back his nausea.
El-Cid waited patiently for him to calm down before continuing, —Spirits don’t move around much. They don’t travel far, and they don’t linger long in the world. It’d be hard for them to even cross a single district of the city.
“So it has to be the slums...”
—Most likely.
For something that catastrophic to take place without attracting outside attention, it had to be a place outside law and order, where anything could be obtained with money and violence. The slums fit those conditions perfectly.
Rumor had it even the lord of the city didn’t dare interfere, thanks to the tangled web of connections. They said even illegal goods like narcotics and slaves circulated there.
Leon’s gaze darkened as he thought,
Something has to be done about this.
That didn’t mean he could solve it by acting alone either. To dig deeper into the slums, he needed time—and even after lowering their guard, it might still take quite a bit of wandering around before he could reach the truth. Sure, he could use the Holy Sword to move the Church as a last resort, but that would only stir up a hornet’s nest if the puppet master’s identity and motive remained unknown.
Leon was still inexperienced. A true Hero would have charged in and purged all evil alone, but right now, he had to be careful even around local thugs of the slums.
“Alright then.”
Leon raised the Holy Sword. He erased the option of retreating and coming back in the day. Facing stronger enemies in darker places was the kind of experience that would help him grow.
Faster. Stronger.
Self-reflection and desire pushed him forward. The moment he took his third step, the Phantom Armors’ blood-red eyes lit up as they lunged at him.
The joints of their armor rattled with metallic noise. With nothing inside, their movements were light—light enough that their bodies seemed to lift slightly each time they stepped.
Leon charged, aiming for that brief opening.
Eight meters was the distance to close down, but the enemy’s weapons were polearms, while he carried a longsword. Inevitably, the initiative in a first strike clearly belonged to them.
A sharp spearhead and the twin blades beneath it—a spetum—sliced through the air. Unlike a plain spear, a spetum’s barbs make it hard to slide along the shaft. Trying to dodge by a hair’s breadth risked slicing open your flesh on the auxiliary blades.
At that same moment, Leon’s sword rose sharply to meet the spetum with a
clang.
The spetum bounced upward with a crisp metallic ring.
The Phantom Armors were light. In any martial art, a lighter load meant the attack would lift more easily, and that was especially the case with a thrust, which demanded rooted footing and full force. The crudely made gauntlet creaked and the cracked finger joint twisted in the opposite direction.
“That’s one.”
Riding the momentum from the rising slash, he brought his sword down. The Phantom Armor had halted for its thrust while Leon still had forward momentum. That difference in momentum added to the power of his strike in his furious cut that cut the armor’s upper body in half diagonally.
It didn’t even make the sound of metal tearing. The slash was that clean. As if the evil spirit was also cleaved in one stroke, the armor dropped like dead scrap.
That leaves two.
Leon reacted immediately as the glaive aimed for his neck while the bardiche swung for his shin in a near-simultaneous strike to a vital and a difficult-to-defend lower spot. It was a textbook pincer attack. One sword couldn’t block both.
In response, Leon raised his leg high. He stomped on the flat of the bardiche targeting his shin. Steel buried in the ground rang loudly. Using that recoil, he bent backward at the waist.
It was an evasive move verging on acrobatics and a motion he couldn’t even dream of back during his time at the Academy. Now it came naturally. Freed from rigid form, his swordsmanship had leaped forward by several levels.
As long as I’m not surrounded, they’re no threat.
He cleaved the disarmed one first. Then, stepping into the glaive’s range, he blocked the shaft.
Polearms excel in reach but suffer up close. Within one meter, they’re weaker than even a dagger. There’s no room to rotate them. Leon struck the armor’s abdomen with his pommel. As the Phantom Armor reeled back, he followed through and cleaved its waist.
Only one remained—a Halberd.
“So predictable.”
It wasn’t much different from the first one he fought. The battle was done and dusted.
Leon scanned the scattered armors around him. Confirming no movement, he moved on. These Phantom Armors, unable to regenerate at all, were less trouble than regular Living Armors.
He had been nervous, having never fought polearm-wielders before, but their obvious movements were easy prey for Rodrick’s Vision.
“Maybe I should try fighting while getting surrounded on purpose.”
—Because of the blind spots?
“Yeah.”
Rodrick’s Vision was practically invincible within its line of sight, but the human field of vision had its limits. No matter how you rolled your eyes, you couldn’t see behind yourself. You couldn’t always fight with your back to a wall either.
They say being at the mercy of circumstances makes you third-rate. Adapting makes you second-rate. Turning those circumstances into your own strength makes you first-rate.
“And besides...” Leon spoke with firm resolve, “It’s something I need to learn if I want to fight in the slums.”
Sure, the battles in the sewers or underground tunnels were a challenge, but the slums were going to be something on a completely different level. Enemies who were used to malicious traps, alleyways, sneak attacks, and assassinations would undoubtedly go for his blind spots.
If Leon tried to rely on Rodrick’s Vision like he had done up to this point, there was a good chance he would find himself in danger nearly impossible to overcome.
Noticing Leon’s resolve, El-Cid chose to remain quiet.
“Let’s move,” Leon declared, shoving the now-lifeless armors into a corner before walking further into the dark mansion.
There was still more of the first floor to explore, and the mansion, despite being quite old, was bound to have a plethora of ornamental armor.
With the light of the Holy Sword brightening his way, Leon walked. He advanced with the resolve to exterminate the evil spirits even if it took him until sunrise.
***
If the bustling façade of Blaine the Freedom City was the light, then the slums were the shadow born from that light.
Leon had once called it a place outside the law and order, but that wasn’t entirely accurate. It was removed from the law’s order, yes, but the slums had their own kind of order. The universal rule that governed all places in the world—“the law of strength.”
And among them, the thugs belonging to gangs were even more thorough. They bowed to the strong and, the moment their backs were turned, trampled the weak. They felt no shame in doing so, calling it the “survival of the fittest.”
In this lawless zone, weakness was a sin. One’s place in the food chain—top or bottom—was all that mattered.
A man appeared, immediately greeted in reverence by others in attendance. This man was nearly two meters tall, muscles bulging beneath his leather jacket with threatening ripples. He was none other than the boss of Blaine’s strongest gang, Bastard.
A man born in the alleys of the slums who rose to rule over all thugs with his fists alone. There had been attempts by B-rank adventurers to bring him down, but his one-sided victories were still well-known.
Khan leaned against the golden backrest of his chair as he received greetings from the underlings.
“,” he said, casually.
One of them darted forward and knelt down.
“Yes, boss!”
Like a servant bowing before a king, the flattery was almost shameless. It was a common sight in this place.
“We monitored districts twenty-three and twenty-five as instructed, and none of the slaves who entered those areas have come out. We didn’t get any closer because of the dangerous ones lurking around the mansion, but should we go in deeper, boss?”
“No. Just keep watch from that distance. We might get caught in the blast if we poke the wrong nest. Next.”
“Yes, boss!”
The second man stepped forward and prostrated himself on the ground.
“We examined the sewage flowing out of districts twenty-three and twenty-five. In addition to waste and filth, it contained blood and viscera. The quantity was considerable—at least thirty people dying every day...”
“What did the mage say?” Khan asked.
“Wilson the mage said something felt off. He said black magic sacrificial rituals don’t waste life like that.”
“
Tch!
”
When Khan clicked his tongue, the thugs flinched with hardened expressions. When he showed displeasure like that, blood usually followed. A single punch from those lid-sized fists could pulverize a face and confine a man to bed for days.
Fortunately, the fist didn’t fly this time. Khan, furrowing his brows, finished a brief moment of thought before speaking.
“Compile all the investigations I ordered into a . I don’t care about formatting. Attach the evidence, too—make it convincing enough to move the Guild or the Church.”
At those words, one of the bulkier lieutenants spoke up.
“B-Boss!”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, but the money tied to this is huge! I don’t know what those bastards are doing, but if we shut them down now, the commissions we’re supposed to get from the slavers will be cut in half! At least until we recoup—”
That was when it happened. Khan’s left hand blurred for a moment, and the next instant, the loudmouth’s head exploded into pieces.
No one even saw it happen. In the blink of an eye, the headless body spewed blood with a wet burst. The man had made it all the way to lieutenant, so he must’ve had some degree of strength—but he couldn’t even react before dying in a single blow.
“Idiot,” Khan muttered as he looked down at the corpse with contempt. “Did running a gambling den rot his brain? If you don’t know when to pull out, you die. Just like that.”
Still, perhaps feeling the need to explain the situation, Khan glanced around at the terrified thugs and continued, “Those guys are different. You can’t use them, and you shouldn’t try to. Just getting involved is a loss. Think of it this way. If we walk into a restaurant, we collect protection money from the owner and rob the customers. Maybe we eat and skip the bill. But those guys? They set the place on fire. That’s their goal from the start.”
“W-why would they do that?” one of the underlings asked.
“Who knows?” Khan shut the question down cold. “Don’t even try to understand that kind of behavior. Whether they’re spies from some foreign agency or fanatics from a cult, it doesn’t matter. There’s no good reason to get involved with them. If the Church gets involved, it’s game over. They’ll chase
you
across the entire continent if they find even one record of a bribe to your name.”
A loud gulp echoed through the room. The Adventurer’s Guild was a bit more lenient. You could shake them off if the cost wasn’t worth it. But the Holy Church? That really was the end.
The Holy Iron Inquisitors were the Church’s one and only armed force. Nothing remained in their wake—not even weeds. They were the Church’s executioners, whose doctrine was mercilessness. Once someone was branded as a heretic, holy knights in heavy armor would chase them to the ends of the continent.
“We’re pulling out. That’s final. Any objections?”
With a headless corpse lying nearby, who would dare object? Everyone kept their mouths shut and bowed deeply. It was a unanimous agreement, forced by fear.
The thugs, cowed by Khan’s command, left the room. The body was quickly cleared away, and only one informant remained in the luxurious and spacious after failing to find the right moment to leave the room.
He trembled violently, though thankfully he hadn’t wet himself. He had a strong feeling that if he had, he really would have died.
“Hey,” Khan called out to him.
“Y-y-yes?! I mean, yes, boss!”
“Give me one last update before you scram.”
The informant immediately clung to the lifeline.
“Yes, boss! T-there’s an abandoned mansion near the entrance to the slums! There’s a single adventurer going in and out on a request related to that place! It’s been over a week! They say he’s been hunting monsters like Ratmen and Rock Slimes!”
“
Oh
?”
“He’s been acting so unusually that he’s already picked up a nickname—at first it was “the Cat,” but now they’re calling him “the Sweeper”! Probably because he’s been handling all the jobs that other adventurers avoid!”
He hadn’t expected anything interesting, but this was better than he thought. Khan gestured for him to leave, and the informant slammed his head to the ground before bolting out of the room.
Watching the pitiful display with a faint smirk, Khan turned his thoughts to the adventurer called the Sweeper. Who was this adventurer who got a nickname for handling the dirty work no one else wanted? Whoever it was, they piqued his interest.
“Maybe I’ll give him a try.”
In the dim room, Khan’s eyes gleamed.