Kent's Grisly Bloom

The glass vial shattered the instant it touched the jet-black flames wreathing Kent’s body, melting like ice dropped into lava.

Kent, unaware of my intent, scanned himself with wary eyes. When nothing seemed to happen, he bared his teeth in a mocking snarl.

“What the hell did you do? Throw sand again, like you did when you dueled Leona? Honorless cur.”

It was almost funny, hearing the word honor from a man who had joined hands with dark mages and resorted to demonization. Still, I kept silent. The effect would show itself soon enough.

My prediction proved correct. The moment Kent took a single step toward me, the ashen spores clinging to his face began greedily drinking in the roiling dark mana.

“……Huh? Wh-what?!”

Panicked, Kent tried to flare his power and shake the spores off. A fatal mistake.

Instead of burning away in the flames, the spores devoured the dark mana with ravenous speed and exploded into exponential growth.

In less than a second, the gray dust had swelled into hideous mushrooms that sprouted across Kent’s entire body.

Even the dark mage who had given him those spores probably never imagined he would fall so easily. This was a method only I could use, armed with knowledge from the original story.

In this world, the reason black magic was universally condemned—and merely learning it was enough to warrant a subjugation force—had nothing to do with ethics or religion.

It was simply because black magic itself was like this.

Powerful, yes, but the constraints and preparation required are enormous, and the risks are insane. Unstable. Impossible to control.

Among the dark mages in the original work, the only one without these flaws was the woman the author had blatantly favored.

Yet to patch the resulting plot holes, the author had made her too much of a genius. Eventually she became impossible to handle, so he killed her off in a cheap, unsatisfying way.

I wondered how she was doing these days. Once I finished dealing with the territory’s problems, she would be the next target. After all, canon portrayed her as an irredeemable psychopath and villain.

“Ugh—grrk—aaaAAAAAHH—WERNEEEEER!”

While I was lost in thought, Kent had already transformed into something that was half mushroom, half living flame.

“Ugh. That is ugly.”

It looked bad enough to bring up the pancakes Anna had made before the send-off ceremony. A genuinely gory sight that reminded me this was, in fact, a dark fantasy world. Yet it was precisely because this was such a world that I could obtain something like this relatively easily.

“KAAAAAARGH! What the—what is this?!”

In his panic, Kent tore at the mushrooms sprouting from his face. But his hands were drenched in dark mana, so fresh mushrooms immediately bloomed across his fingers as well.

While he flailed, I backed away to a safe distance and simply watched. The fight was already decided; the tension had drained from my shoulders, and random thoughts drifted through my mind.

With this… maybe we could solve the food shortage.

Lock up ten men like Kent in the underground prison, spray the place with dark magic, then harvest the mushrooms.

…No, they’d have no nutritional value and probably taste terrible. Plus they’re poisonous.

Besides, in the original story these mushrooms were set to devour polluted mana and corrupt the land itself, eventually becoming a kingdom-level disaster. Best to abandon any thoughts of practical use.

I quietly shelved the fleeting delusion while watching Kent roll across the ground, desperately ripping ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at the growths sprouting from his own flesh.

In the meantime, the utterly panicked Kent released an even greater surge of dark mana. If his previous action had been a fatal error, this one was outright suicide.

The more power he poured out, the deeper the mushrooms burrowed into bone and muscle, growing larger and more grotesque.

The harder he struggled, the more mushrooms bloomed across his body. Just watching it made my skin crawl.

“Krrgh! Werner, you bastard…! What kind of black magic did you—aaagh!”

“You’re the one using black magic,” I replied flatly, widening the distance again. There was no need to engage him directly. Time to farm some stats.

True to his position as knight commander, Kent’s internal mana reserves were considerable. He held on for quite a while.

But eventually the mushrooms, having gorged themselves on every drop of his dark mana, tore open his left ribcage with a wet crunch and fully exposed the mana core that served as his lifeline.

Now.

I kicked off the ground and plunged into his reach.

My sword pierced the exposed core in a single thrust and shattered it completely.

“……Ah.”

Kent’s grotesquely swollen body deflated like a punctured balloon the instant the core broke.

The trump card he had kept hidden—even at the cost of conspiring with dark mages—had been neutralized by a handful of worthless mold dust.

If he had fought me with pure swordsmanship instead of demonizing, the current Kent might have won.

Of course, in that case I would have simply let Leona deal with him, so the result would have been the same ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠either way.

Thud.

The massive fiend’s torso shrank back into a human shell and began to crumble.

For the commander of a named house who had never even appeared in the original story, it was an absurdly pathetic end.

Then again, it also proved just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how thoroughly Anna and I had prepared.

The explosive rush of leveling up slammed through my entire body. I could feel the pathetic strength of a worthless degenerate who had wasted his life on drink and women finally rising to the level of a proper knight.

“Thanks for the meal.”

Before Kent could dissolve completely into powder, I severed his head. The horn of demonization still jutted from his skull as it tumbled to the ground.

The grotesque, mushroom-riddled head dripping with black flame and gore was too repulsive to touch with my hands.

I kicked it forward like a soccer ball and ran toward Leona’s position.

“Hold formation! Do not waver!”

Senior knight Valter’s desperate shout split the forest’s silence. Yet Casel could not find the strength to grip his sword properly.

The excitement he had felt at the morning send-off ceremony had curdled into mind-shattering anxiety.

The horrifying surge of mana that had erupted from deep in the forest moments ago.

The earth-shaking roar.

Every instinct screamed that such power could never belong to a human.

That arrogant bastard must have used some vile trick. It doesn’t matter. There’s no way the commander would lose to that worthless degenerate. He’ll return soon carrying the wretch’s head.

“Do not run! Do not break ranks!”

At Valter’s command, Casel swallowed dryly and forced a nod. He clung to the thought he had just entertained.

It had to be that way. The knight commander Kent—whom they had revered like the sky itself their entire lives—could not possibly lose to “Krause’s filth,” the drunkard who spent every day rotting in back alleys. It was impossible.

Rustle. Crunch.

Then.

The sound of footsteps emerged from the depths of the forest.

Slow, indifferent, perfectly measured. The gait of an arrogant… noble.

“The commander returns! Clear a path!”

Valter’s face brightened with relief, thinking he was not the only one who believed it, and he moved to loosen the rigid formation—

Whiiiish—

Splat!

Something heavy flew out of the trees in a high arc and slammed into the mud directly in front of Casel’s boots.

When the rolling object finally stopped, Casel could not even draw breath.

A grotesquely sprouted beast horn. Eyes rolled back to show only white. The unmistakable marks of unbearable terror and agony etched into features that had not yet realized they were dead.

Though horribly deformed, Casel recognized that face instantly.

It was the severed head of their lord, Kent Garcia—the man who had been commanding them with confident laughter only minutes earlier.

“Horns… on his head?”

One soldier blurted the words before he could stop himself.

At the same time, lightning realization struck both Casel and the knights.

Those cursed horns sprouting from their lord’s skull.

They were irrefutable proof that “Young Master Werner’s accusation of collusion with a dark mage” had been the absolute truth.

The betrayal that their lord—the man they had devoted their lives to—had been a fiend selling the territory’s own people, ripped away every last ounce of their will to fight.

“The c-commander… used black magic…”

The knights beside him gasped like wounded animals. Casel’s jaw fell slack of its own accord as the world before him bleached white.

And from the deep woods where Kent’s head had flown out—

he emerged.

“All of you, drop your swords. Then raise your heads and look at me.”

The lazy, low voice was completely out of place amid the urgent battle. Yet that single sentence pressed down on the entire forest like a noble’s seal.

The silhouette of Werner standing with the forest at his back was nothing like the pathetic degenerate the knights had always looked down on.

Black monster blood dripped from the sword resting carelessly across his shoulder. His relaxed stride radiated overwhelming presence.

Werner’s indifferent gaze fell on Kent’s severed head lying at Casel’s feet.

“This is the face of a man who sold his own people while bearing my family’s name. Don’t you think it’s a fitting end for such a person?”

His slow gaze swept across the knights whose knees had gone weak.

“This is the face ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the man you served your entire lives. What do you think?”

“……”

The knights of Kent’s faction had always badmouthed Werner behind the federation leader’s walls, but now, standing before him in person, none of them possessed the courage to speak a single word.

Werner’s chilling voice fell upon them, syllable by precise syllable.

“…However.”

For the first time, a trace of gentleness softened his tone.

“Do not bow your heads. Look at me.”

It was neither a command nor spoken in anger. Just a casual remark, the same tone he might use to ask a maid to bring tea. Yet that very indifference froze Casel’s spine.

The knights slowly lifted their heads in fear, then faltered. A faint smile lingered on Werner’s face—the face that should have been twisted with rage, ready to slaughter them all.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t know how you spoke my name behind the federation leader’s walls? In the corners of taverns? Inside the maids’ quarters?”

The knights’ shoulders stiffened in unison.

“Family disgrace. The count’s filth. Breathing garbage. Those were the lighter insults that reached my ears. I know every single one of the filthier expressions you rolled around inside your wine cups.”

Casel’s face—especially venomous toward Werner because he envied the young master’s handsome features—turned deathly pale.

Simply for insulting a noble heir, Casel could be summarily executed on the spot without complaint.

“However, here and now, I choose to forget all of it.”

Casel’s eyes snapped upward.

“Pardon?”

“You are not guilty.”

Werner pointed with the tip of his sword at Kent’s head rolling in the dirt.

“The only one guilty is this man. It is not the way of nobility to punish those who obeyed orders for failing to serve the right master.”

Shock bloomed in the knights’ eyes all at once.

They had never imagined they would hear words like these in their lifetimes.

“Answer only one thing.”

Werner spoke again.

“If any among you raised a blade against the people of this territory, place your hand on your heart and confess according to your conscience. I will grant you a chance for leniency in court once we return to the castle. Anyone who hides their crime will be executed the moment we arrive.”

His gaze swept across their faces once more.

“As for the rest… I will simply consider you men who followed orders. Your sins were bound to Kent’s neck alone. And that neck, I have already severed.”

“……”

“This is your final chance. In the coming defensive battle, wash your sins away with the blood of monsters on the front line. Those who accept my words—drop your swords here and now.”

Casel, who had been drowning in the despair of certain death, had no intention of missing the lifeline thrown before him. It did not matter that the one offering salvation was the very Werner he had always scorned.

Casel wanted to live.

He dropped his sword onto the muddy ground at his feet and knelt before Werner.

Following the man who had shown this servile fear—or was it courage?—before anyone else, the other knights let their weapons fall as well.

Even Valter, who held out until the end, shrank beneath Leona’s murderous glare as she approached and released his sword.

Then every one of them knelt before Werner and shouted.

“We thank you for your mercy, Young Master!”

“We will repay this grace with our lives!”

The forest rang with the knights’ frantic declarations of loyalty, each trying to outdo the others in proving their devotion.

Inside Casel’s heart as he desperately screamed his gratitude toward Werner, an inexplicable loyalty began to sprout.

It was loyalty that Casel had half-deliberately manufactured, solely to forget the ugly sight of himself groveling before Werner in order to survive.

Because if he truly pledged loyalty to Werner, then he would not have to feel ashamed of this moment—when he had cast aside all the chivalry and honor he had always preached and was now begging for his life.

No, rather, this would become an act befitting chivalry.

A knight who had committed a grave wrong. A lord who forgave him with noble mercy. A knight shedding tears of gratitude. It was, in fact, a most honorable scene.

Casel’s unconscious mind, which wanted neither the terror of death nor the self-loathing of recognizing himself as a coward without honor, began whispering sweet words to him. Casel soon repeated those words to himself.

“I will devote my life to you, Young Master!”

The cry of overwhelming emotion burst from Casel’s lips.

The crowns of knights prostrated in the mud, weeping as they swore their loyalty to me, filled my vision.

I looked down at the emotional scene in silence.

On the surface I wore the mask of a merciful acting lord.

Inside my head, however, a cold calculator turned with ruthless precision, completely at odds with their tearful oaths.

Loyalty? Grace?

The faint smile hidden at the corner of my mouth deepened.

I don’t need any of that shit. Just shut up and pick up your swords again.

The knights at Gareth’s level who had completely thrown in with Kent and could no longer be reused would be executed the moment we returned to the castle.

As for the rest, I would pretend to treat them favorably for now, then send them to the front lines when the monsters attacked so they could die on their own.

In the first place, the loyalty of cowards who had submitted to power was a laughable concept.

I only trusted loyalty born from favorability, like Anna’s and Leona’s. But these knights were too valuable a resource to dispose of here. Since Kent had raised them with care, I would use them with care and then throw them away.

In the coming war, the role of meat shields on the front line will fall to you knights of Kent’s faction. Actually, we don’t even need to wait for the war. We’re heading into the forest today to catch the dark mage. You will be the first ones sent in to trigger all the magical traps he laid, and you will be ground to pieces together nicely.

The trash who sold their own people into slavery would now throw their lives away as meat shields on the front line defending the territory.

This was the most perfect and efficient method of garbage disposal.

Outwardly I would play the merciful lord who forgave the knights’ sins with magnanimity, thereby raising the soldiers’ favorability and the usable knights’ favorability.

But on the inside?

I would dispose of the non-recyclable trash in the most efficient way possible.

Pathetically, none of the knights groveling at my feet right now had the slightest inkling of my cold calculations.