Chapter 403

For those who wielded spells, ominousness wasn’t just a simple word.

It was a prediction born of the senses.

Esther could feel something happening on this land right now.

And it was something tied to the world of spells.

The intuition that it could very well affect Esther herself followed, so she judged she couldn’t ignore it without confirming.

In other words, she needed to confirm it immediately. That was why Esther opened her mouth.

“Protect me.”

At those words, Andrew, who was about to jump into the battlefield, turned his head.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Or should I call Encrid, who went ahead?”

Esther kindly explained the situation at length and closed her eyes.

She was impatient.

Andrew hesitated and stopped mid-step.

What was his position right now?

Because he was with Encrid, he was accepted as part of their unit.

But it was also vague to move as Baron Gardner’s forces.

After all, he only had five subordinates.

Andrew looked over the battlefield.

It wasn’t overwhelmingly one-sided, but it did seem to be flowing along the allies’ intentions to some extent.

Andrew stopped. He decided it was right to answer the Mage Esther’s request.

“Form up.”

Andrew and the five trainees formed a circle around Esther.

Esther sat in the middle. She didn’t care about the dirt or anything like that. This wasn’t the time.

Her robe brushed the ground and drooped.

Soon, Esther stepped into the world of spells and sought the trick the enemy Mage had prepared.

No, there was no need to search.

Instead of hiding it, the man revealed it openly.

And by revealing it, he raised his dignity.

That dignity became pressure and weighed down on Esther’s shoulders.

But Esther was no ordinary Mage.

A witch who wielded the Black World’s Fire.

A witch who fought, struggled, and carved a path through the world.

An explorer who burned truth with flames and grasped it.

She recited a spell to prove herself and lifted her head.

Esther saw what the enemy—no, Count Molsen, the Mage—had prepared, and she dug into it.

They said not all Mages were mad, but excellent Mages always cultivated madness.

Esther agreed.

Because the opponent playing tricks right now was proving it.

‘He mixed sorcery and spells.’

The power of spirits flowed between currents of mana. The power of supplication covered the area and made the opponent’s will visible.

It was darkness.

Count Molsen sat on a black chair, darker still in the dark space, wearing a mantle like soot. He held a jet-black staff, the same color as the chair, and glared at her.

“You’re going to stop me?”

The Count’s will took shape as words and reached her. There was ridicule in it. Try it if you can.

Esther didn’t react. Instead, she examined it, then examined it again.

‘A magic circle.’

He had turned the entire battlefield into a magic circle. And a magic circle meant it required material to draw it.

“Excellently crazy.”

The moment she realized it, Esther said it aloud. The Count rested his chin on the hand not holding the staff and spoke.

“Do you think it will change anything if you know?”

He was using the horrors of war—blood and corpses—as materials, and with them he was drawing a spell built atop sorcery.

What would the result be?

She half-opened her eyes and predicted what would happen once the spell was completed.

Esther was one of the most outstanding geniuses in her world. That was why she could.

Jet-black darkness would cover the entire battlefield. A world covered like that would lose its light and sink under a dark will.

This was the scheme of a disgustingly mad bastard trying to connect his spell world to reality.

And that part was especially disgusting. To a Mage, what was the world of spells?

It was weakness, a secret space, something that should never be shown or exposed. A taboo.

Count Molsen ignored the taboo.

‘Connect it, then send the spirits.’

Covering the light with a magic circle and spewing out darkness was, in the end, taking a piece of his spell world and forcing it into this place.

Esther saw the black masses lingering behind the Count’s chair.

Spirits. So many spirits they filled the spell world.

What would happen if that mass was released onto the battlefield?

Spirits could erode the human mind. Some would become puppets. Others would swing their swords without distinguishing friend from foe. Still others would die as they were, losing all reason.

Most would fall into madness.

That was the reality about to unfold.

If everything went according to the opponent’s will.

That was what the Count was aiming for.

Victory in war? He didn’t need it.

He only needed blood, corpses, and death.

And then he would dominate the battlefield with his spirits.

If Krang knew, he would be justified in going mad with fury.

“Are you going to stop me?”

The Count asked.

Esther could burn enemies with her spells right now. But she couldn’t stop what was already in motion.

She couldn’t find a way.

The best she could do here was pull out only the people she wanted to protect.

Should she do that?

It came to her suddenly, but she didn’t think Encrid would want it.

Then what should she do?

‘I’ll ask.’

She would tell Encrid everything. She would ask him.

It was a choice that those who knew Esther—those who wielded spells—would be shocked to hear.

Esther turned part of her will into an astral body and sent it toward Encrid at the front of the battlefield.

It was possible because she had been in close contact with him for over a year.

To send an astral body carrying your will to someone, you needed that kind of bond.

Fortunately, Esther’s will reached Encrid.

“I’ll ask.”

Esther answered, and the Count blinked.

He must have wondered what she intended to ask.

—

A giant who used his body as a weapon.

That was Benukt’s byname.

Encrid pulled the sword from the giant’s head as Benukt collapsed to his knees.

A stream of blood followed the blade as it came free with a whoosh, Encrid’s right foot pressing down on the giant’s shoulder.

Benukt’s fighting spirit was frighteningly fierce, but—

‘Compared to Audin.’

He was weak.

Benukt had rammed Encrid’s side once, then grabbed his ankle and twisted.

Encrid tightened his abdomen and endured the blow, shifting the impact away.

When his ankle was caught, he let his body ride the twist, making the attempt useless.

After that, he delivered one strike at a time, steadily.

Cut, stab, repeat.

There was no need to rush. The gap in skill was obvious. He drove Benukt into a corner with the Pressing Blade.

And then he killed him.

Encrid looked around.

He saw soldiers charging at him, trembling with fear.

Not men who would step back after watching him kill a giant.

At least dozens.

‘Why?’

Their eyes were full of fear. Their legs shook. Encrid hadn’t used [Will of Domination].

And yet they were being forced to attack.

That was the answer.

They were sacrifices—meant to become blood and corpses for the Count.

A group sent out to die.

Protecting those behind him meant becoming a demon to those in front of him.

Encrid knew that.

Even so—

‘I don’t like it.’

It grated on him, fiercely.

Encrid knocked aside a trembling spearpoint with the back of his hand and seized the shaft.

The young man—barely twenty, by the look of him—stumbled forward as his weapon was taken.

Too flustered to catch himself, he hit the ground chin-first.

“Ack!”

A scream rang out.

Encrid cut the next man’s spear shaft with his sword, then flicked his toe up into the chin of the one behind.

Bang.

Even with a light kick, the man’s chin snapped up, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.

After he dropped a dozen or so like that, they stopped rushing him.

Vigilance and fear mixed in their faces, their pupils shaking.

Encrid didn’t like any of it.

The blood of the dying.

Flesh and bone.

Death soaking this land, flowing and spreading.

An unpleasant feeling that began as instinct and hardened into intuition.

‘Why?’

This was a battlefield, and the battlefield had long since become familiar to him.

He knew he had to become a demon to those in front to protect those behind.

As he scanned and stayed wary, blue smoke drifted up from behind and touched him.

An astral body carrying Esther’s will.

She told him what she had seen, heard, and grasped.

It was strange—like Esther’s voice was whispering directly into his ear.

What she conveyed, the Count’s antics, were the source of that unpleasant feeling.

He couldn’t understand everything about magic circles or what the Count was truly doing, but one thing was obvious.

If a bastard with not a single likable trait wanted something, it was only natural to ruin it.

And if he was using the battlefield as his tool, it was only natural to hate it.

When Encrid turned and began pushing into the enemy ranks, the enemy soldiers opened a path.

No matter how much a drill sergeant stabbed them in the back with a sword, there were limits to what men could do.

Encrid had just killed the giant.

The man who killed their commander—red blood flowing, a terrifying monster in the eyes of ordinary soldiers—was walking toward them.

He looked like an ordinary swordsman, but the pressure he gave off wasn’t ordinary.

That was why the path opened.

Lierbart stepped forward.

“Even Benukt is no match for you.”

“Did you send him knowing that?”

“I did.”

“You should’ve stepped up sooner.”

Encrid scolded him. Like scolding a young student.

He was genuinely angry.

It didn’t suit the moment, and so it was naturally provocative.

Lierbart’s anger flared as well, fueled by his pride as a noble.

Turning an opponent’s insides out with words was his specialty.

“Your tongue is really—”

“Shut up. I won’t listen to excuses.”

Encrid cut him off.

“You’re a real son of a bitch.”

Lierbart said it without a hint of a smile, and Encrid raised his sword.

It was clear he couldn’t move forward unless he crossed this man.

Even then, Esther, watching through her astral form, read Encrid’s will.

He had no intention of backing down.

It was a will like a flame that never stopped burning.

He would stop it. No matter what.

That will reached Esther as it was.

She accepted it and said—

“You mustn’t lose.”

If he lost and retreated here, stopping the Count would be nothing but a dream.

Encrid raised his sword. He gripped Silver with both hands and looked at his opponent as if to split him down the middle.

The moment the previous fight ended, he had begun reviewing it again.

Chewing meat, sleeping, waking, fighting—he reviewed it through all of it.

He never got bored.

If anything, he was happy.

This was an opponent to overcome, and facing him was a chance to move forward.

And he knew it, instinctively.

‘I can win.’

How many times had he been confident of victory before?

Even against a monster like this.

He had never fought with today’s repetition in mind.

Encrid believed there would be no repetition.

“I envy you.”

Lierbart said, the words incomprehensible, and raised his sword and shield.

He angled the shield up, covering his mouth and leaving only his eyes exposed.

Preparations were complete.

The fight would be the same as last time.

Everyone who had watched their duel thought so.

But it wasn’t.

Clang!

Encrid suddenly sheathed his sword and sprinted forward.

Lierbart, shield raised, tightened his defense at the unexpected move, pulling the shield in and hiding even the hand holding his sword.

Encrid thrust both hands forward.

The Whistle Dagger, already in his grasp, screamed.

Peeeep!

Two streaks of light shot toward the exposed eyes.

Clang!

Lierbart jerked his shield up to cover them.

‘Obstruct my vision?’

Covering his eyes didn’t mean he couldn’t read his opponent’s movements. A Junior Knight’s senses were too sharp for that.

Lierbart twisted his body backward.

Encrid had already cut around to the side and thrown his sword.

It was a technique called the Flicking Blade Technique.

The Gladius spun toward Lierbart’s back like a flying disc.

Block with the shield? Too late.

Lierbart trusted the sturdiness of the armor covering his body.

He only turned his back slightly and moved with practiced precision.

He deflected the point of impact with his torso.

A skill similar to what Encrid had learned from Audin.

Clang!

The second strike was deflected as well.

Then Encrid leapt and brought his sword down in a vertical chop.

Kwang!

Even blocking with his shield, Lierbart felt the shock travel into his forearms.

It was as if his body was being driven into the ground.

What was this? It felt like Encrid had grown stronger.

Encrid seized the opening with the dagger, restricted Lierbart’s movement with the Gladius, then struck again with a rotating, heavy vertical drop.

And he didn’t stop there.

It was a world without breath.

Having seized victory once, he immediately dragged his opponent into the pace that suited him most.

It worked.

Lierbart, who could normally endure a full day of fighting, had his breathing disrupted as he focused only on defense, exchanging dozens of blows.

Encrid’s stamina was far superior.

Lierbart even wondered what he had done to build such a body.

Then Blazeblade slipped into a gap and dug into Lierbart’s abdomen.

The thrust found the opening in his armor and tore into his insides.

Lierbart immediately swung his shield and smashed Encrid.

Encrid had overcommitted to the stab and couldn’t avoid it.

Thud.

Encrid stumbled back a few steps.

“Cough!”

And Lierbart vomited blood.

The outcome was decided.

Encrid looked into Lierbart’s eyes.

Black, dead eyes, like a dead fish’s.

“Hoo, I really envy you.”

Lierbart spat out the incomprehensible words again.

Encrid thought it had nothing to do with him and raised his sword.

Then Lierbart asked—

“What do you think it takes to become a knight?”