The Sword Emperor Transmigrates-Chapter 281

Talos—a war machine gifted to King Minos of Crete—was a weapon that intercepted and repelled any ships and armies attempting to invade the island. It was said that it could sink vessels by hurling massive boulders and incinerate entire battalions within a several-kilometer radius by unleashing the heat stored within its bronze body.

Even the Argonauts, one of the most renowned and powerful hero groups in all of Olympus, had to exploit its weakness to defeat it. A head-on confrontation was deemed impossible.

Had Heracles still been part of the expedition, they could have stood a chance. But by the time the Argonauts encountered Talos, their ranks had already dwindled.

“Well-crafted. In terms of craftsmanship alone, this is on par with Daedalus,” Hades remarked. But then, he added a cautionary note. “Talos is, at its core, a weapon crafted by the gods. Without the blessings of the gods or the intervention of fate, it can never be truly complete.”

Hearing this, Arktur, the Grand Elder of Jehoia, humbly asked, “In that case, may we ask for your divine blessing, Lord Hades?”

“No.”

“If it is a matter of offerings or rituals, we could—”

“That’s not the issue. The very foundation of Talos conflicts with my authority,” Hades explained.

Talos, the bronze giant designed by Hephaestus, was classified as an artificial lifeform. Whether it had blood flowing through its veins or possessed a soul mattered little—so long as its creator, a god, recognized it as a living being, it was categorized as such.

Hades was a god of death—not just any god of death but the highest sovereign of the Underworld. If he were to bestow a blessing upon Talos, the contradictory divine authority would clash within its body, reducing it to a pile of worthless scrap.

“To complete Talos, you will need the aid of an Olympian god of life or a divine artifact imbued with their power. The stronger the divine authority, the more powerful and perfected Talos will become.”

“Your guidance is invaluable. We are deeply grateful.”

With a pensive hum, Arktur withdrew from the chamber, intending to consult the Cardenas about the existence of any divine relics.

Hades, watching the Grand Elder’s retreating figure, felt certain of one thing—Talos would never be completed. Hephaestus was one of the Twelve Olympians, and outside of that exclusive circle, there were very few gods in Olympus of comparable rank. To bless his creation, they would need either a god of equal or greater standing or an artifact from which his divine authority could be extracted.

Finding such a god would be difficult enough. And even if they did, what god would willingly sacrifice a part of their divine power?

A few days later, Hades laid eyes on the person Arktur had brought before him.

“Oh?”

He blinked in surprise.

A possibility he had never considered had just presented itself.

“You bear the blessing of my brother Poseidon? Not directly granted, it seems. Then... you must have come into contact with a divine artifact that carries his power.”

Standing before Hades, Drake stood stiff as a board, not knowing what was happening. Though he had gained the ability to wield divine energy during his time with the Order of the White Dragon, he was unprepared to stand before the King of the Underworld, who had almost recovered all his divinity.

“...Yes, that is correct,” Drake finally managed to say.

“Hm. If I extract this man’s blessing and infuse it into Talos, Talos should activate without issue. Of course, since the blessing is now fully fused with his soul, he will not survive. But fear not, I shall welcome you as a citizen of my realm.”

“WHA—?!”

Drake let out a strangled cry, whipping around to glare at Arktur. His eyes screamed, “Was this your plan?!”

The Grand Elder rapidly shook his head, flustered. “Wait! Is there no other way?! Does he have to die?”

“It’s impossible. Had he only recently received the blessing, it could have been possible to extract it without harm. But as it stands, the divine energy has already seeped into the very core of his soul. Removing it will kill him instantly—

“Wait,” Hades suddenly said.

Just as Drake’s death sentence was about to be sealed, Hades tilted his head slightly, a thought forming in his mind.

“If you don’t want to sacrifice him... why not modify Talos’s design?”

“Modify it? How?” Arktur asked.

“Remove part of the intelligence module that was meant to be installed in its head and create a cockpit where a pilot can sit. Talos’s artificial intelligence would need years of experience to fully develop anyway. If you replace that function with a human pilot, it will immediately be combat-ready.”

Arktur’s face lit up as he quickly weighed the difficulty of maturing an artificial intelligence versus modifying the design to allow for manual control. He even thought of asking Hades if he could personally bless Talos instead when Drake refused to be sacrificed.

“Then it’s settled! We’ll make a cockpit! You, did you say you were a captain? If so, you should have no problem piloting Talos!”

“Wait, WHAT?! You expect me to pilot that giant?!” Drake gawked at him.

“If you refuse, your only options are to either die or run away. Neither seem particularly appealing, do they?” Arktur grinned. “Think about it—how many people get the once-in-a-lifetime chance to pilot a divine war machine?”

Drake groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced up at Talos—the ancient weapon crafted by the gods, a colossal construct reborn in the modern era. Even he, a man who stood on the edge of the Demigod Tier, couldn’t help but feel its overwhelming presence.

Something inside him stirred—a primal, unshakable thrill. The feeling of standing before something far greater than himself. It was the same instinct that had drawn him to the sea. The same love that had made him fall for ships.

Drake knew he would regret it. But he opened his mouth anyway.

“Damn it...! Fine. Let’s do this.”

“Hah! That’s the spirit! A real man wouldn’t back down from a challenge!”

And thus, Drake, captain of the legendary Wild Hunt, left behind the Golden Hind and became the pilot of the weapon crafted by the gods, Talos.

“Hm?”

As Hades watched the two bicker, something caught his attention. His gaze shifted toward the sphere of darkness formed by Crom Dubh.

...Crack... snap... hiss...

Like an egg on the verge of hatching, fine fractures spread across its surface, slow but relentless. The sheer scale of the sphere meant that a complete rupture could possibly take at least another week.

Hades quickly recalculated the remaining time buffer, then turned to Arktur and Drake, his expression grim.

“Issue the summons. The time to face this bastard has come.”

The final battle was drawing near.

* * *

The moment Arcadia received word from the Underworld, its response was swift—almost godlike in efficiency.

The entire nation, the pinnacle of modern civilization, mobilized every ounce of its military and administrative power, setting three years’ worth of preparation into motion.

This was it. If they lost this battle, humanity would be erased. The Empire’s blade had been sharpened to its very limit with determination.

“Your Majesty, the final battle’s participants have all assembled.”

“I see.”

At Outpost 7, which had been converted into a massive military base, Laila sat atop her throne, gazing at the distant open Hell Gate.

She could see them. The Cardenas, Wickeline, and Jehoia families were there.

And so, the final war began.

At the forefront stood the noble families who had long supported Arcadia, alongside the forces gathered from across the continent—refined and tempered relentlessly for three years. Some might have felt an exhilarating thrill at the sight, but for Laila, there was only an overwhelming sense of burden, as if her shoulders were being crushed under its weight.

She had drawn closer to the front lines, hoping to contribute even a fraction of her strength as One Beloved by the World. Yet, the moment she laid eyes on the Hell Gate, she realized the truth.

There was no place for her in the battle beyond it.

“Antonius.”

At her call, the Court Mage Antonius lowered himself onto one knee, bowing his head.

What she was about to say could well be a farewell.

“I offer my deepest gratitude for your tireless devotion in serving the imperial court to this day. I know the strength of our enemy, so I will not tell you to win, nor will I command you to return alive. Words without weight are meaningless.”

Despite the gravity of her words, Laila smiled.

“I will wait for you all here, believing in you. My loyal subjects, who have never once betrayed my trust, this time, too, I expect no less.”

“I am always humbled by your gracious words, Your Majesty.”

“If anything, it is I who am unworthy of such devoted retainers and citizens. If we continue flattering each other, the day will pass before we realize it. You may go now. Tell the Archduke of Sword to come see me for a moment.”

“As you command, Your Majesty.”

Antonius gave a deep, deliberate bow before departing. Not long after, the Archduke of Sword, Declan, leaped onto the platform and kneeled respectfully before her.

“You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

“I simply wished to look upon the face of a vassal I may never see again—for as long as I can.”

“Haha, what an honor. Please, look as much as you wish.”

To an outsider, their exchange could have sounded like a curse—wishing death upon him. But Laila knew the truth. Declan’s time had already run out. The only reason he was still living was because he had refrained from entering battle, postponing his inevitable end.

And now, he had resolved to spend his last moments in this fight.

Golden hair, golden eyes. The telltale marks of the Cardenas bloodline. His very presence radiated with an aura so intense that it flickered like flames—the might of the Empire’s greatest swordsman. Laila stared at him in silence before her lips parted.

“...Is there truly no chance of survival? No chance of you coming back alive?”

“None. My lifespan expired long ago. If I unleash my aura even once, I will not last beyond half a day.”

“The ones I believed would always remain by my side... are leaving, one by one. It is a sorrowful thing.”

Had she still been the ignorant girl of the past, she might have simply commanded him to win. But she understood now how empty such words would be.

Even though this battle would pour out the entirety of Arcadia’s accumulated strength, the chances of victory were less than ten percent. And that was an optimistic estimate. In truth, it was more like one in a hundred.

Thus, as always, Laila gave an order. “You, Declan of Cardenas. Descendants of the Archduke of Sword, who has proven his unwavering loyalty through the ages.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Fulfill your duty to the very end. The Empire stands behind you, as do I.”

Declan, fully aware of the true meaning behind her words, responded with a faint smile, “Not once have I forgotten that duty. As a vassal, I have had the honor of serving a wise ruler. As a knight, I have been privileged to stand against the threats to this Empire. Do not grieve for me, Your Majesty. I leave this world without a single regret.”

Then, he turned away and sought out one particular individual amidst the ranks of the Cardenas’ forces—his successor, the one who carried the greatest hope of defeating Crom Dubh.

At the vanguard stood Leonard. He was commanding the Order of the Golden Dragon and preparing his troops for battle.

To be given the chance to end my life in such glory... and to have a worthy successor who will carry on after me. There is nothing left for me to regret!

A memory resurfaced—a day more than a hundred years past. He had been hailed as the greatest genius of his era, reaching the peak of the Demigod Tier. He’d attempted to break through to the Deification Tier yet failed, and that failure had cost him dearly.

It was not that he had no second chances. But if he tried again and failed, he would undoubtedly die. He had never feared such an end, but the world back then had been far more ruthless.

He had understood all too well what kind of catastrophe his absence would bring. So, Declan had stopped chasing after greater power and instead devoted himself to supporting the family and the Empire.

And once he had outlived his natural lifespan, he had resigned himself to doing so until the very end. Or so he had thought.

...I leave it to you now, o’ great Ancestor Cardenas.

—Indeed.

A voice answered immediately as if it had been waiting. It was the remnant soul of Founder Cardenas.

Somehow, it had moved from Leonard to Declan’s very being.

—I have fulfilled my role. Use me as you see fit.

No matter how resolved Declan was, he had already passed beyond the limits of his natural life. And the Founder’s lingering soul, having been weakened over countless descents, could no longer restore her former might.

Yet perhaps because Declan was at death’s door and his mind and body had weakened, the remnant soul began to merge with him when it would have normally been impossible to merge with those in the Demigod Tier.

Just this once, the two Archdukes of Sword would become one and transform into a weapon that could rival even True Gods.