Fighting to the Death is Easy, But Lending a Path is Hard (3)
"Uh... um."
The commander, recipient of praise far removed from reality, mulled it over. Should I answer honestly? Excuse me, but you look way too much like abyss spawn, so I ordered fire on sight. But we bagged the wyvern, so no harm done... It didn't seem like the best welcome.
As an imperial noble, the commander had learned the art of sly rhetoric for just such delicate moments. The trouble was, he'd nearly forgotten it after years away from the Empire's heart.
Stay truthful, at least... "The soldiers who carried it out must be the real heroes, more than the one who planned it, right? It was my call on the shooting, but surpassing my expectations was all thanks to their skill."
Nice, the commander thought, admiring his own unrusty eloquence. It was his planned shot. And the unexpected results were due to the troops' prowess. A masterful imperial sidestep that neatly concealed the original target.
The soldiers standing at attention behind the commander watched their superior with subtle expressions. But since he was the planner and they the executors, they ultimately sealed their lips in solidarity.
"Indeed. The border guard's elite reputation holds true."
Fortunately, the Dark Knight opted to glide past the unspoken mystery with formal pleasantries rather than dig in. The commander nearly sighed in relief. Good thing he wasn't some imperial political knight. True to a Holy Kingdom paladin, he seemed to prefer practical, straightforward talk over tangled politics.
A scheming political knight would've already demanded accountability for friendly fire, nitpicked every detail, and probably skinned the guard alive over some nonsense like "subpar rest discipline."
After some light chatter, the commander broached what he was truly curious about.
"...Might I ask which order you're from?"
Good lord. What lunatic order designs armor like that? Lucky this was a border zone next to an ally, with the Holy Kingdom nearby—the farthest from the abyss. If that getup showed up on the front lines, it'd be summary execution before questions.
Wait. Isn't that pretty much what we did?
"Ah, my order." Kriel trailed off. Explaining this was tricky. He ran a quick mental tally of the situation.
Was it dishonorable for a knight? No. He'd risen heroically to save a city under abyssal assault. Turning a blind eye would've dinged his Honor.
Did it tarnish the Eve Kaha Church? Sometimes personal honor clashed with group interests. Say a corrupt official plagued an imperial village: an upright knight would expose the rot—beat him down or report up—then ride off. But as Eve Kaha's Champion, it'd breed grudges from connected nobles.
That's when Kriel went anonymous. "Mystery knight exposes local tyrant's atrocities!" Stories that buzzed locally then faded. He was pretty good at spinning those.
...Got sidetracked. Hanging with his chatty sword-buddies must be rubbing off, making his thoughts wander like theirs.
Kriel finished his assessment. Slaughtering an abyss-corrupted wyvern hurt no legitimate group. The abyss powers would grind their teeth, but they hated do-gooders anyway.
He should've checked if revealing his status burdened the western army first. But Kriel had zero interest in army politics right now. Whatever. I'm a civilian anyway. Technically a true civilian, but he could overlook such trifles.
Thus, his introduction boiled down to: "Kriel, Champion of Eve Kaha. I haven't sworn fealty to the Goddess of the Raven's Wings, but I bear her blessing."
A loose translation: Not a devotee, but damn good with a blade, and church connections got me the nod.
The border commander nodded. Leaping walls and downing the alpha wyvern midair? Any order would snap up that talent as a Champion. A few soldiers behind him stirred at the name—famous knight? The commander's lips curved up.
"First, the situation. I had business in the Empire, but arriving at the gateway city, I found it wyvern-sieged."
"Well, you see..."
Kriel followed the commander to another room. No imperial flash, but it hummed with the crisp, orderly charm of a disciplined barracks.
Ugh. Smells like vet energy... Having bolted from the western army, Kriel felt a twinge of aversion, but he kept it off his face. That wasn't knightly.
"It started when our court mage got urgent family news and had to step out."
"Court mage, huh." Kriel knew the type. Head of the city's magical defenses. In army terms, chief magical strategist. The western army's treated him like a performance button: "Fight here." "Pardon?" "Fight, please." After repeats, anyone pegs them as "human grenade launcher."
"Where's the backup?"
Court mage wasn't for rookies. Needed magic chops, tactical smarts, quick wits. Vital city cog. But humans got emergencies, so backups handled mana feeds or tactics—partial covers.
The commander shook his head. "Border in name only—who blocks Holy clerics? No sane abyssal minion hits a Holy Kingdom junction. No human or abyssal threats, so no spare."
He added sotto voce: "Plus, this city's broke. Clerics don't trade much anyway."
"Damn... Still, border or not, you skipped doctrine?"
The commander smiled wryly. "No disputes here for centuries. That complacency let the wyverns seal us in."
"This'll take a bit," the commander said, leading Kriel to the guard's reception hall.
Once they were gone, the soldiers buzzed.
"Kriel? That Kriel?"
"What, famous knight?"
Made sense—too elite for obscurity. An imperial knight with that skill would've scored title, lands, and a cushy manor life.
"Heard from a western army buddy. Lone wolf knight who bows to no one but the Lion Duke."
The soldier spilled the intel. The Lion Duke's hidden blade. Sharpest sword, unknown outside. Second-to-none under the commander.
Why would that guy show as a church Champion? Bizarre. Meant the western army dispatched their ace for something big... and the church commissioned him as Champion.
"Abyss hunt?"
That urgent? Had to be abyssal stirrings. Western dwarf automatons were stable for years—one of three great calamities. Champion status screamed church backing, so likely abyss-linked target.
As soldiers speculated on the secret weapon's eastward jaunt, one slipped out quietly. He headed to a shadowed wall base, tiny hole too small for even a child.
He tossed in a black pebble. Soon, a snake emerged, head raised, mouth agape. He scribbled on a scrap, rolled it, fed it down the snake's throat. It swallowed and vanished into the dark.