Comrade (7): Damn, I Believed in You...

Orishin's cheerful attempt to welcome Kriel trailed off into a blur.

'Huh? Another horse besides me?'

'That one's got legs?'

'C-c-c-calm down. It has no head! Can't spout weird nonsense like me!'

'...Is that a good thing?'

Armed stared at Kriel. Raindrops beaded off the ends of his hair like dew.

"Hey. How'd you get here?"

Riding a headless horse that looked ominous at a glance—actually, even ignoring the horse, his whole vibe screamed bad news, but Armed shoved that thought aside for her fiancé's sake—Kriel's arrival was blatantly off. Perfect timing-wise, utterly abnormal reality-wise. The Wraith King of the Wild Hunt wouldn't have just let him waltz out unscathed. Had Kriel somehow sniffed out the trouble at the lord's castle and cut a deal with the Wraith King to back her up? A soul-on-the-line pact: help me this once, and I'll join ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠your Wild Hunt horde?

As Armed recalled the old legend of her selling her soul to the Wild Hunt for revenge, Kriel finally pried his mouth open.

"…They told me to put on armor."

"If I didn't have any to bring, they'd gift me one, but since I had it and still showed up without wearing it, they said screw off and go home."

"……"

No, why doesn't this make any sense? Just as Armed reeled from the utterly unforeseen response,

"Kri-el—"

Countess Helbrinke Ket's mouth opened.

But the voice that emerged wasn't shaped by Helbrinke's will. The Automaton Totality spoke through her lips.

That stern timbre. Even Arunback froze for a beat.

The king of automatons glared at the Dark Knight, borrowing human flesh.

"How—"

I see. Arunback nodded slowly.

Word was that knight had clashed with automatons repeatedly on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Western Front. Skilled enough to tangle with the Wraith King? No surprise if the Totality had him flagged.

'No reaction at the banquet hall, but clocking him now thanks to his fighting spirit. Easier for the Totality to ID folks by spirit or mana than faces.'

Arunback figured the Totality would pitch some deal to Kriel. Something like: retreat with Armed, or we'll flood Ket County with our swarms.

A Western Front vet who'd faced their waves firsthand? Prime leverage for haggling.

But the Totality's follow-up shattered Arunback's script.

"You rode a horse?"

'Horse? What the hell?'

Kriel seethed. Already grating on him. First legit mount since crashing into Tirnanog, and it's this? Black knight on a headless nag. Getting to the point—well, only Kriel called it 'getting there'—where even the abyss might go, 'Eh, just be buds?' No head would've been fine, but nope: black blood dribbling from its severed neck, pitch-black shadow hooves pounding thin air as it galloped.

Mulling this nightmare getup, Kriel slapped down the self-rationalization: 'Borrowed ride doesn't count as my official horse!' And quit brooding.

But this prick, right now?

"You know me."

"We know you, and you know us."

Pieces clicked in Kriel's skull. Automatons scaling the spire. That infuriating syntax.

"…Scrap metal that belongs on the Western Front. How're you hijacking a human body?"

"Oh, that's this Arunback's masterful fusion, Sir Kriel."

Arunback hammed it up, oozing presence.

Kriel whipped his head toward him.

"Wasn't your name Dein?"

"Aha. Borrowing their shells at the time. Now, Sir Kriel. Grab your fiancée and hightail it back to the duel pit."

Kriel eyed Armed. The hell's this loser's deal? Armed summed it up short: mad dog gunning for the territory and her dad.

"You know the automatons' ace is sheer numbers. My tendrils infest every corner of Ket County. Crave watching Evil Dragon poison raze it to ash? Overlook today's mess, and peace reigns between us."

Then Orishin dropped gritty trash talk. Profanities tumbling like jade beads on silver.

Arunback shot back shamelessly.

"So, what's your pick? County troops are stretched thin just eyeing the Wild Hunt statues dotting the city. Got some master plan to nab us all amid the chaos?"

Arunback brimmed with certainty. Dead certain the statue-still Wild Hunt horde wouldn't touch him.

Kriel tsked.

"Clever play. Wild Hunt ignores soulless husks like automatons."

Wild Hunt's flavor shifted by its summoning core, but one constant: craving living souls to enlist. Wraith King was 'the talking type,' as Kriel put it, but that didn't change the horde's endgame.

'Wraith King rallied heroes to smash the abyss...'

He forged an undying legion for eternal war. Spawned from his grudge.

Automatons? No souls to draft. Same for liches, spirits—any non-mortal soul flavor stayed off the levy list.

Kriel didn't waver. He dismounted the shadow steed. The horse melted straight into shadowy blood-puddle, pooling up into rein-form gripped in his fist.

He handed the shadow reins to Armed.

"Huh?"

"Ride out, rally the Abyss Prevention Society mages. Numbers beat numbers."

"Foolish pick. Smash this battalion? I'll respawn. You'll wail amid the county's ruins, ears shut to all voices, dreading my return."

Arunback laced the machine drone with sneer. A benediction on the county's doom.

Kriel stayed silent. Commoners bunkered safe in the castle—no lives at stake. Polluted soil? Dark Knight mojo or Tuon's power could suck up the taint. Side effects? Cross that bridge later.

Kriel locked in.

Arunback jeered at that blazing resolve.

"Everything unfolding now? On your heads."

Arunback caught endless chill in that voice. Zero clue why they'd flipped.

The Wild Hunt stirred.

Territory troops gawked, bewildered, as the specters slowly hoisted weapons and advanced.

But terror dwarfed the shock.

What had the Wild Hunt's horde chorused? 'Duel unfinished,' so the county stood inviolate.

Then this remarch synced with the duel wrapping. Storm hanging post-fight, ghosts stalking the land? Meant...

Thud.

A soldier dropped his spear, collapsing to his knees. Despair and resignation hit harder than rain-soaked, sagging armor.

That knight had saved the territory once—the loss stung deeper for it. Soldiers clutching weapons still couldn't yell at the slumped one to rise.

They'd all sensed the end barreling in.

Specters gripped their arms, stepping forth.

Just as scripted doom crashed down on the troops.

The Wild Hunt... breezed right past the soldiers, marching into deeper gloom.

Survival's relief and glee outpaced pursuit urge—questions hit first.

Where the hell were they headed?

Visions flooded Arunback's circuits: his minions trampled under ghost boots.

Specters sniffed out those freakishly twisted souls—no future comrades—with ease.

Metal golems shredded by flayed troops.

Automatons' numerical edge flipped. This wasn't the Western Front—it was the north, Wild Hunt turf.

"Why…?"

Defying all logic, Arunback blurted.

The dullahan hefted its blunt blade—an executioner's headsman sword—toward Dein's husk.

Dullahan, sword aloft, pronounced judgment.

Arunback felt that blade lancing past Dein's scrap heap, straight for his core.