Saintess
Saintess
The cultists had no names. They had abandoned their original names under the pretense of offering their current lives to the god in order to be reborn and live as Demonfolk.
However, since distinguishing individuals was essential to maintain the organization, they were forced to compromise with reality and carved numbers in place of names. In the end, it was no different from having names, but they fixated on the symbolism and averted their eyes from that uncomfortable truth.
Thus, the cultist became Number 84, and he zealously devoted himself to escaping the overwhelming terror he had felt on the battlefield.
That is, until he was taken prisoner and dragged around like cargo.
For over two weeks, what he felt was nothing but bleak, bottomless fear and despair. The hours he endured after being left alone were horrific. The fact that his faith had been shaken by the heretical tongue of that wicked infidel was secondary; it was far worse that the bastard's overwhelming martial prowess kept reminding him of the Demonfolk.
That alone was serious enough, but every one of the bastard's newly gathered companions was an elite fighter. Worse, he was advancing with even the woman famous as the Golden Mage in tow, intending to completely destroy not only his brothers and sisters but the order they called home.
And he carried a vicious magic tool he hadn't possessed when they first met. He could guarantee it: even if the heretic launched a surprise attack with that weapon alone, a third of them would die before they could properly react. It was an unprecedented crisis in the order's history.
Number 84 wanted to believe in his brothers and sisters, but he absolutely could not look away from the reality that this evil heretic was too strong, and he struggled every single day to somehow escape and warn his comrades.
Fortunately, perhaps because their numbers had grown, the watch over him was utterly negligent. But instead of fleeing rashly, he decided to wait for an opportunity to escape for certain once they were close enough to the order.
After all, they traveled on horseback while he was penniless and had only his own two feet, so it was an unavoidable choice—but Number 84 lied to himself, telling himself he had deduced the situation, made a voluntary judgment, and reached a coldly rational conclusion.
Because if he didn't claim that kind of mental victory, he felt like he would just run away again, just as he had on the battlefield.
"We're almost there now, Eldmia. Once we enter those woods, we'll reach the bastards' hideout within an hour."
"We arrived more or less as expected. Let's set up camp first, then work out the ambush plan."
The moment the dwarf woman—who never stopped flapping her damned jaws even while smuggling out sacrifices—announced their arrival, the heretic who was practically violence incarnate gave the order. That alone was enough for everyone else to begin moving in perfect unison, each to their assigned tasks.
One side was doing it because they had sins to atone for, while the other was simply competent enough to know what to do on their own. But to Number 84, who didn't know any of that, it looked like nothing but the heretic's overwhelming influence.
"What do we do with that one?"
When the giant warrior woman who wielded a war hammer so massive you'd believe it was a battering ram aimed her question at the heretic, his gaze shifted toward Number 84. That alone was enough to make Number 84 feel his life was in danger, but fortunately, the heretic showed no sign of breaking the words he had first spoken to him.
"It'd be a pain if he resisted when the real fighting starts, so let's just starve him, I guess."
Whether it was to keep his word that he would kill him last, the heretic did no harm at all to Number 84. So, reassuring himself that one final chance still remained for him, Number 84 let out a sigh of relief.
Time, which had crawled so slowly until just a few days ago, seemed to race by with brutal speed today. Even though he had only skipped a single meal, Number 84's movements—struggling desperately to untie the ropes despite the ravenous hunger crashing over him—suddenly stopped.
The rope binding his arms had gone slack.
'Demon God, I thank you!'
Clenching the loosened section in his fist to make it appear the rope was still tightly bound, Number 84 slowly looked around.
It was still early, but those who had decided to prepare a dawn ambush were already settling in to sleep. Watching them set the night watch and then turn in, Number 84's heart began pounding like mad.
The loosened rope was a good thing, but when—or if—an opportunity to flee would come was a complete unknown, so his tension spiraled endlessly as time passed.
An hour, then two. The prolonged tension should have exhausted him, but he was wound so tightly that he felt none of it. Number 84's mind was filled with nothing but the desperate urge to seize the right moment and get away from this place.
"Ugh. Too tense. My stomach's messed up."
The long, agonizing wait was rewarded.
The bald man on night watch complained of a stomachache and vacated his post with an awkward, shuffling gait. Number 84 knew instinctively that this was his only chance. He untied the ropes without hesitation and began moving cautiously.
If he were caught, it was all over. The heretic might just kill him outright, given the flight risk he posed. Number 84 knew this because he himself had dealt with countless sacrifices who tried to run.
So he calmly put distance between himself and the camp. Everyone was asleep anyway, and the sole night watchman had gone in the opposite direction and wouldn't be back for a while. Repeating that fact endlessly to himself, he entered the forest, and as soon as he was certain he'd gained some distance, he drew a deep breath.
And then he ran like a madman.
Whether it was playing around his village as a child, fleeing from debt, being chased by demonic beasts, heading to the battlefield, or running from the battlefield—the moments he'd had to sprint at full power had been many. But Number 84 could swear it. This moment right now was the single most all-out sprint of his entire life. He was running with literally every last ounce of strength he had, dredging it up from the depths. His muscles soon screamed in agony since he'd started without even a proper warm-up, but still, he did not stop.
Though the night was falling dim and dark, he ran until his vision tinged yellow and his breathing grew ragged—and then a painfully familiar sight began to fill his eyes.
"Brothers and sisters! I have returned! Number 84 has returned!"
"Good heavens, Brother?! Is it truly you, Brother?!"
They were family. Family who had seen the same things, shared the same despair, and become closer than blood relatives. That was why Number 84 could not make the choice to abandon them and flee.
"What in the world happened? Your return was delayed, so we sent a follow-up party—did you not meet them?"
Even though he had failed the mission, their tone was full of concern. Number 84 could not hide his tears as he looked upon the brothers who had rushed out to greet him so frantically.
"Sob...! Th-this is no time for that! I barely managed to escape! The heretic bastards will attack soon!"
"An attack?!"
"Good heavens. Sister Number 90! Inform the High Priest at once! Brother Number 84, stay calm. Is the reason we had no word from the pursuit team because of them? How many troops are they bringing?"
"On-only eleven, but the number isn't what matters, Brother. Just one man killed every last brother assigned to the pursuit team! His strength was absurd!"
With relief at being safe and the faces of his dead brothers surfacing together, emotions belatedly began surging up—but this was no time to be swept away by feelings. More than anything, concrete explanation was needed. He could tell even through their masks that his brothers had tensed up sharply upon hearing that a single person had killed everyone, so Number 84 quickly added more details.
"He is skilled in night raids and ambushes. Now he even carries a powerful projectile magic tool, so the brothers who came as the follow-up team died without being able to react properly! And... a magic sword! He possesses a magic sword that can cut down a man in armor on horseback in a single stroke. If we do not immediately bring the brothers in the 20s and launch a counterattack, we will suffer catastrophic damage!"
"Oh, God... this is truly dire!"
Having gathered together after fleeing from Demonfolk who possessed overwhelmingly superior strength—and thus feeling both fear and awe—they practically curled in on themselves reflexively at the mention of a powerful enemy. Everyone had experienced fighting the Demonfolk, so it wasn't difficult for them to roughly gauge the level of strength from Number 84's description.
To be precise, they knew because they had all fled after indirect encounters. Obviously, anyone who had fought directly was dead.
"The follow-up team was assembled with even a Brother in the 30s included, in case of unforeseen circumstances—and you're saying he's at least on the level of a Demon King's Army ten-man captain!"
The Demon King's Army worshipped strength. They too had only heard rumors, but it was said the reason those individuals were captains of each unit was because they were the strongest and smartest among them. Some even said they were called captains because all their subordinates combined could not defeat them.
The ones in the 30s were capable fighters who could even face the Demon King's Army ten-man captains who carried such rumors. Assuming there was some truth to the rumors about the Demonfolk, they were by no means weak.
"Take Brother Number 84 to the High Priest! We must relay this at once!"
And so, seized by a sense of crisis, they hurriedly entered the order.
Without realizing that people were quietly watching their retreat as they disappeared into the structure, so decrepit and crumbling that it looked less like the headquarters of an order than a ruin or abandoned dungeon.
"Look at these idiots, running around like headless chickens."
No one heard the muttered words of Eldmia, who had quietly followed Number 84, a shit-eating look on his face.