Chapter 115: Hey, I’m So Angry
"——!"
The piercing wails of the dead—raw, twisted, inhuman—mixed with the shrieks of Roman soldiers, echoing across the sea.
A black fog blanketed the waves, suffocating and thick.
In just a few breaths, the entire ocean had become a dominion of the dead. The Romans, as the living, were the invaders.
No—they were the invaders.
Thus, the slaughter began.
Roman soldiers, lacking any means to combat spirits, couldn't resist the vengeful dead emerging from the fog. Even the strongest were helpless against the tide of hatred.
The spirits were several times their number, taking on beastly forms—gnashing jaws, spectral claws. In moments, one would leap, engulf a man, and dissolve him in black mist. When the fog cleared, little more than scraps of flesh remained.
Worst of all?
The fallen rose again.
Each corpse left behind would rot, hiss, and disintegrate into black mist—only to rejoin the army of spirits, feeding the cycle of death.
It was the perfect battlefield for ghosts.
Terrified, many Roman soldiers faltered.
Swords passed through the enemy with no effect, while the dead tore into flesh with unrelenting hunger. And if you died? You didn't rest. You returned—mindless, monstrous, and turned against your own.
It was a nightmare.
But Rome was still Rome.
Officers roared orders, ranks reformed, and shields locked. A tight defense bought time—briefly.
Yet it was only a delay. Nothing more.
The vengeful spirits moved better in water than in air.
Warships cracked. Masts split. One by one, vessels sank beneath the waves.
No one needed to guess what happened to the soldiers who fell into the sea.
Joan of Arc Alter—Jeanne Alter—watched it unfold, teeth clenched in fury.
"Damn it..."
She didn't care about Roman lives. They were disgusting—just like the people she remembered from her own twisted legend. Selfish, rotten, hypocritical.
But as their Heroic Spirit, wasn't it insulting to let them be slaughtered like bugs in front of her?
"So this is the great Knight of the Round Table? Coward," she sneered, scanning the wreckage. Her gaze cut across the ruined ships and churning sea.
She'd been caught off guard by Skadi's earlier attack—sent flying before she'd even drawn her weapon. And now? That damned woman had disappeared again.
"Hiding like a rat, huh?!" Jeanne snarled.
She raised her black flag, magic power crackling.
A moment later, hellfire surged from her in a devastating ring, incinerating every spirit within fifty meters.
The sea screamed. Ghosts burst like rotten fruit.
"Tch. They look intimidating, but they're just smoke and noise." Jeanne scoffed.
She'd assumed these monsters would take effort to deal with, but the moment her hellfire touched them, they withered. In fact, even touching the light of her flame made them disintegrate.
Wait—was this really Alter magic?
Wasn't this just... Holy Light?
Even Jeanne Alter herself was surprised.
Beneath the sea, Skadi's eyes snapped open.
To her, the ghosts weren't allies or comrades.
They weren't even living.
Just imprisoned tools—cursed weapons made from rage.
Losing them meant nothing.
But... Jeanne Alter's hellfire was too effective. It burned through the spirits with terrifying ease. If she kept this up, Skadi's entire army would be purified—leaving her alone against the Roman forces.
That couldn't happen.
With a grim look, Skadi moved.
She launched from the water with explosive force, detonating the surface like a mine. A massive column of seawater erupted, blinding Jeanne's vision.
And then—
CLANG!
The sound of metal on metal split the air.
Jeanne Alter flew backward, black flag torn from her grip.
Skadi stood where the water had burst, her massive black sword in hand. Without pausing, she swept the blade across the deck, cleaving warships and soldiers in a single arc.
It was as if she wasn't wielding a sword, but a colossal hammer.
And yet—there was no savagery.
Only grace.
Her movements were like a dance—cold, calculated, devastating.
Jeanne Alter scowled.
"So you're finally done hiding," she spat, rising to her feet. "Coward with strength—that's all you are. But I see it now... you're not used to fighting humans, are you?"
It was obvious.
Skadi's blows were made for monsters, not nimble warriors.
Her power was monstrous, but her precision lacked finesse against quick opponents.
Jeanne smirked.
"That's a bad match for you, huh? You picked the wrong girl to fight."
And then—
She raised her sword high.
"Your path ends here!"
"Take this—my soul, tempered by hatred, roars—[LE GRONDEMENT DU HAINE / Hey, I'm So Angry]!!"
Hellfire surged.
The flames erupted like a volcanic blast, a tidal wave of red-black rage.
Even the sea couldn't quench it.
It should have consumed only Jeanne's power—but something was wrong.
No—something else joined in.
The dead.
Tens of thousands of spirits screamed, their resentment pouring into the fire. It wasn't Jeanne who fueled it now.
The ghosts had offered themselves.
All their hatred, their final moments, their vengeance—all of it burned.
And at the end of this road of flame stood Skadi.
No—behind her stood Frostmourne.
Another A-rank magical weapon.
A cursed blade that drank the souls of the dead, and remembered them.
Jeanne Alter blinked, astonished.
"What a sinful woman," she chuckled.
Did it matter if the spirits were conscious?
Did it matter if Frostmourne simply reacted to them?
What fascinated Jeanne was the sheer volume—tens of thousands of resentful dead, all tied to Skadi.
All who had died because of her.
Either by her hand, or under her orders.
A grave sin.
A monument of wrath.
One woman, standing at the heart of it all.
-End Chapter-
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