Holy Light Above, It's a Living Saint—We're Saved! [Release Bonus 5/50]

Holy Light Above, It's a Living Saint—We're Saved! [Release Bonus 5/50]

(Extra chapter for Frostfang's Claw [5/10])

Diakum was utterly bewildered as he rose from the sarcophagus.

He had been trapped between life and death for who knew how long. That damned place had no concept of time. He could only pass the hours through endless battles—continuous battles, battles devised in every conceivable way—trying not to become an incurable Eredar recluse. Aside from meditation, his only daily task was checking whether his combat skills had improved. It was exactly like logging in every day during a content drought to mindlessly grind achievements.

After all, there was nothing else to do.

In truth, Dick had long since adapted to that "simple life." Being suddenly called to "wake up" caught him off guard as well. Fortunately, he had never been grumpy upon waking, or this eruption of Holy Light might have gotten out of hand.

As for why he had suddenly awakened—

It was some kind of liquid!

It flowed over Dick's lips like spilled wine. Fishy and sweet with a trace of bitterness, carrying warm, flowing pain—that familiar taste instantly jolted Dick awake from his "virtual reality."

It was blood.

Eredar blood!

He had smelled this scent countless times on the battlefields of Argus. He could tell that it was pure blood, untainted by fel energy, from a young and vigorous Eredar.

Blood dripping onto Dick's lips meant that a young compatriot had been injured beside him!

Which meant—

That child was in danger!

With a jolt, driven by some impulse, Dick "naturally" opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a battle axe whistling down toward him, while before him stood a grievously wounded Eredar girl, her body pierced through by a war spear and clearly on the verge of death.

Bang

Dick reached out and caught the descending axe blade.

The countless battles between life and death ensured that, after over twenty thousand years of slumber, his reflexes and battlefield instincts had not deteriorated. They were even sharper and more domineering than before he had fallen unconscious. And the combat instincts of a legend made that grasp precise and swift.

Effortlessly, he moved after his opponent yet struck first.

The instant his fingers gripped the axe blade, Holy Light—rehearsed countless times—surged forth at his command. It poured through his fingers, and within a single breath, melted the cold, sturdy metal blade, allowing his fingers to sink into it as easily as pinching wet sand.

His body, which had lain still for who knew how long, felt slightly awkward. His motion as he rose was slow, even somewhat sluggish, like a Gundam pilot suddenly entering a new machine. No matter how talented one was, there was always an adjustment period.

But the good news was that he adapted quickly!

Just as the orc threw away his battle axe and drew the saber at his waist to stab him, Dick had almost recovered his old condition. Watching the gleaming blade thrust toward him, he merely raised a hand and chanted a glyph. A radiant Power Word: Shield enveloped both him and the injured girl.

A thin layer of Holy Light formed a defense. It looked as though it would break with a single blow, yet the savage-faced orc could not pierce the faint, eggshell-like barrier. Instead, Diakum clenched his fingers into a fist and knocked him down with one heavy punch.

The fierce attacker was tough enough, falling without making a sound. Judging from the strange posture in which he collapsed, his breastbone had likely been shattered and his heart pierced.

Diakum ignored his handiwork. He supported the frail Eredar girl, letting her lean against his "coffin." His left hand pressed against the wound at her waist and abdomen, while his right gripped the war spear piercing her body.

With a twist of his fingers, the spear's wooden shaft snapped. It then spun and thrust in the Saint's hand, accurately plunging into the orc's eye socket beneath his feet, mercifully ending the pain that had been destined to last far too long.

"Bear with it. It'll hurt a little."

As he spoke, his left hand continuously healed the poor girl, while his right steadily and evenly drew the barbed blade out through the wound in her back. The wound that should have worsened from this treatment instead rapidly stopped bleeding beneath the healing personally administered by the Saint.

Of course, performing such brutal treatment without anesthetic was no different from having a kidney forcibly cut out. It could absolutely hurt even a well-trained Eredar warrior to death.

But how experienced was Dick?

Before beginning the treatment, he had already cast the priest's signature skill, Pain Suppression, on the girl. Her temporarily numbed nerves and surging adrenaline were enough to reduce the poor child's pain to a bearable level for a short time.

"Don't move around. You need rest."

His voice was gentle, just as a priest spoke to his patients.

The "ancient Eredar language," tinged with a Krokuun accent, left Yrel unsure of how to respond. Of course, that might also have been because witnessing the Vigilant awaken after more than twenty thousand years had left her mind trembling.

To put it simply, she had been scared stupid.

But that was entirely understandable. If a fortunate tourist witnessed the First Emperor of Qin staggering out of his mausoleum and kindly asking in elegant Guanzhong speech what year it was, even someone with the strongest heart would be dumbfounded for a moment.

However, Yrel's eyes widened in the next instant. She pointed behind Dick and screamed:

"Saint, watch out!"

Two orcs were charging toward them with weapons in hand, roaring as they came. They were determined to hack this Draenei Vindicator in tattered armor to death.

Dick rose and sidestepped the first battle axe's downward chop. When its wielder overextended and lost his balance, Dick kicked him. Amid the shriek of breaking bones, he reached out and seized the second orc's wrist. A squeeze of his five fingers produced a crisp crack as the wrist bones shattered.

As he violently pulled and the other orc stumbled into him, Dick slammed forward like a Talbuk crashing into a boulder, driving his forehead into the orc.

Bang

The orc's head burst like a watermelon.

Red and white splattered toward him, scattering across the surface of Dick's still-unbroken Power Word: Shield. The sight made him nauseous.

He casually tossed away the corpse, rolling his wrists, shoulders, and tail as he stepped forward. He assumed the opening stance of the Jiedenigu Fist Technique, as though he intended to use a war as rehabilitation to restore his body to its peak more quickly.

His heavy hoof, wrapped in Holy Light, stepped onto this foreign soil. He felt the gravity and environment here, so utterly different from Argus.

Loss flowed through his heart, and his mood grew somewhat irritable.

Though he had known it all along, failing to awaken in his homeland still stirred Diakum's emotions. Perhaps because he had spent so long in endless combat between life and death, he desperately wanted to smash something to vent his frustration.

The few orcs before him had gone stupid with shock.

They had seen powerful legendary chieftains defeat opponents as easily as slaughtering chickens and sheep, but they had never seen such outrageous strength—blowing apart a powerful orc warrior's head with nothing but a headbutt.

More importantly, could combat techniques this brutal, excessive even by orc standards, truly appear in the supposedly weak-natured Draenei?

Seeing that the savage orcs were not attacking, Dick snorted through his nostrils and strode forward impatiently. He did not believe there were any innocents among these people. Had he not awakened in time, that poor child would have died at their hands.

Trying to murder an Eredar civilian in front of a Vindicator Commodore?

Bold indeed!

And that orc in the back was carrying a Vindicator's severed head?

Good. Very good!

The Eredar had truly regressed the longer they lived!

It would have been one thing to be decapitated while fighting demons in the past, but now even orcs who had not drunk demon blood could ride over their heads and commit such obscenities, huh?

Velen! Hutton! How exactly have you been leading our people? Did all that I did more than twenty thousand years ago still amount to the tragedy destined to happen in the official history? Were Malderan's sacrifice, and the sacrifices of so many warriors in the final battle, all for nothing?

"Holy Light, grant me this day's slaughter! Evildoers, step forth and die!"

The unarmed Commodore had no weapon, but he did not need one. With a roar, he raised a hand and called down a mighty Smite.

Through long training, even this priest's basic skill had been developed into something extraordinary. What should have been a descending warhammer was replaced by a golden execution blade. It descended with the majesty of Blade of Justice, its heavy and overwhelming force sweeping across the battlefield.

The orcs had no time to evade. Sharp Holy Light pierced down through their heads, and the Lightforged blade instantly dismembered them. Their bodies fell smoothly apart, front and back, while blood burst forth like sacks split open.

A cascade of radiance followed. The altered legendary skill [Holy Nova] made the halo Dick flung from his hand explode the instant it struck the first orc. Burning holy flames set him alight, and by the time Dick approached, several orcs were already screaming and fleeing in every direction like flaming-headed captains.

But if he let these people escape, he would write his surname backward!

With a light hook of his foot, an orc war spear at his feet leaped into his hand. Dick casually hurled it, piercing the fleeing orc farthest away. The tremendous force sent the orc flailing into the air before nailing him dead to a tree after flying at least ten meters.

Battle axes, war spears, hunting clubs—under the personal talent [Mastery of All Weapons] forged through long years of battle, all became instruments of execution. In less than ten seconds, he cleared out all the surrounding orcs. This swift slaughter soon terrified the recently tamed two-headed wyvern.

Boss-level beasts could sense extreme fear more easily than most.

The pale-skinned beast beat its massive wings and took flight amid the howls of its two heads. But just as it rose into the air, Dick below threw a serrated hunting spear. It shot skyward like a radiant meteor, piercing the wyvern's wing from below and sending the creature screaming into the ground.

It knew it had to fight for its life!

As Diakum charged in the posture of Horned Collision Charge, its two heads reared back and blasted wild arcane breath at the awakened "ancient Eredar savage." As the leader of all the two-headed wyverns in Shadowmoon Valley, the beast known as Breath of the Moon was famous in the wilderness for its command of dangerous arcane power.

The Saint was instantly swallowed by the arcane torrent, but then Holy Light flickered as he pushed forward against the destructive flood.

Sacred heat burst forth, and his blazing hands seized the wyvern's jaws, pulling them apart. His bulging muscles unleashed their strength, and after several seconds, a sickening muffled crack destroyed one of the beast's heads.

The other head tried to bite him, but Dick flashed aside, took a step forward, and seized its long, slender neck.

Then, beneath Yrel's dumbstruck gaze and amid the terrified, mournful shrieks of the two-headed wyvern's leader, the Saint wrapped in Holy Light became like the most savage of warriors. With a roar as his ten fingers interlocked and exerted force, tough scales tore apart.

Flesh and blood splattered. Bones snapped apart.

In the posture of uprooting a weeping willow, he forcibly tore the wyvern's second head from its neck.

Two-headed wyverns were fierce beasts of Draenor. Draenei scholars also called them "chimeras," creatures with two or more heads. Their heads alone stood half a person tall. Ordinary Draenei warriors were not built to accomplish such a feat, but Dick had always been enormous. Even in his mortal state, he stood over two and a half meters tall. Now, his advancement in life rank and the strange "racial transformation" had pushed his physique beyond three meters, making him an "Eredar giant" like Archimonde had once been.

He moved his body, then turned around with the savage head in hand, framed by the wyvern's enormous corpse.

His restless emotions had been released through battle. The Holy Light burning around him subsided at that moment, only for milky-white, peculiar holy flames to erupt from his right hand. In an instant, they burned away all flesh from the wyvern's head, leaving behind a beast skull that could almost be called a work of art.

The Saint returned through the deathly still forest carrying his "spoils of war," giving Yrel, who was using the Holy Sarcophagus to support herself as she rose, a gentle smile.

He had always been peaceful toward his own people.

Yet the giant's smile made Yrel's hair stand on end. The storm-like slaughter she had just witnessed had left too great a mental shock behind.

A valiant Draenei Vindicator could defeat an orc one-on-one, but even elite Vindicators needed some time to fight these orc warriors. Cases like the Vigilant's, where every strike was an instant kill, were exceedingly rare.

At that moment, the young girl truly understood the weight behind the words "Saint."

In truth, younger generations like them, who had never experienced Argus's fall, generally treated the Argus War described by their elders as mythical tales. After all, an army of Vindicators easily crushing and slaughtering tens of thousands of demons was the sort of thing that truly ought to exist only in myths.

It was too exaggerated!

Surely those old folks had made up absurd rumors just to boast about their ancestors' glorious martial achievements.

Yet after witnessing the Saint's way of fighting, Yrel suddenly felt that the legends of Hand of Argus veterans breaking enemy formations alone were not so outrageous after all.

With an army made up of ancient Eredar like this, how were ordinary demons supposed to fight them?

But when Dick smiled at her as gently as an elder, Yrel jolted. She finally realized what kind of being she was facing. Immediately, she straightened up and endured the pain as she called out in the formal manner of a Vindicator recruit:

"Welcome your arrival! Great Vigilant, Oathkeeper, radiant Throne of Gleaming Gold, supreme commander of the Hand of Argus, savior of the Eredar, protector of the Draenei Clan!"

"Stop, stop, stop!"

Dick watched the girl rattle off a long list of titles like she was reading a menu, and his head began to ache. Waving his hands, he said:

"Since when did I have so many nonsensical titles? Is this really describing a Vindicator? Why do I feel like you're describing Holy Light itself? Don't be nervous, child. I prefer civilians to call me 'Commodore.'

"Or you can simply call me by my name, Diakum.

"Wait here. I'm going to catch a prisoner and interrogate him."

He gestured for Yrel to stand aside, then rushed into the nearby woods. After several roars and ensuing screams, followed by a brief flash of holy flame, the powerful Saint quickly returned carrying a badly burned, screaming orc leader like a chick.

He threw the fellow to the ground and stared down at him.

He called it an interrogation, but Diakum did not need the orc to answer those boring questions.

He stared at the black tattoo on the orc's shoulder. After a moment's thought, he barked in not entirely fluent Orcish:

"You! Scum of the Shadow Council?"

"Huh?"

The orc was stunned. He had not expected this man to speak their language.

But that was impossible!

Hadn't the orders said that the Draenei Saint in this coffin had been dead for over twenty thousand years? Even if he could be resurrected, there was no way he could have learned Orcish twenty thousand years ago!

"Answer him already! The Saint is asking you a question!"

Seeing the orc standing there stupidly, Yrel grabbed the broken spear that had pierced her and shouted.

She truly hated these mad bastards.

Naturally, it was also her first time hearing the name "Shadow Council."

"Not talking? Fine. I like tough bones, especially during war."

Dick placed a hand on the orc's arm and said:

"Let's hope you're tougher than the Man'ari cultists of the Awakeners' Cult."

"Argh!"

A miserable scream rang through the eternal-night forest. Milky-white holy flames flowed from Dick's hand onto the orc's arm, incinerating his skin almost instantly before spreading over his flesh.

It was clearly a blazing, sacred thing, yet at this moment it was being used like an instrument of torture.

"Holy flame heals the good and punishes the wicked. And my light distinguishes love from hate even more clearly, so I will tell you this, orc: this fire will not only punish your body, but temper your soul as well!"

The Vigilant said in a low voice:

"To fight the utterly evil fiends, I forged my Holy Light into this form. It was not meant for you. But if you insist on being stubborn, I do not mind treating you as an irredeemable demon!

"Speak!

"Who sent you?

"Where is your leader, Gul'dan?"

"Argh! Stop burning me, I'll talk!"

Scum who could join the Shadow Council naturally did not have much backbone. Amid the agony of Holy Light burning his heart, the orc wailed:

"It was Teron'gor! The high warlock gave us the order to ambush the Vigilant's Holy Sarcophagus here! He knew it was an ancient holy relic of the Draenei, and the object of faith of those dangerous Hand of Argus veterans who have lived for ten thousand years!

"Teron'gor wanted to completely destroy the last hope of peace between the Draenei and the orcs by desecrating this Holy Sarcophagus, forcing a full war between the two races!

"Argh!

"Stop burning me!

"I don't know where Gul'dan is. I only know he must be in Shadowmoon Valley. He has gathered an army and is preparing to attack your Karabor Temple!"

Dick nodded, memorized the information, and asked again:

"Then who secretly informed you of the Holy Sarcophagus's transport route and departure time? An ambush this precise—if you say no traitor helped you, I doubt even an old man over twenty thousand years old like me would believe it."

"I don't know!"

The orc screamed as he endured the burning Holy Light.

"Ancestors above, I really don't know! Teron'gor handled all dealings with your people. All I can tell you is that a Draenei did betray you, but I don't know who it was.

"Please.

"Give me a quick death. I'm begging you."

He watched the milky-white holy flames burn away his arm until only pale bones remained, then continue up his torso. This cursed fire even possessed some kind of healing power. It locked onto his life force, ensuring that he would not burn to death, but forcing him to endure the complete agony of incineration.

It was the most horrifying execution in the world.

He had had enough!

He had never seen such "vicious" Holy Light wielded by a Draenei.

He no longer begged to live. He only begged to die quickly.

Pfft

The bloodied broken spear pierced through the orc's throat. At last, he felt death approaching. Before dying, he even looked gratefully at the panting Yrel before him.

Guilt flashed through his eyes, as though he were apologizing for the pain his group had inflicted on Yrel earlier.

Compared to that Saint of yours—more warlock than warlocks, more demon than demons—you really are a good person, little girl!

"That orc leader has a lot of useful intelligence, child. I wasn't done questioning him yet."

Dick watched the orc breathe its last with regret.

Though he still had options, such as using Lay on Hands to pull the bastard back from the brink of death for further questioning, the expression flickering across Yrel's face told him that his actions had frightened this young girl born in an age of peace.

"Forget it. We already know enough."

Dick waved a hand, unwilling to hold it against Yrel. He would never judge civilians by a soldier's standards. But he could hear the sounds of battle beyond the woods, so he got up and rummaged through his "Holy Sarcophagus," hoping that when Velen and the others had "buried" him, they had at least included a few useful weapons as grave goods.

Even a ceremonial warhammer or battle sword would do.

But a few seconds later, Dick, draped in his own "shroud" as temporary clothing, turned back toward Yrel with a baffled look, holding two broken staffs. He asked in confusion, "I remember this thing being broken by demons during the final battle of our escape from Argus. But after all these years, none of you thought to repair it? Why put the broken weapon into my coffin exactly as it was? Is this some strange tradition of yours?"

"Uh, that is your 'holy relic,' Vigilant. How could we dare handle a holy relic from the age of Argus so casually?"

Yrel had privately executed a prisoner and was worried she might have angered the Saint. Hearing Dick's puzzled question, she hurriedly explained, "And it wasn't that we didn't want to repair it. I heard that this battle staff of yours seals the savage soul of a Greater Demon. It is said that thousands of years ago, when our ancestors encountered danger on some world, a brave Arcane Mage used this holy relic without permission in a moment of crisis. He unleashed the immense power within Kazzak's Grudge, killed the fiends besieging the clan members, and saved hundreds of people, but he himself died from the backlash of that power. From then on, the Aldor priests demanded that we not touch this holy relic lightly. Everyone said that such an evil weapon containing demonic power could only be suppressed by keeping it at your side."

"Uh, that's true enough. This thing does seal a fragment of Kazzak's soul."

Dick said with an agonized expression, "But merely using it can kill someone? A weak little thing like Kazzak's remnant soul could kill my people? No way. I don't think the Doom Lord's true body was all that powerful either. I even killed it twice."

"You are a Saint. How could ordinary people like us compare to you?"

Yrel had no idea how to answer such an outrageous humblebrag.

But she had already realized that, while this Saint was exceptionally brutal toward his enemies, he was remarkably gentle with his own people. Not only did he put on no airs, he even joked with her. Yrel quickly set aside her worries.

She picked up the battleaxe the orc had dropped and said to the Saint, "Over there! On Pilgrim's Road, the Holy Sarcophagus guardians are still under siege! Saint—uh, Commodore! Shouldn't we go save them?"

"Of course! Every clan member's life is precious currency from Argus. It must be properly spent to gain the greatest value, child."

Dick gripped the broken war spear in both hands and strode toward the battlefield ringing with cries of battle, Yrel following behind him. He asked, "You are very brave. Though I still don't know what happened before I awakened, the fact that you fought so many orcs alone to protect my Holy Sarcophagus has already proven your resolve. I am truly pleased. I am heartened that, after such a long exile, my people have not lost the courage that lets us stand among the stars. What is your name, child?"

"Yrel! My name is Yrel, Commodore! I'm from Ambori Village. Everyone there is one of your followers and guardians."

The young girl was delighted to be praised by the Saint, her joy pure and free of any complicated emotions. But when he heard her name, Dick's expression became strange.

He sighed at fate's tricks and twists, then looked at this boisterous young girl and grumbled inwardly, Very good, Archbishop Yrel. You owe me two favors now. One for saving you, and another because my appearance spared you from being dragged into Kargath's arena. This counts as a small display of power from me, the Hand of Fate.

"I appoint you my temporary adjutant, child. Now grip your weapon tightly! Prepare to take the battlefield with me."

Dick spoke, while Yrel stared at the Saint blankly.

The Commodore saw several defenders ahead being besieged by orcs. As he ignited the swelling, unimaginably dense Holy Light within himself, he said to the young girl following behind him, "They are hurting our clan members, Recruit Yrel! Every Eredar with courage should take up arms and fight them to the end! You may only be a recruit, but I could see at a glance that you possess outstanding talent for battle. For our people and our future, you must use it well! Now! Follow me, and prepare to charge!"

"But Commodore, there are so many of them—more than a hundred. Shouldn't we—"

"Obey orders! Stay close to me and charge!"