Turning his attention back to the battlefield, Aslan saw that Hermes, having cast aside all dignity and revealed his battered state, had resolved to fight with everything he had. The only way to reduce the chance of others glimpsing his tattered form was to end the battle swiftly.
Every gun barrel that had unfolded now turned toward the Supreme Masterpiece of Justice. In the next instant, a torrent of shells—both magical and physical—rained down upon it.
Aslan, however, did not panic. He calmly poured magic into the Supreme Masterpiece. The machine drew on the mana of nature, its divine core, and the true ether, then compressed it with the aid of fairy script.
A special nozzle emerged from its shoulder, spraying forth a torrent of highly concentrated magic. The dense energy scattered into particles, wrapping around the mecha and forming a circular barrier. Aslan had based the design on the magical flow he once felt when liberating the Distant Utopia. Though it could not replicate that perfect defense, the particle barrier was proof that the concept itself had succeeded.
To be doubly cautious, a compartment in the Supreme Masterpiece's left arm opened. A small box slid free, glowing as Aslan infused it with power. It unfolded into a shield, its core forged from fragments of Athena and reinforced with dragon bone. It locked into place before the mecha like an unshakable wall. If he could one day acquire Athena's full divine shield, the Supreme Masterpiece's defenses would soar to even greater heights.
Hermes's barrage engulfed the red mecha, drowning it in fire and dust.
But there was an old truth, common to novels and plays alike: smoke often concealed nothing.
From the haze burst the Supreme Masterpiece, surging forward at high speed, its armor spotless—its crimson paint unmarred.
The particle barrier still flickered under the strain, but with constant replenishment it could not be broken by such firepower. Only a decisive strike strong enough to shatter the shield in one blow could nullify its ability to recover. Between the divine core, Aslan's dragon blood, and the mecha's absorption of natural mana, the barrier could theoretically hold forever.
Some gods possessed such overwhelming attacks. But Hermes—the God of Thieves and Commerce—did not. He was no warrior; merely a transport vessel, a carrier of resources for the other Mecha Gods. More than once, Hermes must have burned with envy at their strength.
Seeing his assault fail, Hermes braced his mechanical arms against the ground and scuttled backward, retreating awkwardly like a duck kicking with its feet. It was hardly dignified, but what choice did he have? His rear thrusters had been destroyed long ago in the battle of that age, beyond even the repair of the God of Fire and Forge.
So Hermes's charges were devastating, but his retreats were shameful.
And retreat he must. His bombardment had left not a scratch. Hermes seethed. His firepower was not the strongest of the gods, but it was far from weak—yet it had done nothing. Why?
A thought struck him. Perhaps this enemy excelled only in defense. Surely, then, his offense was lacking.
Hermes's eyes gleamed. He cut off his retreat, thrusters roaring as he prepared to charge. Yes. This red impostor must be built for defense alone. He would break him with a head-on clash!
Aslan blinked, momentarily baffled by Hermes's determination. Did this god, lowest of the Twelve, really believe this was wise? Was this not closer to suicide?
Still, he wasted no time. The shield lifted in the mecha's left hand. With the right, compartments opened along its arm and waist. Three boxes extended, reshaped by magic, and unfolded into a massive blade—the Ship-Slaying Sword.
The sight of that weapon made Hermes's heart sink. He realized too late that his guess had been wrong. This red mecha was not a mere shield. It was a pure combat type—like Ares, both offense and defense in one.
But there was no turning back. Hermes could only grit his teeth and continue his charge. If his impact, forged by the God of Fire and Forge himself, could land, then perhaps he could still win. He refused to believe otherwise.
Even so, bitterness welled in him. He had no great offense, no defense, and even his vaunted speed had been crippled by the scars of that ancient battle. What did he have left?
Watching the lumbering charge, Aslan finally understood. Hermes had no other choice but to gamble everything on this one strike. Only in a desperate clash could he hope for victory.
Aslan's Demonic Eye opened, scanning rapidly. Where was Hermes's core? He needed only one thrust of the Ship-Slaying Sword. Strike true, and the battle would be finished.
-End Chapter-
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