Early DAR Vol. 5 Chapter 17 Part 4

Full title: Starting a New Life for the Discarded All-Rounder

Note: If you found any typos/mistakes, pls write them in the comment. Thanks.

Translator: Airis

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Sparks of fire rained down around Dietrich.

They were the remnants of the Gargoyle’s body, shattered by the sword wreathed in flame. The large embers scorched his skin and hair, yet Dietrich paid them no heed.

“…Hey…”

Dietrich’s gaze was fixed on the red Magic Wolf in his arms.

The red Magic Wolf gave no answer to his voice. Not even a finger twitched. Its body had gone limp, the tail that had once swung powerfully now drooped lifelessly.

“Hey! What’s wrong with you!?”

Dietrich shook it lightly, trying to draw a reaction, but its body only swayed weakly.

The blood flowing from his wounded shoulder stained the wolf’s crimson fur. As it trickled, the strength drained from his arm, and the Magic Wolf’s body began to slip from his hold.

“!?”

Panicking, Dietrich hurled away his sword to catch the wolf with his freed hand.

Yet still, the red Magic Wolf did not stir.

“What’s wrong!?”

He clutched it tightly. Only then, feeling a strong heartbeat, did he release a breath of relief.

It was merely unconscious.

He checked its body over carefully—no visible wounds. Though bloodied, the blood was all his own, seeping from his shoulder.

“Leader! Be careful! Something’s still there!”

“What?”

Cornelia’s voice rang out. Dietrich snapped his head up in reflex.

And there it was: the jet-black whip, already closing in.

He had seen this attack once before. During last night’s Gryphons assault—shadow magic, without a doubt.

But Dietrich had no means to counter it.

It was too close to dodge. His sword lay discarded, and his arms held the red Magic Wolf. His other arm, torn at the shoulder, had lost all strength.

With only the faint hope of survival, he bent his knees and curled down to shield his head—

A blue blur cut between him and the black whip.

“Yelp!”

The cry rang out.

In that instant, Dietrich realized: it was the blue Magic Wolf. Once more, it had thrown itself in harm’s way to protect him.

“Leader! Fall back!”

At Cornelia’s cry, his body moved before thought. Dietrich leapt backward to create distance.

But another black whip, curving wide and striking from an unexpected angle, speared into him.

It pierced the shoulder that held the red Magic Wolf, grinding through bone. His arm went slack at once, and the wolf slipped from his grasp.

“Ah…”

Dietrich tried to catch it, but his other arm no longer obeyed him. He had no arms left to hold it.

The red Magic Wolf tumbled to the floor.

Its fur, stained with his blood, left smears of crimson with each roll.

Dietrich himself staggered from the blow and collapsed face-first, his disabled arms unable to brace him.

Cornelia had seen everything unfold. Yet she could not rush to save him.

She had already committed, charging forward in Dietrich’s place to strike back. To shift her aim now, to rush to his side, would only worsen the situation.

In her hands was a Warhammer—one Dietrich had flung at the Gargoyle earlier, left lying on the ground. She had picked it up mid-stride.

She raised it high, focusing her aim.

Her target: the base from which the black whip extended.

It looked empty, yet if the whip was stretching out from there, something had to be hidden.

“Haaaah!”

With a cry, Cornelia brought the Warhammer down.

It struck with a heavy thud, yet halted in midair.

Dietrich, sprawled on the ground, watched.

A pathetic sight—nose bleeding from smashing his face into the floor, arms useless, unable even to rise.

The blue Magic Wolf hung suspended, ensnared by the black whip, dangling in the air. Its body limp, as though knocked unconscious. Dietrich’s clenched teeth ground audibly.

Then, from the point where Cornelia’s Warhammer had fallen, the space itself warped.

“…Another one…?”

From the distortion emerged a stone statue of a woman entwined with serpents; another Gargoyle, wielder of illusion magic.

But the moment it revealed itself, its body collapsed into rubble.

“Cornelia!”

Another black whip lashed out from behind the Gargoyle.

Dietrich forced his torso upright and shouted. But with no arms to support himself, his body slipped on the blood-slicked floor and toppled again.

“I’m fine.”

Cornelia used the recoil from her strike to flip backward.

A heartbeat later, the whip slashed through the space her head had occupied.

Had she not flipped, it would have struck her directly.

Cornelia kicked off the ground, tumbling backward like an acrobat, flipping repeatedly to gain distance.

The Gargoyle crumbled.

And from behind it stepped forth: a Gryphon.

Dark mana coiled visibly behind it, the black whips stretching from that vortex.

Its appearance was no different from any other, but the use of shadow magic left no doubt. It was one of the very Gryphons that had assaulted them last night. Faint scars lingered on its wings and body, but the wounds from that battle had already healed—an astonishing regenerative ability.

Yet in its eyes, the seething malice from last night was gone. What remained was pure delight, the joy of toying with prey.

The Gryphon advanced on the fallen red Magic Wolf, tendrils of shadow unfurling to bind it.

“Stop!”

Dietrich shouted, but his voice could never reach.

The Gryphon gave a shrill cry, and a massive parrot-like beast, as tall as a man, swooped in from nowhere.

“Stop it!!”

His roar was answered by bolts of lightning striking the parrot-beast: Bernhardt’s magic.

But the Gryphon’s black whip swatted them down effortlessly. Weakened by interference, the spells failed to even scratch it.

The Gryphon manipulated its shadowy tendrils and flung both Magic Wolves toward the parrot-beast.

“I told you to stop!!”

Dietrich struggled to rise, but his blood-slicked feet slipped again.

More lightning flew at the Gryphon, again batted aside by its shadow.

At that moment, Dietrich felt a powerful tug at his leg. His body was dragged, pulled away from the Gryphon.

“Wait! I have to save them!!”

“You can’t. We need to fall back and heal your wounds…”

The one dragging him was Cornelia. While Bernhardt harried the Gryphon with spells, she seized the chance to haul Dietrich clear.

“We’ll save them once your injuries are treated. Don’t worry, the twins won’t be killed. Bernhardt said the Gryphon used Stun on them. If it hasn’t killed them, there must be a reason.”

Cornelia’s words were a comfort without foundation, and she knew it best of all. But it was the only way to keep Dietrich calm.

The parrot-beast caught the twins and flew down the passage, vanishing into the depths.

“Where…?”

Dragged by Cornelia, Dietrich could only watch.

No one answered. None of them knew where the twins had been taken.

If any could answer, it would be the shadow-wielding Gryphon standing before them. But the creature only cast a curious gaze toward Nostalgia’s members.

It was the gaze of a predator upon its prey.

𑁋

<Hm?>

Uncle Gry murmured, letting his gaze drift off as if in thought.

“What’s wrong?”

<No, nothing. Pay it no mind. I just had a bad feeling for a moment.>

As he spoke, Uncle Gry suppressed the fleeting expression that had surfaced and went impassive again. What Roa had glimpsed looked like confusion; an expression that seemed, in some way, both sorrow and a smile.

<Let’s go.>

Ignoring Roa as he moved to ask more, Uncle Gry guided wind magic and slipped through the hole torn in the ceiling.

They felt the wind.

This was the top floor.

Every window had been smashed, and outside air streamed in.

What had originally been a banquet hall had been opened further by removing the partitions to the surrounding rooms, leaving a space wide enough for even a Gryphon’s massive frame to rest at ease.

This was a Gryphon nest. The Gryphons used it as their dwelling to survey and govern their vast territory, the Citadel Dungeon.

There was no furniture. Even the ceiling lights were gone. Only a broad, empty expanse remained.

<Now then, time for the headliner to appear. Among the chicks, that one showed promise. I look forward to seeing how far it has grown.>

Uncle Gry chuckled, low and pleased. His gaze was fixed on a slightly raised dais; the place where the castle’s lord would have sat during feasts. Something lay there.

“…It looks like you,” Roa whispered without thinking. A single Gryphon sprawled atop the rise, motionless like a statue, its eyes staring straight at Roa and Uncle Gry.

Something about it felt similar to Uncle Gry.

“Hm?”

Uncle Gry shot Roa a displeased glare. Caught by that sidelong look, Roa—rare for him—wore an apologetic expression. They were about to fight this creature; no one would be pleased to be told they resembled the enemy.

“Uh… well, it’s more the vibe, the overall feel…”

Ordinarily, Gryphons showed so little individual variation that humans could scarcely tell them apart. But Roa, who had lived with Uncle Gry for years, could distinguish them with high accuracy. Even the four Gryphons he had seen on the way here were as easy for him to tell apart as human faces. If Roa said it looked similar, then it likely did.

Even so, he could not say exactly what matched. It was only the overall atmosphere.

“But looking closely, it’s totally different! The claws and beak aren’t trimmed or kept; they’re overgrown, uneven, and dull. The pelt’s all matted and filthy, the feathers are scruffy, and the wings have no luster! Your eyes are sharper, Uncle Gry, and that one’s are… clouded and mean, like it lives unhealthy. There’s a weird scar by its eye; it kind of makes it look weak, right? I bet it thinks that scar looks cool. Its coloration is dingy overall: grimy and forgettable. I mean… overall it feels like a fake made to look like you. And also—whoa!!”

A deep-crimson fireball suddenly shot toward Roa. He yelped and hunched reflexively, but Uncle Gry’s wind magic blocked it with ease.

<Brat! Fine provocation!> Uncle Gry said, delighted.

“I wasn’t trying to provoke it…”

<Behold that pathetic figure, trembling with rage! It feigned dignity while secretly preparing some large-scale spell, yet it lost itself to anger and could do no more than fling a tiny fireball at you, brat!>

“Um, I really wasn’t trying to provoke it…”

<Listen well, brat. Those chicks are so green they cannot even double-cast, let alone use chanting magic; aside from flight magic, they manage nothing. Thus, the slightest anger makes them lose control of their spells. The ice one and the earth one used something big only at the start; after that, they could manage nothing noteworthy, could they not? When their emotions waver, that is the limit of what they can conjure. Provocation is highly effective. Well done!>

Though praised, Roa’s mood only sank. He had merely been making excuses to Uncle Gry; pointing out the differences in appearance to placate him after the comparison to an enemy left him sour. He had not meant to provoke.

Yet the Gryphon before them had its fur and feathers bristling, breath rough, its entire body proclaiming its anger.

Its glare was fixed straight on Roa. The provocation had worked perfectly.

Until now Roa had been treated as little more than Uncle Gry’s tagalong, but at this moment the Gryphon clearly marked him as an enemy.

Being compared to Uncle Gry and belittled by the comparison seemed to have struck the Gryphon’s sorest point. Because it loathed Uncle Gry to the core, it could not abide it.

<Good!>

Uncle Gry grinned. At the same moment, a gust roared from behind the Gryphon toward Roa and Uncle Gry.

<I have reclaimed the hostage!>

Riding the gust, a human body rose into the air.

It was the hostage the Gryphon had hidden behind itself, the soldier abducted by the two Gryphons that wielded ice and shadow magic.

The Gryphon had likely meant to keep the hostage for a decisive moment, but Uncle Gry had known the location from the start.

<To lose awareness of your precious trump card—shameful! Had you kept your wits, you would have sensed my magic activating behind you. To fail to notice a spell triggered at range is rank inexperience!>

Uncle Gry laughed in open scorn.

If magic could be activated behind it, then an attack could have been launched from behind as well. The mockery was deserved.

The hostage drifted on the wind’s current and did not move.

He was likely only unconscious. Uncle Gry could judge a human’s state even from a distance; if he was still calling the man a “hostage,” then he was alive. If it had been a corpse, he would have said so plainly, and even if he tried to spare Roa’s feelings, he would not have bothered to rescue a corpse.

The Gryphon, seeing the hostage borne away on the gale, fired off a Fireball in a panic, but it could not reach the man, protected by Uncle Gry’s magic.

<Brat, take him.>

With that, Uncle Gry stepped forward, placing himself between Roa and the Gryphon.

To catch the hostage, Roa would have to let the wind spell drop. In that instant, both the catcher and the caught would be exposed. Uncle Gry moved up as Roa’s shield.

The enraged Gryphon hurled Fireballs without restraint. Without Uncle Gry’s protection, Roa and the hostage would have been roasted in moments.

“Got you.”

Roa received the soldier borne in by wind magic. The man was larger than Roa—as expected of a soldier—and in the past Roa would never have managed to catch him.

But now Roa could boost his strength with the body enhancement he had learned from Cornelia. A single adult male was no trouble. Still, once the wind spell was released, the soldier’s weight pressed down on him, and Roa staggered, his balance shaken.

Even if magic let him lift heavier loads, maintaining the posture to support them was another matter. Roa still had training to do.

“Good, he’s alive.”

Clasping the soldier’s wrist, he felt a steady pulse. The man was merely unconscious.

Ordinarily it would be too soon to relax while the soldier remained insensible, but Roa had healing potion at hand. Barring something extreme, he was confident he could mend him.

<So, your ace in the hole—the hostage—is gone. What now? If you press your head to the floor and swear fealty to me, I will spare you.>

At those words, the incoming spells only grew in power and frequency: a clear refusal. Better to fight and die than swear loyalty to Uncle Gry, it seemed.

<So you have no intention of coming under my command. I trained you carefully and strictly, and you forget the debt. Pitiful lot!>

“Ah… so that was the problem,” Roa murmured as he laid the soldier on the floor and sprinkled him with healing potion.

The man bore small wounds all over. None were fatal; he had likely suffered them while being carried off. Some were stabs from sharp talons, others bruises blooming blue.

Even after the healing potion closed the wounds, the soldier did not wake. Rousing him rashly would only make him panic at the scene around them. Better that he remain unconscious. Roa decided to leave him as he was.

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