Corpsefang Huntress: Total Overkill

The Forest of the Old Gods, which sprawled across the eastern part of the Wildinne Frontier, was shrouded in thick fog again today.

Dense, viscous fog so thick one could feel its weight, a quality unique to the region.

Stagecoaches formed a convoy as they traveled on the narrow road through the coniferous forest, leaving swirling fog in their wake.

Visibility was practically zero.

My stagecoach was part of a three-coach convoy, but I couldn't see the carriages in front or behind us, no matter how hard I tried.

The world was obscured by a white fog, almost like paint had been spilled in the air.

The gray air clinging to my neck slowly sapped my body heat.

I shivered involuntarily and pulled my cloak's collar tight around my neck.

How do you like Wildinne?

Favori, the beastfolk sitting across from me, noticed my gesture and struck up a conversation.

It's quite a bit colder than the capital.

Small talk wasn't really my thing, but with four days on the stagecoach, I had little else to do.

Wah-hah-hah, it ain't just the cold. It gets scorching hot as soon as the sun appears. This time of year, the weather's all over the place; one day it's winter, the next it's summer. Life on the frontier is tough, the weather included. Short sleeves under a thick coat, that's practically formal wear around here.

Favori chuckled and glanced at the other passengers.

Besides myself, there were five other passengers.

There was the refined elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Franz, the elegantly dressed Lady Minela with her five-year-old child René, and the beastfolk fellow I was talking to named Favori, a Gray Wolf I'd hired as my bodyguard and coordinator.

I'm a bit better off since I have this top-notch fur coat.

He pulled out jerky from his worn shoulder bag and started chewing on it.

As a hume, I couldn't tell the age of beastfolk, but I could tell he'd been around.

I'm quite the old man.

Or so he claimed, anyways.

This fog is something else though.

Nah, this'll clear up in no time. The weather in Wildinne and women's hearts, they're both fickle as hell.

I see. This is my first time out here.

From the looks of it, you're inexperienced with women too, ain't ya? Hahaha!

Favori let out a vulgar laugh.

The way this conversation was going . . . it was quite telling.

He was definitely "quite the old man."

Well, don't you worry. I'll handle everything with my connections. Just keep quiet and follow me, and within a week you'll have that treasure you're after. I can even arrange some women if you want.

Favori pulled out a hefty knife, cut off a chunk of jerky, and brought it straight to his mouth.

The treasure Favori was referring to was mithril steel. A top-tier, ultra-rare material for enchanted weapons. Of course, it wasn't easy to come by, and I'd paid Favori a considerable fee to find a way to get it.

What's your name again? Uh . . . Neah . . . ?

He chewed slowly, showing off his large mouth and sharp canines, then took a sip from a leather pouch.

It was probably high-proof liquor.

Honestly, I'd have been disappointed if a beastfolk who ate his food off a knife like that was drinking something like sweet tea.

Thea. Thea Korpi.

Oh, that's right. That's awful; I forgot my client's name! Right, Korpi. Korpi, that's a hard name to remember.

I don't think you even remembered that far, though.

So, I heard you're one of those genius magic blacksmiths, right? Your mother told me something like that.

No, no, my mother just likes to say that. I'm not that impressive . . . I've just been training since I was little.

I vigorously shook my head in response to Favori.

It wasn't something I really wanted to get into . . .

I see. Well, either way, if you're buying luxury goods like mithril, you must be from a pretty good family, right? Rich?

Not at all. I have my reasons, but I'm just trying to make do with what little money I have . . .

In fact, our house was falling apart recently.

We were wealthy up until a few generations ago, but now there wasn't even a trace of our old glory. The only truly impressive feature left of our family home was its thick, grand pillars.

That make sense. You sure don't look rich.

Haha . . . right. I guess it really doesn't show.

How can I put it . . . well, rich people have skin that looks much more appetizing.

Huh? Appetizing?

Yeah. Rich people's skin has that kind of firmness that you want to sink your teeth into.

Favori grinned wickedly, baring his fangs.

Whoa!

Wah-nuh-huh, just kidding. Humes ain't worth eating. The fat tastes especially weird. Nah, you're no good at all.

He pointed at me with his knife.

Pfftahahaha!

Fevori burst out laughing.

I didn't really get the joke, honestly. And just why did he know what hume fat tasted like . . . ?

Normal hume dad jokes were hard enough to understand, but beastfolk dad humor was a whole other level.

And considering it was a beastfolk from the Wildinne Frontier, it was almost alien.

The Wildinne region was the border region where monsters lived.

The so-called Frontier.

Living in this area was somewhat tough for ordinary people. Yet, for monster hunters, it was the perfect place to hone their swordsmanship. Apparently, Favori himself had made his living as a monster hunter.

Wahahaha . . . so what was it again, magic blacksmith?

Yes . . . I'm a magic blacksmith. Actually, I'm from a family of ceremonial blacksmiths.

Ceremoni . . . ?

Favori tilted his head dramatically.

Right, I could see an explanation was needed.

Um . . . ceremonial blacksmiths, skilled in advanced decorative techniques and complex magical enchantment, primarily forge swords for use in royal and church ceremonies. Traditionally . . .

. . .

Favori licked his own nose.

So it's a type of magic blacksmithing, but unlike commonly used items, it uses high-grade materials and high-level inscriptions, and the ceremonial pieces require considerable expense and effort . . .

Uh-huh, uh-huh.

He was just nodding along absentmindedly, completely absorbed in his drink.

. . . You're not listening at all, are you?

Of course I ain't listening. Look. I'm a beastfolk. And this is booze. Givin' complicated explanations to a beastfolk who's drinking, now that's just absurd.

He proudly twitched his nose, then took another swig of alcohol.

You're the one who asked in the first place . . .

I had no intention of explaining any further, but to sum it up, ceremonial blacksmithing required delicate techniques.

Those techniques had been passed down through five family lines for generations, and my family, the Korpi family, was once the head of those five families . . .

Even if I tried to explain all that, this old dog definitely wasn't going to pay much attention.

Don't really get it, but basically you're the king's blacksmith out on the Frontier lookin' for mithril, yeah?

I wish I could say it was as simple as that, but . . .

In reality, the Korpi family had lost its position as Head Ceremonial Blacksmith and no longer created weapons for the royal family. I was frantically trying to acquire mithril to reclaim that position, but . . .

. . . Even if I explained those circumstances, it'd just go in one ear and out the other!

Maybe the alcohol was starting to hit him and lift his spirits, because the old dog was guzzling his drink with gusto.

So you've got circumstances, huh? Nothing unusual about that.

Really?

Everyone who comes to Wildinne has their reasons, big or small. Either way, may this land bring ya some good fortune.

Favori raised the leather pouch high as if offering it to the god, pouring what appeared to be strong liquor down his throat.

Ghak!

He immediately vomited up as much blood as he'd consumed alcohol, maybe even more, and collapsed.

It happened so suddenly that I couldn't process what was going on.

. . . Huh? What? F-Favori?!

Favori had collapsed face-down.

Embedded deep in his gray, furry back . . . was a stone axe!

What's happening?! What the hell is going on?!

Kyaaaaaaah!

A woman's scream pierced the air. It was Minela, the woman with the child.

I saw René's frightened eyes as Minela held him in her arms. Following his gaze . . .

A figure emerged from the roadside thicket, an upright pig-like demon. An orc.

Orcs were known for being extremely aggressive among monsters. They live in groups and attack humes in packs to plunder and pillage.

The orc grabbed hold of the carriage and hauled itself up. Breathing heavily, it scrambled over the low wooden rail meant to prevent falls.

Grrr!

With a threatening growl, it yanked the stone axe from Favori's back, dark red blood pouring out.

Grahhh!

The orc raised the stone axe and brought it crashing down on Favori's body again.

His back, his shoulders, then his head. Again and again . . . Favori's skull was cracked open. The stone axe even struck his long, well-shaped nose. His nose hung by just a strip of skin, nearly chopped clean off.

Then the orc bit into Favori's neck, as his body lay completely still.

It was treating him like fresh prey.

It shook its head violently, tearing off chunks of flesh. Blood dripped from its mouth as it chewed pieces of Favori. The orc gnawed on the meat, its large snout swaying as it made wet, sickening crunching sounds.

Its eyes . . . were fixed on me. As if weighing whether I'd be its next meal.

Crash!

The stagecoach lurched violently.

Grahhh?!

Startled by the jolt, the orc leaped away from the carriage.

The wheel had probably hit a stone or something.

The stagecoach came to an abrupt stop in the thick fog.

We were hardly saved. If we didn't get the carriage moving immediately, the orcs would attack again and turn us into their next meal.

Coachman! Get the horses moving . . . ah . . . ugh!

The coachman was already dead.

His right arm had been brutally torn off at the shoulder, bone and all. He definitely wasn't going to be whipping the horses.

The orcs had gone after the horses as well.

One, two, three . . .

The orcs moved with surprising agility for their stocky frames, clinging to the rearing horses' necks and sinking their sharp fangs deep. Two more orcs latched onto the horses, dragging them down.

Gurahhh!

The orcs snarled at each other while some bit into the horses' throats, others cleaved with their stone axes, and still others smashed rocks against the horses' heads. The horses let out pitiful whinnies before falling silent.

Ugh . . . gah!

Nauseated by the sight, I retreated to the center of the stagecoach.

Wh . . . What's happening? What's going on?

It was Minela. Her eyes glistened with tears as she clutched her child tightly.

I don't know what's going on either . . . but we need to be careful!

A simple covered wagon with nothing but a cloth canopy and iron supports, there was nothing there to protect us. But in this situation, it would have been even more dangerous for a woman with a child to scramble away blindly.

Fortunately, the orcs were fighting over the food they'd already obtained: the meat that had been Favori and the coachman.

If only the guards protecting the front and rear of the convoy would have come to help . . .

Our carriage is in the center of the convoy. The guards will surely come to help . . .

Yes, that's right.

I wonder . . . I hope you're right.

That was the old man's response.

An old man with a magnificent white beard, showing such composure in this situation. Was it the wisdom of age?

The old man was gazing ahead while stroking his magnificent beard.

Brugrahhh!

Grulahhh!

The orcs were kicking around something round, sending it rolling across the ground.

Were they playing some kind of game? That iron ball-like thing was . . .

A guard's head!

Orcs were kicking around a severed head still wearing its iron helm.

The guards had already fallen in battle against the orcs.

The guards escorting the carriage convoy were professional monster hunters affiliated with the Guild.

If those guards had been defeated, the orc attack must have been far larger than expected.

Grahahaha!

The orc that had kicked the guard's head let out a roar that sounded like mocking laughter.

This fog concealed the orc pack . . .

The old man stared at the tragic scene with a vacant expression, as if it were happening to someone else.

The complete acceptance that life was over. The feeling that despite everything, it had been a good life . . .

I thought he was being composed, but . . . he was already preparing for the end!

Well, I wasn't ready to accept that, and Minela with her small child certainly couldn't either.

I have to try.

I took up the dagger I carried for self-defense.

Of course, the dagger was self-made. The blade used Wootz steel, with a Prayer of Wind tetragrammaton inscribed on it. The hilt had two small slots, both containing Gale curse stones.

Despite its compact, portable design, it had exceptional sharpness and enchantment durability that could withstand serious combat. With excellent handling, it was a masterpiece I was proud of, capable of fighting monsters despite its small size, but . . .

Well, I lacked the crucial skill of swordsmanship.

I'd been trained as a magic blacksmith since I was old enough to understand. So while I could forge swords, I knew absolutely nothing about using them. Ideally, I would have wanted to leave this to someone with actual combat skills, but . . .

Unfortunately, Favori was dead.

All that remained were the old man, the old woman, Minela, and five-year-old René.

Our chances were hopeless . . . and I had no choice but to do this myself.

Damn it, damn it! I got to try!

The stagecoach sat motionless, enveloped in thick fog. I climbed down from the carriage and pressed my back against the wheel, dagger ready. At least this way I wouldn't have had to worry about being attacked from behind.

Orc roars echoed intermittently through the fog.

Their fighting over food seemed to continue, but they were sure to attack us again soon.

When would they come? From the right? From the left? My hand gripping the dagger was shaking violently.

The trembling spread from my hand to my spine, then to my knees. I could barely stand.

Damn it, this is bad . . . I can't stop shaking! There's no way I can fight like this.

This can't be happening! A journey with the Korpi family's fate hanging in the balance, only to end with an orc attack.

I won't give up . . . I kept my guard up while desperately watching the shadows shifting in the fog.

. . . Where will they come from . . . When . . . ?

Grulahhhhh!

Straight ahead!

An orc's face suddenly appeared, cutting through the fog.

A large mouth with bared fangs. It snapped twice at empty air right in front of my nose, then vanished.

It dropped with a thud at my feet and rolled over.

Whoa!

I couldn't help but cry out at the sight.

The orc had been reduced to a severed head.

Only the head, severed from its body, had come flying through the air, still screaming.

The orc's thick neck was nearly twice the size of a hume's.

It was cleanly severed, with fresh blood still flowing.

Grahhh!

The orcs' cries had completely changed.

They had shifted from voices filled with sadistic pleasure to wary roars of heightened hostility. Of course, that hostility was directed at whatever had severed the head.

Grulahhh?!

An especially loud roar echoed through the forest.

It was a voice filled with grief, as if the throat were being torn.

They were death throes.

Those roars continued one after another, and eventually the fog-shrouded coniferous forest returned to its natural silence.

. . . We were saved? Is it over now?

What had rescued us from our nightmare was . . .

An aberrant being that slithered into view from the thick fog.

Our savior also looked as if they had emerged from a nightmare.

They wore a cloak of tattered cloth.

In their right hand was a massive sword, or perhaps a cleaver was a better word for it.

The distinctive blue-black blood of orcs dripped from the blade.

The face was covered by a grotesque mask shaped like an animal skull with horns. The right half was stained blue-black with orc blood spatter. Two holes had been roughly carved out of the mask . . . and brilliant red eyes peered through them.

. . . It was a woman.

Though her face was hidden by the mask, her clothing exposed much of her body, clearly revealing her physical form. Full breasts, a taut waist, thighs visible through gaps in the cloak. Lustrous brown skin, which was a rare sight in the capital. The body of a woman honed through training.

The mysterious swordswoman glanced at me, then moved to stand before Minela, who was cowering in the carriage.

Th-:Thank you so much! Thanks to you, my son is safe too . . .

. . .

Minela thanked her, but the swordswoman didn't respond. Though she stood before Minela and her child, her gaze was fixed downward on the orc head rolling on the ground.

Um, really, you saved us. My son too . . .

Hey, kid, hold this.

The swordswoman cut off Minela's words. She crouched down and grabbed the rolling orc head, then handed it to five-year-old René, who was clinging to his mother's chest.

Kyah! What are you doing?!

Minela was screaming.

Keep quiet. Don't provoke the orcs. Not if you want to live.

A young woman's voice, calm in tone but with an undeniably commanding presence.

But . . . but a severed head . . . !

If you don't want the kid to hold it, you take it. Just quiet down.

The swordswoman pressed her index finger against the mask where her lips would be.

Oddly enough, I found myself thinking how beautiful her voice was.

Her voice rang clear as a bell, strangely at odds with her eerie appearance and bizarre behavior.

I had no idea who she was, but there was no doubt she had saved us . . .

My word, I didn't think we'd live through that.

Indeed. Honestly, I had already given up hope.

The elderly Franz couple spoke next.

The Franz couple rejoiced, overcome with emotion.

Guard, thank you so much. My wife and I can enjoy a little more of our remaining years . . . Guard?

The swordswoman wasn't listening to Franz.

She spun around lightly and leaped down from the carriage.

She dashed straight to the shade of the trees and brought her massive cleaver down toward the bushes with tremendous force.

Gruwahhh!

A hidden orc burst out, blood spraying from its shoulder.

The orc screamed in pain as it writhed on the ground.

Th-There was still an orc hiding . . . You saved us.

Thank you so much.

The elderly couple bowed their heads again.

But the swordswoman paid them no mind.

She crouched before the fallen orc and brought the massive cleaver down once more.

The cleaver stabbed deep into its back.

Griyahhh!

It was still alive. You really can't let your guard down with these creatures. Well, thank you so much—

The masked swordswoman pulled out the massive cleaver and swung it horizontally at the orc's leg.

Griyah! Grahhh!

The orc's right knee and everything below was severed clean off.

. . . Orcs are quite stubborn . . .

Griyeeek! Eek!

She went on and cut off the left ankle as well!

The orc writhed, having lost both feet.

The swordswoman mechanically swung the massive cleaver. She severed the right arm, then the left arm.

All four limbs had been severed.

Griyahhh!

Even so, the orc continued to wriggle and crawl on the ground.

Um . . . isn't this going too far?

The swordswoman completely ignored Franz's words.

She continued striking with the massive cleaver like it was routine work. To the back, to the belly, to the head.

Squish! Crack! The gruesome sounds of flesh being cut and bones being severed.

Shoulders burst, the belly split, and brain matter spurted out.

Urgh . . . !

Minela covered her face with her hands and retched softly.

No surprise there. Honestly, I was on the verge of vomiting too.

The orc was now only faintly convulsing. The masked swordswoman roughly seized the orc's head and dragged it toward us, then propped the orc's body against the carriage wheel.

The limbless orc slumped against it, limp and lifeless.

The swordswoman stood before the orc, spun the massive cleaver into a reverse grip, and plunged it deep into the crown of its head.

The massive cleaver pierced straight through from the top of the head down to the neck, chest, and belly.

The impact made the eyeballs pop out.

Both eyeballs fell from their sockets and swayed like pendulums.

The massive cleaver was plunged vertically through the orc's entire body.

All that was visible was the hilt protruding from the crown of the head.

I'll be taking that back.

The masked swordswoman grabbed the severed head that René had been holding and brutally impaled it onto the cleaver hilt extending from the orc's head.

Two orc heads were now lined up vertically, skewered together.

The upper face dripped bloody tears, while the lower face had eyeballs dangling from their sockets.

Complete overkill . . . a blasphemous act against the god.

Blaaargh!

I couldn't stand it anymore.

I couldn't hold back the bile rising in my throat and vomited near the carriage wheel.

Why like that . . .

Even if it was a monster, there was no need to make it suffer, much less toy with the corpse afterward.

Does she have some perverse inclination? Or is she some kind of dark cultist . . . ?

When I had emptied everything in my stomach and raised my head . . .

The masked swordswoman was standing right in front of me.

Up close, the mask looked even more unsettling.

Perhaps it was made from an actual monster's skull after all. The large horns extending from both sides had seemingly been bathed in blood repeatedly, and the repeated cleaning had given them an eerie sheen.

Two holes were bored into the mask. From within their depths, crimson eyes glowed dimly as they fixed on me.

Overwhelmed by her intimidating presence, I reflexively raised the dagger I was holding.

That's a fine dagger.

Her voice was calm and betrayed no emotion. She brought her face close to the dagger, studying the blade pattern intently.

A . . . wind enchantment, is it? How long does it last?

It was a completely unexpected question.

Huh?

I'm asking how long the enchantment lasts.

Her beautiful, cold voice repeated the same question.

Um . . . about eleven uses of Gale . . . I think.

Hmm, quality work. Are you rich?

The masked swordswoman was extraordinarily direct.

No, I made it myself.

This? Are you a blacksmith?

Yeah. A ceremonial blacksmith.

Impressive.

Ah, thank you.

I'm the one who should be thanking you.

The swordswoman spoke in the same matter-of-fact tone, then smoothly snatched the dagger from my hand.

Mm. It really is a fine dagger. Good balance.

She moved with such incredible speed. I barely felt any force at all. It was a strange sensation, as if the dagger had suddenly vanished from my hand . . .

Wait! This isn't the time to be amazed! She just took my dagger!

Hey! That's my precious—

It won't do you any good in your hands. Even if you die clutching it, you won't be taking it to hell with you.

Huh?!

Why is she assuming I'd go to hell? But if she needs the dagger, that means . . .

They'll come again. Those pigs are persistent.

I frantically looked around.

There was no sign of life from the carriages that had been stopped in front of and behind us.

Unfortunately, everyone else had probably been wiped out.

I couldn't even see the passengers' corpses.

Instead, bushes beyond the carriages were faintly swaying.

They had probably been dragged into the bushes.

They were taken as food.

No way , more of those orcs are coming . . . ? But even so, why do you need my dagger?

That one's out of curse power. Too many of them. Corpsefang isn't suited for hunting small fry.

The swordswoman glanced at the massive cleaver embedded in the orc's skull.

So that huge cleaver was called Corpsefang.

I might have been barely qualified, but I was a magic blacksmith.

At a glance, I could tell that cleaver wasn't ordinary.

It had dark enchantment in extremely high concentration, the kind that marked it as a cursed weapon.

Probably the type that enhances sharpness through intense curses. But after cutting down so many orcs, the dark enchantment had been completely drained.

But with that dagger—

It was just a self-defense dagger. I'd prioritized ease of handling and portability, never intending it for serious combat against monsters. If used to fight multiple orcs, the enchantment would drain quickly and it would become nothing more than an ordinary blade.

There's no other choice. Trust your blade's balance.

I don't have that much faith in the balance . . .

I'm Shea, Shea Kyle. Send the Margrave the bill for the dagger. You'll be paid whatever you ask.

With that, the swordswoman turned and took off like the wind.

In the blink of an eye, she was behind the destroyed carriage up ahead.

Gyahahhh!

An orc's head came rolling out from behind the carriage.

And another one.

As the severed head rolled away, another orc emerged.

A new orc was charging fiercely toward us.

Its eyes were clouded with fear and rage.

The masked swordswoman leapt gracefully behind the orc and slashed horizontally with the dagger.

Swik!

It was the characteristic high-pitched whistle of Gale.

The orc's head was severed clean off, despite the blade never connecting.

The severed head went soaring high through the air.

The way it flew was so dramatically over-the-top that it was almost comical, but this was exactly how Gale worked: it distorted the very air around it.

The severed head traced a clean arc as it sailed over my head.