PSW Chapter 43: What the Heck
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With that spear strike, the entire thicket seemed to come alive—leaves scattered, camouflaged figures burst into motion, and dust was kicked up violently, raining down onto the cavalry below.
At the exact moment Yofar halted, the cavalry behind him used that single breath’s time to surge forward, their warhorses slowing just enough for them to overtake their Pharaoh. With loud shouts, they raised their round shields from their saddles, covering their chests and faces.
"Clang! Clang! Clang!"
Under the clash of iron and steel, Abelieu swiftly drew the curved sword from his waist. Meanwhile, Sok leaped off his horse, seizing two massive pillars, each over a meter tall and reinforced with exaggerated iron spikes on both ends. His muscles tensed, as solid as steel, and with immense force, he slammed the pillars into the ground!
With a resounding click, the mechanism within the iron pillars locked into place, and the mountainous warrior began swinging them like twin war hammers!
"Your Majesty—!"
Breton, who had never been known for his combat prowess, found himself shielded by his attendants, who raised their own defenses around him. Though anxious, he had no means to intervene, forced instead to peer through the whirlwind of sand and dust, trying to catch a glimpse of Yofar’s form through the chaos.
A group of silent warriors emerged from the dust storm, their faces and heads wrapped in cloth. Clad in soft armor, their eyes were sharp and merciless as they drew their blades and charged forward.
Bart’s pupils constricted as he rushed forward, pressing low to the ground!
With twin curved blades, he slashed through the legs of the cavalry’s horses. The soldiers behind him quickly mimicked his movements. The horses neighed in agony as they collapsed, throwing their riders to the ground. Some warriors tumbled and lost their footing, only to be slain in an instant!
These attackers were smart and ruthless. Veterans like Sok and Abelieu had already dismounted, standing like immovable fortresses at the front lines.
Despite missing half of his left hand, Abelieu fought without hindrance. He reversed his grip on his curved blade, crouched low, and slashed at throats with surgical precision. His blade gleamed like the pale reflection of the moon on a clear day, slicing through skin, windpipes, and arteries. Blood sprayed into the sand, staining the battlefield crimson.
Sok, in contrast, fought with sheer brute strength. Wielding two spiked iron pillars, he let out a thunderous roar, spinning in place and sending enemies flying in all directions.
Bart narrowed his eyes, knowing better than to challenge these two powerhouses head-on. Though physically strong, he prided himself on his agility.
His gaze locked onto the man he sought—Pharaoh Yofar. Even though Yofar was surrounded by soldiers, his cold and strikingly handsome features made him stand out. His gleaming golden armor only made him a blatant target.
Bart sneered. “Damn it, who the hell wears a full set of gold armor in battle? What a dead man walking!”
Everyone knew that in war, the most eye-catching individuals were either:
Those who never actually fought, or
Those who were too stupid and just wanted to be shot at.
Years ago, when Bart was just an apprentice, he hadn’t yet participated in a war of conquest. Back then, there had been only two rules.
But later… a third rule was added.
Bart leapt forward, his curved blades severing more horse legs as he dodged past the battle-hardened warriors. He was a master of the spear, but today's silent assassination didn’t allow him to fight as he normally would. His opening spear throw had been his—**and Yofar’s—**only chance.
Too bad it missed.
No matter.
Bart twirled his dual short spears, prying open a soldier’s shield. Before the warrior could react, he lunged—face to face with Yofar.
Gray-brown pupils locked onto icy blue ones.
Bart could see the Pharaoh’s pressed lips and expressionless gaze reflected in his own eyes.
Got him!
Excitement surged through Bart. Underneath his cloth wrapping, his lips curled into a triumphant grin, his pupils shrinking into pinpoints. With both spears in hand, he drove them toward Yofar’s chest with all his might!
I’m going to kill Yofar Memphis!
I will be the one to slay the fearsome Conqueror King!
I will become a hero remembered for eternity!
In his euphoria, Bart watched as the man in front of him finally moved.
But not to draw a weapon.
Instead, Yofar calmly pushed aside a soldier who had rushed in to shield him.
At the same time, the wind from Bart’s charge lifted the platinum hair beneath Yofar’s crown.
In that frozen moment—
Bart, crouched low, his eyes ablaze with excitement.
Yofar, standing tall in golden armor, gazing down at him like a god overlooking mortals.
For a fleeting instant, Bart felt mocked.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it—
I am the one who holds your life in my hands!
I am the god of this battlefield!
So why… do you look like you’ve already won?!
I am Lower Egypt’s greatest warrior!
Bart growled, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“Yofar! Today is your last day alive!”
Just like the lion whose head I once severed—die at my hands.
Yofar’s cold blue eyes flickered as he gazed at the assassin charging toward him. His lips pressed into a thin line.
He raised his hands—long, pale fingers wrapped in black leather gloves to protect them from the chafing of his armor.
And in that moment—
Everything within his reach seemed to freeze.
"CLANG!"
Bart’s eyes widened in shock.
“What the—?!”
Yofar… Yofar had caught them.
With nothing but his bare hands.
Bart’s mind went blank. His dual short spears, aimed precisely at Yofar’s ribs, were now trapped in the Pharaoh’s grasp—a pair of hands that looked more delicate than a woman’s, almost too well-maintained for a warrior.
Impossible.
Bart’s strength was legendary, strong enough to drive his weapons through solid stone. Yet Yofar had stopped them with ease.
He gasped, staring in disbelief at the Pharaoh’s unchanging expression. The force of his own attack rebounded against him—his grip cracked, his palms split open from the impact, and his body lurched uncontrollably forward.
And yet—that damned Pharaoh Yofar Memphis II, with his icy blue gaze and arrogant poise, had already released Bart’s spears.
Before Bart could collide with him, Yofar calmly raised one gloved hand and chopped downward—straight for the exposed nape of Bart’s neck.
Bart’s instincts screamed.
A warrior who had faced death countless times, he could sense the killing intent.
His heart skipped a beat.
Reacting on pure survival instinct, he raised his arm to block—
Yofar’s voice rang out.
Low, cold, and commanding—a voice that carried the weight of an absolute ruler.
“Let me tell you.”
It was a voice that belonged in the depths of hell.
Yofar spoke with chilling indifference.
“I know what you’re thinking. I know what you’re trying to do.
But before absolute power—
You are nothing but a stray dog blocking my path.”
…
Bart barely processed the words before Yofar’s gloved hand ‘gently’ struck his arm.
It was light.
Effortless.
Bart saw no visible malice.
No weight, no visible threat in the motion.
And yet—
CRACK.
A sharp, sickening sound rang through the battlefield.
Bart’s forearm snapped in half.
The impact twisted his arm backward at an unnatural angle, bone piercing through flesh, exposing a gruesome, jagged fracture.
The pain hit him an instant later.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH—!”
“MY ARM! MY ARM—!!”
It all happened in a matter of five or six seconds.
By the time the surrounding warriors fully processed the scene, Yofar had already turned away.
As his billowing cape swept past Bart’s crumpled, writhing form, the assassin tumbled to the ground, rolling several times before stopping in the dirt—clutching his destroyed arm in agony.
Yofar didn’t spare him a second glance.
Removing his black leather gloves, he tossed them to the ground and extended a hand toward his personal guards.
His soldiers, still in shock, hurried to retrieve a spare pair from their packs. Trembling, they carefully offered them up with both hands.
Yofar took them with a nod, slowly sliding his fingers into the new gloves as he spoke in his usual detached tone:
“Clean this up.”
“I don’t have time to play with stray dogs.
Leave these games to the bored women in the palace courtyards.”
Then, turning his gaze toward Abelieu and Sok—his two most trusted warriors—he issued his command:
“You have half an hour.”
“After that, we move.”
…
The battlefield was silent.
The mingling screams of dying men and horses faded into the background.
The soldiers blinked.
Then, at last, realization struck them—
Their king had just taken out the assassin leader—with a single effortless blow.
“Shit! They were just a bunch of grunts!”
The warriors roared with laughter, their morale surging as they launched a counterattack.
Watching the powerful figure of his king from behind, Breton let out a breath of relief.
He was too strong.
Fools deceived by appearances only saw his beauty and failed to recognize the eerie, terrifying power he wielded.
All those who underestimated Yofar Memphis, blinded by his looks and common sense, would ultimately fall under his control.
For this king…
was a man who existed beyond reason.
“What? Bart lost that quickly?
Are you kidding me?! How is that possible?! Our plan was flawless! Yofar Memphis isn’t a monster!”
“He IS a monster! A demon! A cursed god!
Bart was Lower Egypt’s strongest warrior, but in just a blink—
JUST A BLINK—
that Pharaoh snapped his arm like a twig!
They’re already approaching the town…
Fuck, fuck, I’m getting out of here! I’m going back—I’m not staying in this goddamn place to die!”
The men sent by Saya cursed in terror, drenched in cold sweat as they bolted from the tavern room, slamming the door behind them.
The tavern owners stood frozen, their faces drained of color.
The fire of rebellion in their eyes snuffed out in an instant.
“What do we do?” The wife’s voice trembled as she looked at her husband. “Should we run too? If the Pharaoh arrives, he’ll kill us all!”
The man hesitated, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe it… After all this careful planning, this is how it ends? As a joke?”
“What choice do we have?! Who knew Bart was all talk?! What ‘greatest warrior’?! He lost and now he’s blaming that damned Pharaoh! That delicate-looking Pharaoh is nothing without his guards! Either way, we’re not dying here! Leave the thieves behind to stall them—we’re getting out of here!”**
She yanked her stunned husband up, snatched a pre-packed emergency bag from their room, then grabbed the whistle hanging around her neck and blew it twice.
Then, without another word, they ran downstairs.
Hearing the whistle, several seemingly ordinary patrons and tavern workers immediately stood up.
Without hesitation, they scattered into the night.
In the blink of an eye, the tavern was nearly empty—leaving only the real guests, staring in shock at the sudden disappearance of half the room.
Unaware of what had just transpired inside the tavern, Bastet was busy with his own plans.
He had to pack up and leave with Az.
Returning to Yofar was out of the question.
Sure, it might guarantee him a life of security, but… after everything Yofar had done to him, said to him…
The thought made his chest ache.
He wasn’t about to throw himself at Yofar’s cold indifference again.
If someone wanted to do that, they were welcome to.
He was done.
“Every time the sun sets, I can take human form and choose between being a cat or a man.”
“But when the sun rises, I must return to my cat form and rest.”
Sitting on the table, Bastet fidgeted with his own small tail, swinging his legs as he spoke.
He watched Az busily packing, sighing softly.
His body was, at its core, an envoy of the Moon Goddess.
The night was intimately connected to him—but so were its restrictions.
“Yeah, well, at least you can turn back into a cat at night. That’s pretty useful.”
Az sorted through some trinkets, discarding the useless ones before strapping on his thief’s gear and shouldering his pack.
“Don’t worry, my master and I are good people.
He always told me—we steal, but we don’t kill.
From now on, you and I will work together, targeting only those twisted nobles.”
He smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Maybe the bards will even sing about our ‘heroic deeds’ someday.”
With a nod, he tightened the last strap.
“Alright, we’re set. Let’s go.”
“Okay.”
Bastet hopped down from the table, his long tail hanging low—the tip curling slightly.
Az gave him a look, and Bastet quickly remembered.
Hurriedly, he stuffed his tail into his loose lantern trousers, then wrapped a scarf around his head, leaving only his glowing green eyes visible.
Satisfied, he gave Az a hand signal. Let’s move.
The two left their run-down inn and stepped onto the bustling streets.
For the first time, Bastet saw an Egyptian town from a human’s perspective.
His luminous green eyes sparkled with curiosity, drawn to every street stall, every sight.
Soon, they reached the town gates.
Az couldn't shake a feeling—were there more travelers leaving today than usual?
The sun was already half-sunk beneath the horizon, painting the sky in a fiery desert sunset.
As Bastet and Az handed their travel permits to the lazy gate guards, a thunderous sound rumbled in the distance.
The pounding of hooves.
Louder.
Closer.
As if an entire army was storming toward them.
Everyone—Bastet, Az, the travelers—turned to look.
And in that instant—
Bastet saw him.
At the front of the approaching cavalry, riding a black-brown warhorse, was a man clad in dazzling golden armor.
An ethereal beauty, so striking it rivaled the gods.
Cold, merciless, ice-blue eyes.
There was no doubt.
This was Yofar Memphis.
The ruler of Egypt.
The master of this land.
Bastet: “PFFFT—!!”
He choked, coughing violently.
“Cough—Cough—WHAT THE HELL?!
WHY IS YOFAR HERE?!”
His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and he almost drowned in his own spit.
Bastet: "...Oh, shit."
His heart pounded violently in his throat as he hunched over, trying to shrink into himself. He wished he could shove his head into his own chest and disappear. His palms were slick with sweat as he and Az trembled in a corner.
At the gate, the lazily indifferent guards had dropped to their knees, kissing Breton’s boots the moment they saw the token in his hand. There was no way they’d dare to stop him.
Yofar, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other hanging loosely by his side, didn't seem to acknowledge a single person around him. His gaze was fixed on the town ahead.
However, something was off.
For some reason, Abelieu, Sok, and the other soldiers were injured. They looked furious, exuding a chilling, murderous aura as they searched every traveler with their weapons drawn.
Bastet had no idea they had been attacked outside town. He assumed he and Az were being hunted because of the Book of the Dead, and cold sweat dripped down his back and scalp.
And then—
Sok reached their corner.
Bastet stopped breathing.
Unlike his gentleness towards cats and dogs, Sok wasn’t particularly kind to people. He loomed over Bastet, his huge hand—like a broad lotus leaf—descending over his head.
With one swift motion, he yanked off Bastet’s scarf!
A few strands of hair were ripped out in the process, making Bastet hiss in pain. Luckily, only his face was exposed—the cloth around his head was still intact. Panicking, he clutched his head and darted behind Az.
Az, despite his own fear, forced a pleasing smile and quickly stepped in front of Bastet. Rubbing his hands together, he fawned, "Sir, we’re just ordinary travelers! He’s just a kid, please—"
"Huh. So it really is a brat..." Sok muttered, eyeing Bastet’s thin, pale arms. But then, he tilted his head in confusion and called out, "Hey~ Abelieu, come look at this! There's a kid here—he’s so white! Just like our master! And he’s got green eyes!"
Bastet: "..."
He nearly coughed up his heart right then and there.
FUCK.
Luckily, Abelieu only spared Bastet a glance, dismissing him as just another foreign slave. His small stature and timid demeanor made him look like an eleven- or twelve-year-old.
Meanwhile, Breton was still questioning the gate guards, and Yofar… didn’t seem remotely interested in people.
Bastet finally exhaled in relief.
…Only for Sok to suddenly sniff the air.
Then, his massive body leaned down, his confused face inches from Bastet’s.
"Hey… why do you smell like a cat?"
The moment he said it—
Yofar’s ice-blue gaze snapped onto him.
Az: "…"
Bastet: "…"
FUCKING HELL.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK—
WHAT KIND OF BLOODHOUND NOSE IS THAT?!
_____
[Author’s Note – Little Theater]
Everyone knows that on the battlefield, the person wearing the flashiest outfit either:
Never fights on the front lines
Has a death wish and wants to be a target
However—
Many years ago, before he participated in the war that annihilated a kingdom, Bart had been unaware of this rule.
But later, it became three rules:
Never fight on the front lines in fancy clothes.
Never dress like a target unless you want to die.
If the person in flashy clothes is Yofar Memphis—RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIFE!
T/N: Please give support on my ko-fi page, It will be a big help for me, thank you...
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ReplyDeleteThnx ya for the chappiieee~