The Blockade of Varkuntol
Varkuntol, the mountain city.
"Unto the Holy Knight Elbridge, I grant the power of the Blockade."
With those words as her final message, the goddess's form scattered into a burst of light.
Two enormous pillars then materialized in the empty air and plummeted downward.
BOOM—
The pillars did not topple. They drove deep into the earth and stood firm.
They were the sort of circular columns one might see in a temple, yet far larger than any ordinary shrine's pillars. Embracing even one would likely require two grown men.
That was only the beginning. More giant pillars continued to manifest in the void and crash down one after another.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
They did not fall at random. The pillars embedded in the ground formed the perfect outline of a massive rectangle.
The structure resembled a colossal temple, with only a single entrance at the front allowing passage in or out.
And at that lone exit stood the holy knight who had received the divine authority. The meaning of the Blockade was unmistakable.
If anyone wished to escape this enclosure, they would first have to break through Elbridge.
Elbridge raised his left arm, shield firmly in hand, and spoke.
In the past, the Rusty Shield Order had never lacked candidates eager to become its holy knights. The reason was simple: the mortality rate among those knights was exceptionally high.
It was a contradictory truth, yet a truth nonetheless.
Back then, the Goddess of the Rusty Shield had to divide roughly twenty seats' worth of divine power among five paladins at minimum, ten at most.
By contrast, orders with a similar number of seats typically fielded around a hundred holy knights.
Similar political weight, yet drastically fewer paladins.
This meant one thing: survive in the Rusty Shield Order, and you would be guaranteed overwhelming power.
Not twice or three times the norm. Ten times at the very least, sometimes as much as twenty times more than what other orders could offer. To knights who constantly brushed against the limits of their strength, it was an irresistible temptation.
That same characteristic of the Rusty Shield Order now created a small but critical gap in Elbridge's experience.
He had never before deployed his power in an era when the order's influence had shrunk so severely.
Immediately after activating the Blockade, Elbridge's first impression was one of quiet disappointment.
...It's tighter than I expected.
Sixty-three. Sixty-two. Sixty-one...
The one who invoked the Blockade instinctively knew how long it would last.
Once the allotted divine power ran dry, the Blockade would vanish.
And the amount granted to Elbridge was far from generous.
In the old days, even while maintaining several other powers at once, he would have had hundreds—if not thousands—of units of time to spare.
Fifty-seven. Fifty-six. Fifty-five...
Now that he thought about it, the Goddess of the Rusty Shield had indeed warned him. She could bestow the power, but its duration would depend entirely on him.
For a minor order without even a single seat in the assembly, such scarcity was only natural.
Fifty-two. Fifty-one. Fifty...
Elbridge glanced at Rombel.
Rombel was an outstanding warrior, but even he could not cross to the far side and sever the neck of a distortion-type demonic beast in the short time remaining.
Yet as the Goddess of the Rusty Shield had said, Elbridge possessed a way to buy that time.
He lifted the shield on his left arm once more.
A demonic beast answered his call at once.
At first glance it resembled a deer. Yet it was far too large, too majestic, and its antlers were far too sharp to be any ordinary stag.
Forty-seven. Forty-six...
The beast kicked off the ground and charged straight at Elbridge.
Metallic sheen. Reinforcement-type. The luster is uneven. A weak specimen that hasn't fully matured past the initial stage.
It lowered its head. The intent was clear: to impale him on those razor-sharp antlers.
Most men would have met the charge with a squarely planted shield, but Elbridge tilted his at an angle, almost as if he meant to use its edge.
Holy power surged through his reinforced waist and legs.
Forty-five. Forty-four...
Impact.
In the past he might have been thrown back, unable to withstand the raw strength of a reinforcement-type beast.
But Elbridge's body had now recovered to roughly half its former capacity. He could endure the brute force of an early-stage specimen. The gauntlets enchanted with strength-amplifying magic ensured he would not lose his grip on the shield.
The angled shield caught between the beast's antlers.
Horn and shield met, then scraped against each other with a terrible grinding sound.
Grrrrrrrrrind—
Now!
The muscles in Elbridge's left arm, chest, and shoulders swelled to their limit.
Forty-three.
With a powerful upward swing of his shield, the beast's head snapped back. Its throat lay completely exposed before Elbridge's eyes.
His right arm flashed. The sword sang.
True to its reinforcement-type nature, the resistance was solid, yet not enough to stop his blade.
Slice. Hot blood sprayed across the ground.
Forty-two. Forty-one.
Thud.
The beast collapsed.
Without the slightest hesitation, Elbridge drove his sword cleanly through its heart.
"I offer this heart to my Goddess."
The demonic beast's corpse crumbled into sand and vanished.
Seventy-four. Seventy-three. Seventy-two...
The time now granted to Elbridge had lengthened compared to before he had slain the first beast.
Good.
His remaining task was to repeat the process until the battle's end.
As though nothing of note had occurred, Elbridge took one calm step back and waited for the next opponent.
The dwarves of the mountain city found new hope amid their despair.
They had never witnessed such overwhelming divine power, nor seen a warrior dispatch demonic beasts with the casual ease of twisting a child's wrist—slitting throats and piercing hearts in a single fluid motion.
A thunderous cheer erupted from the dwarves.
"Ooooh—!"
Then the eyes of those nearest Marcus turned toward him.
Those gazes spoke plainly.
Hey, you came with that holy knight, didn't you? You can do at least that much too, right?
It was not mere imagination.
Never in his life had Marcus faced so many expectant stares at once. No one placed such hopes on a ragged mercenary.
At this point, it was not fear of the demonic beasts that rooted him in place, but the crushing weight of the dwarves' expectations.
As Marcus hesitated, a solemn oracle descended from the high heavens and rang in his ears.
"Hey, dumbass. Get a grip..."
This was the second time the God of the Fox Rain had delivered an oracle to Marcus.
Startled back to his senses, Marcus listened as the deity began to scold him.
"If you keep dawdling here and Elbridge notices, what do you think he'll do? He'll tell you to piss off immediately. Fight bravely, right now. If your skills are lacking, at least put in some effort..."
Marcus fumbled for a reply, flustered.
"But, God of the Fox Rain, on the way here to the Red Mountains I didn't manage to defeat a single demonic beast."
"What a pathetic excuse..."
"Pardon?"
"You got lazy because your reliable comrades were watching your back the whole time. But right now neither Elbridge nor Rombel can help you, so you might actually stand a chance. Your victory is already guaranteed, so stop worrying."
"Is that true?"
"Yes. I can see the future that awaits you."
A disloyal doubt bloomed in Marcus's heart. The oracle sounded exactly like the bluster of a street swindler.
Con artists always insisted, "This time it's really certain."
As if sensing his disbelief, the God of the Fox Rain added one more line.
"Besides, unlike the beasts you've faced until now, the one you're chasing right now looks like absolute trash at first glance..."
That, at least, Marcus could agree with. Among the demonic beasts that had burst through the collapsing iron gate, he had deliberately chosen the weakest-looking one.
The creature resembled nothing more than a black clump of dust. It possessed neither sharp claws nor fangs.
"I'll take full responsibility for what happens afterward, so fight bravely. Now go!"
Marcus drew his sword as though shoved forward by an invisible hand.
Yet the oracle had eased his mind considerably.
Full responsibility, huh? Does that mean he'll grant me some powerful ability if things get dangerous?
He examined the beast exactly as Elbridge and Rombel had taught him.
One tiny eye. A pitch-black, round, fluffy body. At most it would reach a man's waist.
Marcus recalled every demonic beast he had encountered on the journey to the Red Mountains, along with every lesson from Elbridge and Rombel.
Definitely not reinforcement-type. Doesn't seem like elemental or distortion-type either. Negation? Plague? Or maybe that so-called special-type? No... it could simply be a weakling that doesn't fit any category. Not every demonic beast is powerful, after all.
He kept his stance slightly crouched so he could retreat at any moment, then swung his sword.
The dust-clump beast tried to dodge, but its movements were too slow. Marcus's blade sliced cleanly through it.
Schlick.
It felt tougher than any normal animal, as expected of a demonic beast.
It just... got cut?
A lion would not find it strange to kill with its paws, but a rabbit would feel profound unease if it killed by biting with its teeth.
Marcus clearly belonged to the latter category. He sprang sideways as if bouncing off a spring.
Splat—
Fluid jetted from the wound.
The liquid grazed Marcus's shoulder and the side of his head before striking the ground. Immediately, the earth bubbled and acrid smoke rose.
"..."
Imagining what would have happened had the fluid struck him sent a chill down his spine.
Had Elbridge or Rombel been there to protect him, Marcus would not have been nearly as focused, and he likely would have failed to dodge.
He continued his analysis.
It can't fire that fluid indefinitely. It's still dripping slowly now, so it probably only has one or two shots left at most...
Carefully avoiding the fluid, Marcus swung his sword again.
As expected, the beast fired twice more, but the volume was far less than the first spray.
After the fourth attempt it could no longer shoot at all. Heartened, Marcus pressed the attack, opening more wounds with every strike.
This is the end!
Just as he prepared a final, powerful swing, the beast's single eye flashed.
A last desperate struggle?
Final struggles were always the most dangerous. Marcus twisted his body sharply.
But he was not as fast as Elbridge or Rombel.
Sharp thorns erupted from the beast's black torso and pierced Marcus's flank.
"Gahk!"
Impaled through the side, he could not move. If another attack came, he would die on the spot.
Yet he felt no fear of death. Instead, rage and resentment surged through him.
I almost had it. To die like this?
Marcus looked up at the sky. He remembered the God of the Fox Rain's bold claim that he would take responsibility for the aftermath.
But there was no divine figure, no burst of light.
A bitter realization struck him: those who constantly say "I'll take full responsibility, just trust me" are almost always swindlers.
"..."
At that moment, unexpected reinforcements arrived.
One of the dwarves who had been watching the fight charged in with a pickaxe and brought it down on the beast with all his strength.
Crunch—
Dwarves were born far stronger than humans. The pickaxe, swung with full power, punched straight through the already-weakened creature.
Only then did the thorn retract and slide out of Marcus's side.
He faintly felt holy power being absorbed from the beast's corpse.
When Marcus staggered, the dwarf who had swung the pickaxe cried out in alarm.
"Hey, mister! That wound looks bad!"
"I let my guard down and got poked. It's nothing."
His answer was calmer than usual.
With so many dwarves watching, he could not afford to whine.
The silver lining was that, perhaps due to the adrenaline, the pain barely registered.
Marcus raised his voice so everyone could hear.
"Remember that the brand has already been engraved on you! Running away will only get you killed! And—"
He drew another deep breath and shouted with everything he had.
"The demonic beasts that made it into the city aren't strong! If you attack without fear, you can defeat them! Anyone who can fight, lend whatever strength you have!"
When Elbridge won through overwhelming might, people simply admired and revered him.
But when someone of middling skill like Marcus achieved victory, it made others think, Maybe I could do that too.
In that sense, Marcus's imperfect triumph carried a clear message.
Thanks to him, quite a few dwarves regained their resolve.
They returned to their homes, grabbed anything that could serve as a weapon, and emerged once more.
Only a handful possessed proper arms. Most carried shovels, hammers, or pickaxes.
Yet it was enough. Had they not just seen a pickaxe fell a demonic beast moments ago?
The dwarves gathered in small groups and began moving toward the iron gate.
Rombel had been watching Elbridge's battle.
The man was swinging his sword like a lunatic.
His movements were economical, never wasting a single motion or missing an opening.
He's holding up well.
Given the Rusty Shield Order's current weakened state, the Blockade should not have lasted long. Yet it persisted, hovering on the edge of collapse without actually ending. Elbridge was simply killing the beasts and offering their corpses to the goddess too quickly.
He's as good at fighting now as he was back then...
But even Elbridge's stamina was not infinite. Before it became too late, Rombel climbed the stairs beside the iron gate and crept stealthily toward the side door.
The collapse had damaged the stairs, but they were still passable.
Creeeeak—
Rombel carefully opened the iron door and peered across.
Many of the demonic beasts had been trapped inside the Blockade created by the Goddess of the Rusty Shield and Elbridge. Those that remained outside were completely focused on Elbridge's fight.
Rombel looked toward the opposite side of the battlefield, at the far edge of Bronzimmar.
There he saw the distortion-type demonic beast that had served as the devil's passage. It was slumped over, resting.
You son of a bitch.
Rombel touched his forehead.
When the devil's eye had appeared through the distortion-type beast's maw, no brand had been engraved on Elbridge or Marcus. Both men were under direct divine protection.
But Rombel's forehead bore a far darker brand than any other dwarf's. Unlike those who still served the God of the Steel Anvil, he had lived nearly two hundred years with almost no connection to the gods.
Gripping his massive double-edged axe tightly, Rombel slipped through the side door.
As he crept through the streets of Bronzimmar, reducing his presence to the absolute minimum, all sorts of thoughts rose in his mind. The most vivid was, of course, Elbridge's dazzling performance.
Divine power, huh.
He remembered Elbridge's invitation to join the Rusty Shield Order.
How much stronger would he become if he could wield such power?
Even in the distant past, Rombel had secretly envied the authorities of the combat orders. Among them, none had captivated him more than the overwhelming might of the Rusty Shield Order. That longing had not faded.
Yet he could not pray to the Goddess of the Rusty Shield. Doing so would only steal power that should go to Elbridge.
It did not have to be the Rusty Shield Order. Rombel remembered many combat orders.
The Bloodied Spear Order, the Laurel Wreath Order, the Deer Antler Order, the Chain and Axe Order, the War Echo Order...
Any of them would do. A warrior of his caliber needed only offer sincere prayer, and any god would gladly grant him power.
No. I can't.
Rombel steeled his resolve.
The moment he relied on a god, the goal he had contemplated for two hundred years would slip forever beyond his reach.
He had not lived as an unbeliever for over two centuries merely to settle for such a half-measure.
Instead of approaching the distortion-type beast head-on, Rombel crept along the outskirts of Bronzimmar, circling toward its flank.
He drew closer and closer.
Fortunately, the beast showed no sign of noticing him.
Pale skin. Abnormally long arms. And clearly exhausted from projecting the devil's power, its slumped posture was unmistakable.
The distortion-type beast's physical abilities were pitiful compared to other demonic beasts.
One solid axe blow would cut it in half.
Thinking so, Rombel lifted his gaze slightly higher.
And then he felt it—unease.
The beast was still slumped over.
But the direction of its maw had changed. Moments ago it had faced the collapsed iron gate.
Now it was staring directly at him.
He saw the corners of its mouth curl upward.
Rombel muttered under his breath.
The beast opened its maw wide.
From within that gaping mouth, the devil's massive forearm shot out, hurtling straight toward Rombel.