Something's Wrong on the Western Front (1)
"If that stubborn pile of scrap really changed its thinking, we're in deep shit. Time to raise the alert level."
"Stubborn?" Kriel echoed, the word clashing oddly with any machine. The Lion Duke nodded.
"Ever since the ancient dwarf kingdom fell, the automatons' territory kept expanding for a while. But lately, there's been no major gains—in fact, reports show local contractions. No noteworthy shifts in their strategies or tactics."
It was the same mindset as viewing living beings' intellect as inferior. The wisdom of races destined to one day be tainted by the abyss was irrelevant to the automatons. They rejected learning from other intelligences. The knowledge the ancient dwarves had bestowed upon them was vast enough to keep them at the pinnacle of civilization through slow self-development in the old days.
But Tirnanog, hardened by repeated wars against the Demon King, had surpassed mere defense. It was now encroaching on their lands. For now, the automatons held with endless troops, repelling human assaults and counterattacking. The front lines seesawed back and forth.
Still, the Lion Duke believed the day would come when the automatons were conquered. The calamity wrought by human hands would end by them as well.
But if that 'Totality' abandons its long-held stubbornness and starts accepting new information...
One of the three great calamities would grow. A horrific future.
"Whew, thanks for the heads-up. The Chief of Finance would have a heart attack hearing this."
The Western Front's Chief of Finance was also the Lion Duke's retainer. His duties were the same in the ducal house: budget allocation and fiscal execution. With the Lion Duke pouring his personal fortune into the front, the growing complexity meant the Chief of Finance's workload doubled.
"Well then, I'll be off."
"Ah, hold on a sec."
The Lion Duke rummaged through his desk drawers before tossing Kriel a small medallion-like object. It was a medal.
"Figured you wouldn't like a ceremony, so just the medal. Sell it if you're short on cash—it's got some pricey stuff in it."
A golden halo evoking rays of light spreading in all directions. Atop it, a shield emblem etched in black metal. It looked like plain steel at a glance, but it was a precious metal far costlier than gold. The black metal, reflecting a subtle sheen in the light, was meteor steel, beloved by the ancient dwarves.
"Oh? How'd you know I hate ceremonies?"
"You're the type itching to get back to the field every second. A ceremony takes at least half a day, minimum."
"As expected of the commander's sharp eye, sir."
Even as he spoke, Kriel didn't reach for the medal.
"Hm? Something wrong?"
"This isn't a medal for me, sir. I didn't come to the Western Front with some noble sense of mission. There are plenty of others with finer character and greater feats."
The Lion Duke chuckled. The young man was oddly strict with himself.
"Your feats don't dim just because you came for selfish reasons, nor does the gratitude of those whose lives you saved fade. Just take it."
Kriel was the one flung alone into the deadliest spots to dismantle the automatons' operational hubs. It was work the Lion Duke himself used to handle. Assigning it to subordinates would've required pulling ten-plus knights for a suicide squad. Considering the losses—not just as warriors, but as commanders—it was a near-waste of manpower.
Together with the Lion Duke, Kriel was a crucial pillar lightening the front's burden.
"Didn't I just say it? Fake it till you make it—lifelong pretense becomes sincerity. You've been an exemplary knight on the Western Front."
Yet when Kriel still wouldn't take it, the Lion Duke uttered the magic words.
"Refuse and walk out, and the higher-ups will love it. Gives 'em an excuse to drag you to a ceremony. Wanna come back to the army?"
Kriel's hand shot out like lightning and snatched the medal. The Lion Duke laughed heartily at the sight.
"Should've taken it sooner. Think of it as severance pay. If I didn't hand out at least this much, I'd have soldiers shoving swords in my face!"
"No way. We barely mingled."
Half the lack of mingling was Morgina's fault, half Kriel's. Seeing the 'witch' glued to him created an unspoken "better not interrupt" vibe. After Morgina left the Western army, Kriel had been charging off on external missions yelling "early discharge!" with fire in his eyes, leaving no time for anyone to approach.
"Don't believe me? Go ask your enlistment buddies. They'll be bummed you're leaving."
"Mercs don't have 'buddies,' sir."
"A few who came as mercs like you and went official in the Western army."
Kriel shrugged. On the way out, why bother with faces?
"Some'll be on patrol. Check the ops room for patrol routes before you go."
Western army patrols operated in standard three-man teams. Designed so that if one died instantly to an automaton ambush, the remaining two could manage a minimal response.
But now, only one patrolman stood on solid ground. He gripped his spear high, scanning warily.
Darkness wasn't on humanity's side.
"Gerik!"
His comrades' voices called from afar. But Gerik didn't relax. He knew they'd already been devoured by something.
At first, he'd thought it was a slime. A massive, bizarre droplet approached them. Amorphous monsters like slimes were virtually immune to normal physical attacks. But patrol selection required basic fighting spirit use, and their mission was environmental checks and security, so they charged in without hesitation.
It wasn't a slime.
Up until the fighting-spirit-infused blade sliced through the amorphous mass, it seemed ordinary. But instead of dispersing, it mutated into new forms.
The shapes of the patrolmen.
Before they could react, the ambush hit. The first comrade fell to a pincer attack, and the duplicates swarmed the corpse, melting it down. Then their forms refined further. No longer liquid-like, they perfectly mimicked complexion and expressions.
Gerik was the fastest of the remaining two, so they split roles without a word: one buys time, the other races back to base with the alert.
Soon, a scream echoed from behind. Gerik knew it wasn't his comrade's impatience or pained cry.
It was a final message: I'm dead—so you won't fall for the slime-doppelgangers' trick.
He fled with everything he had, using every patrolman's trick to erase his trail toward the Western army camp.
But the slime-doppelgangers were faster, slyer.
Blood trickled from his right knee. Running hurt. Not the pain—the leg wouldn't bend.
Gerik pondered how to deliver the news, even in death. Chugging a potion from the old Western army 'witch' bought some time, but now it was the end.
They emerged from the brush: two in dead comrades' forms, one still half-formed.
The last face will be mine, huh...
Gerik gripped his spear tight. No way to flee and warn? Then fight to the last, thin their numbers. The next patrol might handle it better.
He steeled for death.
Hoofbeats rang out. Clear even in the dim forest heart.
The slime-doppelgangers heard too—they halted.
The sound neared. Gerik turned.
A headless horse spewing black blood from its neck galloped through the air. A messenger from hell. Atop it sat a man clad head to toe in black.
But that face was intimately familiar to Gerik. Pale white hair, bloodshot crimson eyes.
Terror at the gruesome headless steed flipped to equal relief. The Western army's top knight had arrived.
Kriel charged in, sword scattering frost. Not his usual greatsword, but the ash-gray straight blade Tuon, unleashing bitter cold.
The slime-doppelgangers froze solid.
Kriel wheeled the headless horse back instantly and approached Gerik.
"Gerik. You okay?"
Gerik slumped in relief, looking up at Kriel.
"You bastard...!"
"Riding a horse? Must be a fake!"
"Hey."