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I Don’t Want to Be a Heroic Spirit [775]
🕑 Added 2025-10-23 15:37:30 +0000 UTCAgris the Thousand Phantasms.
He was not only a Crimson Lord—but an ancient one, who had lived for an extraordinarily long time.
He belonged to no organization, preferring solitude and independence.
Although he was an old-generation Crimson Lord, Agris’s actual combat strength was not particularly high. What made him truly dangerous was his Unrestricted Spell, which allowed him to create illusions based on his opponent’s memories—phantoms possessing up to sixty or seventy percent of the original’s power, unwaveringly loyal to him, mere puppets dancing on his strings.
Thus, Agris feared no “numbers advantage.” The more opponents there were, the more illusions he could produce. The only thing that truly made him uneasy were individuals whose personal power was overwhelming—monsters like Sydonay the Thousand Changes. If Sydonay fought seriously, then no matter how many illusions Agris summoned, they’d all be cut down by a single blow.
A fully serious Thousand Changes could annihilate tens of thousands of Flame Haze with one strike. How could illusions—copies with only a fraction of that strength—possibly stand against him? Don’t joke. They wouldn’t last a second.
If one like Sydonay simply crushed his illusions through sheer might, Agris wouldn’t be surprised. That much, he could understand. But this—this “illusion of Nitocris”—this was the first time he’d ever encountered something like this.
An illusion he created himself—yet one he couldn’t control?!
“What a foolish question. Since this illusion was created in my image, isn’t it only natural that it obeys my will?”
He couldn’t understand it—couldn’t accept it.
If there was a phrase that could describe Agris’s state of mind at that moment, it would be his Dao heart had shattered.
The ability he was most proud of, his life’s defining technique, had suddenly turned on him in a way even he couldn’t explain. The blow to his pride was devastating.
It was like a man who had devoted half his life to mastering martial arts—wandering the world, challenging every school, becoming famous far and wide. And then, at the very peak of his renown, he challenged the “Number One Under Heaven,” only to be defeated in a single, effortless slap—without even understanding how he lost. And finally, he realized: everyone else had been training martial arts—while the “Number One” was cultivating immortality.
Agris’s mind blanked out completely.
When he looked back at the illusion of Nitocris, he noticed that she was holding someone—small enough that at first glance, one might mistake the figure for a cat.
It was Shana, looking equally bewildered.
Just moments earlier, she’d been surrounded on all sides by Agris’s illusions. Most were enemies she’d already defeated in the past—annoying in number, but not individually threatening.
But the phantom of Sydonay was different. He alone was enough to crush Shana to the ground.
Shana had encountered the real Sydonay only once. Even then, he had clearly been toying with her, fighting playfully. But afterward, she had seen him battle Ammit—and that fight had been serious, barring only the use of weapons.
Meaning: the phantom Sydonay before her now had about seventy percent of Sydonay’s full power, while she herself was in a weakened state. Naturally, she couldn’t compete.
On the verge of defeat, Shana had already been ready to pull a last-resort, mutual-destruction move—but before she could, her vision blurred. The next moment, she was caught midair—like a kitten seized by the scruff of the neck—held aloft in the grasp of the illusion Nitocris.
When—?!
That thought echoed simultaneously through both Shana’s and Agris’s minds.
“What an interesting technique,” the illusion Nitocris remarked, glancing briefly toward the distant swarm of phantoms. Her gaze lingered only a moment before she looked away, seemingly losing interest. Then, turning to Shana, she said quietly, “I’ll take over the rest of this battle. You don’t mind, do you?”
“…?”
Shana almost swung her blade on instinct. She knew the being before her wasn’t the real Nitocris—just an illusion Agris had made.
And yet…that voice, that tone—
“You…?!” Shana gasped.
Shock made her forget she was still in the middle of a fight. She tried to speak again—but a sudden, blinding flare of rainbow light interrupted her.
Light gathered. Light screamed.
Like the Bifröst of Norse myth—the bridge linking Asgard to Midgard—the seven-colored Kōtenken burst forth once more, streaking toward Shana and the illusion Nitocris.
After realizing he couldn’t order the phantom Nitocris to self-destruct, Agris switched tactics—commanding the other illusions to surround and attack both her and Shana, while he himself slipped back into the fog, retreating well outside the Kōtenken’s range.
He couldn’t recreate the enemies stored in Nitocris’s memory, because his spell worked only on a physical target’s memories. That was why he’d only used it on Shana and not on Alastor. The God of Retribution merely lent his power—his true form couldn’t enter this world at all.
Of course, there was one thing Agris didn’t know: if he ever tried to use this ability in front of the real Nitocris, his death would be far quicker.
“Hm? A rainbow sword…? Or perhaps the Sword of Mars? Don’t tell me Attila wandered into this world too?”
The rainbow beam of destruction hurtled toward them, but the illusion Nitocris—still holding Shana—didn’t so much as move. She stood there, perfectly still, as if frozen in shock.
“Ah. I see. The range isn’t even close to the Rainbow Sword, and the destructive output is far below the Sword of Mars…”
As the blazing light neared, Nitocris finally raised her hand—calmly, almost lazily—murmuring a brief incantation.
The torrent of rainbow energy crashed down like a waterfall of aurorae, tearing the air itself apart with a deafening shriek.
It struck Nitocris’s raised palm—
No explosion. No tremor. Not even the faintest shockwave.
Every fragment of that cascading radiance was caught, gathered, and contained in her hand.
The torrent of the Kōtenken froze before her. Inch by inch, its raging brilliance softened, like wrinkles smoothed by an unseen hand. The chaotic blaze quieted.
The roar that had split the sky turned into a hollow wail of unwilling surrender. When the Kōtenken finally exhausted its last trace of power, all light faded into silence. Nitocris still stood there, hand extended, not having taken a single step back. The once-devastating current of light hadn’t left even the faintest mark upon her skin.
Then, in an almost gentle voice, she murmured—
“…So this is all it amounts to.”
Between sea and sky, an unnatural stillness fell. The sound of waves returned—eerily clear.
Shana froze.
Agris was struck dumb.
Sis… You’re cheating that blatantly?!
Only Alastor remained utterly unshaken.
Why should he be surprised? For a god, this was simply standard procedure.
“Who the hell are you?!”
The pressure emanating from the illusion Nitocris was unbearable—Agris was practically unraveling.
He couldn’t understand—where had this monster come from? How could someone so powerful exist, and yet he had never once heard her name in all his centuries?
What’s truly terrifying isn’t strength—it’s the unknown.
If Sydonay the Thousand Changes was an untouchable force of overwhelming might, then Nitocris, in Agris’s eyes, was something else entirely—something incomprehensible, indescribable.
Her golden eyes turned toward him—and in that instant, a chill raced through Agris’s entire being, as though some unseen beast had clamped its jaws around his throat.
The concealing mist—meant to hide both body and aura—meant nothing before those golden eyes.
Because no one can escape death.
“Put me down!”
After freezing for a long moment, only now did Shana realize she was still being held aloft by the illusion Nitocris.
As soon as she understood this, she exploded in embarrassment.
“According to my judgment, the enemy's strength has surpassed your limits. From this point on, I should handle the battle, while you rest and recover,” the illusion Nitocris calmly suggested, entirely rational. Nonetheless, she gently lowered Shana down. Though their feet hovered above the ocean, Shana could fly anyway, after all.
“…Urusai urusai urusai! What I choose to do is none of your business!”
Shana fiercely glared at Nitocris, her face as vividly red as her hair.
The sudden spike in emotion caused all the fatigue accumulated through the battle to rush forth in a wave. Her pupils dimmed slightly, and her body weakened, swaying to one side as if she might collapse at any moment.
Fortunately, Nitocris swiftly noticed and reached out, catching Shana in her arms.
The sensation was like cradling freshly fallen snow, impossibly soft and warm—a fragile waist, slender and boneless, conveying the burning vitality of life clearly through layers of fabric.
Nitocris remained perfectly calm; after all, this was not her first time embracing a girl, nor was it her first time existing as one. Even though the girl in her arms was someone she had once cherished deeply as a beloved fictional character, her heart felt no ripples whatsoever.
But for Shana, it was completely different.
Caught in Nitocris’s embrace, her body stiffened immediately, spine arching tensely like a cat suddenly grabbed by its scruff. In the next heartbeat, the intense heat flooding her face raced further down, quickly spreading to her ears, neck, and collarbones.
Her heartbeat lost rhythm. Something inside her chest felt unbearably hot and yet impossibly soft, as if it might melt into sugary syrup if held any tighter.
“I only wish to help you. Your body can no longer endure high-intensity combat. Stop pushing yourself.”
Nitocris’s brows furrowed slightly. Because of their position, she couldn’t see Shana’s face clearly. Her expression was troubled solely by concern for Shana’s physical state.
“I said…I don’t…need your help…”
Shana still rejected stubbornly, but if one listened carefully, her voice was softer than before, infused with an indescribable nuance.
At this moment, Agris was absolutely furious.
His earlier question had been ignored—completely brushed aside as though he were nonexistent!
Even if the opponent was a powerful unknown, Agris absolutely refused to suffer such humiliation!
“All of you—attack!!”
In what seemed like his final desperate struggle, Agris’s hysterical roar echoed out. At his command, the familiar illusions rushed together toward Nitocris and Shana.
Shana had been a Flame Haze for merely two years. Before that, she’d lived secluded in Tendōkyū with Wilhelmina and Merihim, hardly encountering anyone else. In those brief two years, just how many Crimson Denizens could she have defeated? And every one of these illusions was an opponent she had already bested.
Thus, the only truly noteworthy illusions among them were Sydonay, Margery Daw, Wilhelmina, and Merihim. Only when facing these four individually did Shana have any real chance of defeat.
Of course, only Shana needed to fear defeat against them—Nitocris’s illusion was a different matter entirely.
“Hm… Neither dead nor living, they are but ephemeral reflections, as insubstantial as the moon’s reflection in water. Thus, their sins cannot be judged, nor can they be guided to eternal peace in the Underworld.”
Nitocris murmured quietly, utterly indifferent. Even as dozens of enemies bore down upon them with unstoppable momentum, they couldn’t so much as stir a strand of her hair.
From afar, the illusions launched their attacks simultaneously, colorful flames raining down like a meteor shower.
Murky purple, deep blue, cherry blossom pink, rainbow-hued, emerald, earthy brown, vibrant pink… Countless flames collided, merged, twisted, interwove.
Then, a sound like shattering glass resonated through the space. At the heart of the flames, a pinpoint of pure darkness emerged, drawing all the surrounding colors into it, compressing the fire into an increasingly dense sphere. Although the flames’ size shrank dramatically, their destructive aura surged to terrifying new heights.
Shana’s complexion went from rosy to deathly pale. That burning sun-like sphere rushing toward her brought an undeniable threat of death.
As if reading Shana’s thoughts, Nitocris’s voice reached her ears with perfect clarity:
“Without my permission, no one may lead you toward death…not even yourself.”
Nitocris released Shana gently and stepped forward.
Facing the blazing sphere hurtling closer, Nitocris casually raised one hand—at this gesture, Agris almost developed a trauma on the spot.
Does she actually intend to repeat what she did earlier—singlehandedly stopping an attack of such horrifying magnitude?!
Yet, reality proved even more absurd than he imagined.
Nitocris clenched the raised hand into a fist.
The very next moment, the roaring sphere of flame shattered as if crushed in the grip of an invisible giant’s hand.
Not exploded—shattered. Instead of unleashing destructive shockwaves, the fragmented flames twisted into immense serpents, dancing obediently around Nitocris and Shana. Every spark of heat and energy remained contained, perfectly controlled—not a trace escaped, not even evaporating the water beneath their feet.
The ferocious flames now seemed docile, harmless in Nitocris’s presence.
She…actually seized complete control over the enemy’s attack?!
Shana and Agris watched in disbelief as the roaring, colorful fire-serpents steadily turned a lifeless shade of gray.
When every last flame had become colorless, Nitocris opened her palm again, lifting it upward as though cradling something invisible.
The flame serpents, seemingly obeying some silent command, surged toward the center, rapidly coalescing into a miniature gray sun above Nitocris’s head.
“Very pretty,” she remarked absently, her gaze barely lingering upon the small sphere above. “As a child’s firework, I suppose it’s barely acceptable.”
A…child’s firework?
An attack terrifying enough to annihilate even a Crimson Lord…in her eyes, it was nothing more than a mere child’s firework?
“Now then, I return this to you.”
Nitocris waved her hand lightly, as if brushing dust from her shoulder.
In that instant, the gray sun exploded outward once more, transforming into countless roaring gray dragons of flame.
The dragons twisted and spiraled through the sky, long tails tracing lingering trails of gray. Wherever these tails passed, light itself was devoured, sound ceased, even the wind forgot to blow. Before the illusions could even react, they were consumed by the gray flames.
There were no screams—illusions didn’t scream. There was only silent annihilation.
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This is a fan translation of 我才不要当英灵 by 死神的挽歌. All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!
