Chapter 408

Count Molsen wasn’t a genius of strategy and tactics, but he thought broadly.

He moved beyond his opponents’ expectations.

At the very start of the battle, some of the Count’s soldiers broke formation.

They looked like deserters fleeing mid-fight.

The Royal Army commander decided there was no need to pursue. Deserters were common once the tide turned, and the enemy was already outnumbered.

If anything, he was glad they were running.

In other words, they became a group no one paid attention to.

They gathered in twos and threes, scattered, then regrouped as commands echoed inside their heads.

‘Find the source of magic.’

Naturally, their destination was Andrew’s position. Watching the soldiers who’d turned into a surprise strike force, Andrew spoke calmly.

“Are you asleep? I think you need to wake up.”

Esther didn’t move at Andrew’s words.

Instead, blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

It was proof Esther was fighting, too.

Andrew sighed.

It was a mess.

The fighting had stopped beyond the battlefield, and out of nowhere, a bunch of lunatics had appeared.

‘Where did these guys come from?’

It was a surprise attack of the worst kind.

‘And why here, of all places?’

This wasn’t a supply point, and it wasn’t where Krang was.

From a tactical standpoint, this place meant nothing.

It had to be because of Esther. Andrew had figured out that much.

Over fifty infantrymen. Every one of them looked formidable.

He’d rather face fifty Ghouls.

“Leader, their eyes…”

The freckled trainee stepped back. Andrew had already noticed.

Most of their eyes were filled with blood, as if their vessels had burst—droplets streaming down their cheeks. Even the few who looked normal had almost no whites left.

Crimson irises. Black pupils.

With nothing but the pupils changed, they no longer looked human.

The pressure alone was oppressive. Andrew clenched his teeth.

‘Should I retreat?’

He and the five trainees were forming a ring around Esther, but fighting here was a pointless death.

But running while carrying Esther?

The blood-weeping men approached with swords hanging loose at their sides, thick thigh muscles bulging.

What had they done to make their thighs that thick?

‘Running isn’t happening.’

Even escaping alone would be close. Carrying someone made it impossible.

Even though it was daytime, the sky seemed to be darkening. With the battlefield so close, it should have been hot, yet a faint chill crept in.

No—he’d felt that heat until just now, and then it turned cold all at once.

The men approached without formation.

It reminded him of an old legend—angels fighting with tears of blood.

Called by the gods to fight, yet unwilling to kill, so they wept blood as they fought.

Of course, these men were the opposite of that tale.

They were humans pumped full of drugs to force their bodies to the limit.

“M-M-Mage, t-tear, k-kill.”

A man in the center—one not crying blood—stuttered the words.

It was painful to listen to, but the meaning was clear. Their target was the mage.

What was the main force doing, letting these bastards slip through?

Did the commander even know this was happening?

Andrew had every right to be angry.

“Leader.”

One of the trainees called to him. A rational choice still remained: if they ran, they could live. There was no obligation to protect a woman named Esther.

But—

‘What good am I if I can’t protect the person behind me?’

He recalled something the commander had said once. In this moment of crisis, he remembered the time he’d spent watching Encrid since their first meeting.

What had he learned from him?

‘How can I keep my honor if I run without protecting a woman? If I survive that way, I’ll abandon the name Gardner from today.’

He’d rather die here than run.

“G-G-G—”

“You get lost.”

Andrew cut off the stuttering idiot.

“Let’s die trying.”

The freckled trainee assigned positions for the four. Andrew stood at the center and swung his sword down once.

A vertical strike.

A declaration of will.

The blood-tear detachment charged, drooling as they came.

“Aaaaargh!”

It was hard to tell if it was a battle cry or a scream.

They were as nasty as they looked. They swung their lowered swords with brutal speed and power, kicked in, and raked with clawed hands.

He couldn’t help wondering if they were even human.

For a second, he even wondered if their mothers were actual Ghouls.

Human-Ghoul hybrids.

Ridiculous—but weren’t such bastards right in front of him?

“You damn bastards—come at me!”

Andrew roared.

He’d already been stabbed through one thigh and his leg barely moved, but what did it matter?

It was the moment he’d endured and endured—

Bang!

For an instant, Andrew thought a catapult had fired.

His scalp tore, blood pouring down and blurring his sight, and the world turned red.

Something rushed in from the side like a chariot.

No—on a closer look, it was a person.

A woman swung a flat bludgeon in her left hand, smashing enemies aside, and crushed them with a broad sword in her right.

‘Red potato.’

The thought slipped out as Andrew watched an enemy get flattened.

Help had arrived at the very edge of his limit—right before he died.

It was the half-giant warrior, Teresa.

Dunbakel came with her.

With curved swords in both hands, Dunbakel rampaged like a mad shaman.

The twin blades cut, stabbed, and swept, carving through the enemy detachment.

She mercilessly butchered them and leaped in front of Andrew.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“You look so pretty I could cry.”

Andrew wiped blood from his eyes as he spoke.

“I’m always pretty.”

“That one over there looks even prettier.”

Andrew flicked his eyes past Dunbakel’s shoulder.

Teresa’s shield and sword were moving like a grinder. Now was the time for the word ruthless.

The huge female warrior—so massive she warped perspective—crushed, broke, shattered, and carved up a dozen soldiers in an instant.

It wasn’t “pretty” by any normal standard, but Andrew meant it.

Those two had saved him. He could say even more than that.

Andrew sank to the ground.

Encrid had sent Dunbakel and Teresa to Esther just before heading for the Count.

If Esther was sending a spirit—or whatever it was—to speak, that meant she couldn’t come herself.

It implied danger.

It was a judgment made with reason, not intuition.

That was why Dunbakel and Teresa had come.

Of course, in the middle of all this, Dunbakel felt the fear that rose from instinct as soon as she saw the Count—and with it, a wave of self-loathing.

Teresa, meanwhile, was annoyed at her own shortcomings.

But here, someone needed them—and they saved him.

Looking at Andrew, the two felt a little better.

“Cough!”

Just before Teresa and Dunbakel finished annihilating the ambushers, Andrew saw Esther cough up blood.

She opened her eyes briefly.

“Lady Witch?”

Andrew called to her, but Esther didn’t answer. She closed her eyes again.

Something was definitely wrong.

Esther rejected the Count’s magic that tried to push her away and opened her eyes again in the otherworld.

Black, soot-like things were spreading around the Count.

‘I’ve been had.’

To put it plainly, it wasn’t so much that she’d been outplayed as that it couldn’t be helped.

The opponent was a mage who had prepared for this, and Esther hadn’t recovered all her magic yet.

If her spell world had been intact, she wouldn’t have been caught—even knowing.

‘So?’

Esther had watched a man who didn’t know how to give up, and she’d learned something from him.

And she knew her own noble pride better than anyone.

Her self-esteem—so close to arrogance—wouldn’t let her back down like this.

That was why.

‘Do you think I know how to back down?’

She couldn’t stand leaving the board the Count—no, that mage bastard—had laid out unflipped.

If winning head-on was hard, she could use another method.

‘A fallback.’

Of course, that required several prerequisites.

She had to beat the source of that soot—the subject producing the magic—half to death, or kill it outright.

‘Encrid will do it.’

A mage’s deduction is a prophecy—a conclusion reached after weighing the situation.

But what Esther said in her heart wasn’t prophecy.

Nor was it a wish.

It was faith.

Trust, born from watching how a person lived.

Encrid was someone who did what he chose to do.

Esther believed that, and prepared her fallback.

===

Count Molsen didn’t explode in anger.

Getting furious because things didn’t go his way was no different from a seven-year-old child.

‘Can’t I handle the problem in front of me?’

He could.

‘Has the plan gone completely wrong?’

It was hard to say that.

His cold mind cooled his irritation at once.

He was angry that the prepared magic circle had been twisted, but this was enough.

He couldn’t swallow the entire kingdom in one bite, but he could end one battlefield.

‘But didn’t I need the kingdom intact in the first place?’

He’d started this because he craved power—

As he tried to recall his past self, another self asked:

‘Does that matter?’

The Count answered.

‘No.’

Black or white, a throne was still a throne.

Increase the Thrall.

Stain the world.

After reciting the words in his heart, the Count repeated the spell, again and again, anchored to the prepared magic circle.

In truth, the other self inside him had been chanting from the beginning of the battle.

Whether the surprise attack had failed, whether the mage who interfered with his spell world was still fine—those were problems for later.

Right now, the first priority was dealing with the souls charging him from the front.

The Count raised the hand holding his staff.

When he pointed it forward, soot-black things spread from the tip.

Even though the day was already dim, the daytime sky darkened further.

Behind the Count, dark clouds—like the chair he sat on—began to gather.

Heavy clouds with not a single rumble of thunder, ominous just to look at.

The black sky swallowed the sunlight.

It was as if everything was being painted black.

“W-What is that?”

One of the soldiers, startled by the sight, looked up.

The black sky spread, then reached the ground. A wisp of soot drifted close and touched the soldier’s arm.

Maybe it was because the clouds were too thick.

That was true.

But how could a shadow exist without sunlight?

His rational mind tried to explain it, but his instincts didn’t listen.

The soldier shook his arm, trying to fling off the soot.

It spread instead, then wrapped around his limbs.

“Ghk.”

Then he felt something else forcing its way inside him.

It wasn’t physical.

-Give me your body.

A Wraith invaded his mind.

The soldier’s eyes glazed over until only the whites remained. Drool spilled from his mouth.

Watching the result, the Count smiled.

“Endure the ten thousand Wraiths!”

His voice rolled across the battlefield, overflowing with confidence. The overlapping voices mercilessly shook the minds of ordinary humans.

The soot itself was a Wraith—something that stole human vitality.

The darkest soot reached the five advancing toward the Count.

Encrid heard a whisper.

-Give me your body.

Before he could even respond, the Will of Rejection reacted reflexively. The soot couldn’t stain his will in the slightest. The Wraith was repelled by the [Will].

-…Give me your body.

Thud.

-…

The Wraith turned away from Encrid.

Wraiths approached Rem as well, but Rem knew how to deal with them.

That didn’t mean he wanted to touch such a disgusting spirit. It was like not wanting to touch a rotten egg in summer heat.

Wasn’t it human nature to pinch your nose at a foul stench?

So Rem swung his axe.

Whoosh.

Following the vertical path of the axe, the Wraith’s will scattered.

He still had traces of the sorcery he’d taken from the Immortal Madman, so cutting down Wraiths wasn’t anything to brag about.

Even without sorcery, it could be done with tricks.

Ragna ignored it.

The Wraith clung to him, but no response came.

-Give me your body. Can’t you hear me? Give me your body.

Ragna continued to ignore it, and the Wraith gave up. If he didn’t react at all, there was nothing it could do.

No Wraith could pierce a will as solid as rock.

Jaxson sensed a Wraith approaching from a step behind and avoided it.

The soot spread without gaps at first glance, but if you looked carefully—and felt it—there were plenty of openings.

It wasn’t hard.

And even if he failed to avoid it, it wouldn’t matter. If things went wrong, he could always use a straw-doll artifact.

Jaxson kept several items tucked against his body just in case.

Audin accepted the Wraith.

Only he showed compassion and generosity.

‘Welcome. The Lord is waiting.’

(T/N : Hahahahaha)

What a pitiful soul—unable to rest even after death.

He felt like he might cry. Tiny dewdrops formed at the corners of his eyes.

Divinity lay hidden inside Audin, bound only by a ban.

The Wraith, thrilled, burrowed into Audin—and met the mass of Divinity sealed within.

It didn’t even have time to scream. It vanished on the spot, sent straight to the Lord’s side.

For a Wraith, it was the most horrific end.

Divinity wasn’t the nemesis of the undead and Fiends like Wraiths for nothing.

Divine power inflicted the worst pain upon them.

Audin knew that perfectly well.

‘The Lord said to endure pain on the way to God.’

He did it knowing that.

With a truly sincere heart—for the Wraith.

The Count frowned. The five coming toward him hadn’t slowed at all.

Worse, there were people resisting his soot-wraiths in other places as well.

It was the same near Krang, and he could see a few more besides.

“Impudent bastards?”

The Count shook his staff. If he couldn’t break their minds, he could tear their bodies apart.

“Try blocking this too.”

At his command, from the floor of the chair he sat on, those who had taken the black soot as flesh rose up, following the staff.

Wraith soldiers.

He was pulling Wraiths from the reality linked to his spell world and sending them out.

Their number was ten thousand.

A black wave formed in front of Encrid and the Madman Company, blocking their path.

Even faced with that overwhelming wave, Encrid didn’t hesitate.

Who was the most skilled at breaking through something like this?

“Rem.”

The axe-wielding madman.

“…I don’t really want to, but.”

Rem saw the Wraith mass coming and understood he had to carve a way through.

So, unwilling as he was, he said what he had to say.

“Let’s form a battle formation.”

It meant lining up with a purpose—words that didn’t suit the Madman Company at all.