"Enough Talk—Let's Survive and Smile"
"......Anyway, enough of that. Let's all do our best today. Let's meet again with smiling faces, alive."
Yoahim extended his hand, and Sasha and Leon stacked theirs on top. The three pumped themselves up, praying for victory today.
Yoahim and his group flung open the tent flap and stepped outside, where soldiers were eating breakfast. With the grand offensive about to begin, they needed to fuel up now to fight at full strength.
The undead, who didn't require meals, were forming ranks on their commanders' orders or patrolling the camp's perimeter. Skeletons stripped to bare bone and monsters of rotting flesh—they stirred a visceral disgust in anyone who saw them. But in this moment, no allies were more reliable.
"Apostle, I'll grab some food. Hang on."
Sasha dashed toward the soldier stirring a massive cauldron with a ladle. Her devotion in fetching meals for her apostle made her the model subordinate.
Yoahim glanced at Leon, who hadn't budged from his side.
"What're you lookin' at, Apostle?"
"......"
Yeah, who gives a shit about personality.As long as the guy's good in a fight.
Yoahim silently patted Leon's shoulder a couple times.
"Got it! Eat up before it cools, Apostle!"
Sasha returned with a tray holding three bowls. Steam rose invitingly from the porridge packed with finely shredded meat. The warmth settled deep in his gut, chasing away any chill.
Yoahim finished his fill, then swished some water in his mouth. A young cook passing by collected the empty bowls.
Leon and Sasha headed off first to lead the vanguard, leaving Yoahim by the campfire, warming himself.
He wasn't slacking while delegating to his troops. He just had someone to meet.
"It's been a while, Apostle."
A voice he'd heard daily for two straight months. Yoahim snapped a twig and tossed it into the flames before looking up.
"Jeron."
Jeron looked different from before. His face, once pale from endless research in the underground tower without sunlight, was now tanned from the battlefield's heat. His gaunt cheeks spoke of real hardship.
Jeron was a level 130 black mage, but his foes had matched that prowess.
"You look like you've been through hell."
"Hahaha, I can't exactly play it off as nothing...... Yeah, it was rough."
Yoahim and Jeron chatted idly by the fire's glow. Jeron recounted his recent battles; Yoahim shared his achievements.
"No way! Sword aura in just three weeks? Incredible...... I don't know much about swords, but I know how impressive that is."
"Less my talent, more Terriot's help. I'd never have reached that level without him."
"He must've seen your potential. Terriot's been retired forever and never took a single disciple."
Nah, he just tried to kill me. Yoahim wondered why so many around him wanted him dead.
"So, how's the blood magic training going? With your talent, it should be smooth sailing."
"Ah, well......"
Yoahim glanced at Jeron. His mentor had assigned homework before heading to war, and he'd slacked off on it. No excuses.
Jeron's eyes narrowed; Yoahim hunched his shoulders.
"No way...... Zero progress? You practiced hard, right? Did you skip blood magic entirely for sword training?"
Spot on. Yoahim never thought he'd feel like a kid getting scolded by a teacher at his age.
"Apostle, why? Everyone else dives too deep into blood magic and causes problems, but you're the opposite—barely practicing. Does that make sense?"
Jeron's point was fair, but Yoahim had his side too. No model student, he pushed back at his mentor.
"I tried. But honestly, without proper instruction, how's practice supposed to work? Make flames from blood? No method, no practice."
"No proper instruction? Have you forgotten everything I've taught you?"
"No, there's nothing to forget. I haven't learned a damn thing about blood magic."
"Disappointing."
Jeron's gaze chilled. But Yoahim felt wronged. Taught? What the hell had he taught?
"Remember this: No more lessons until you finish the homework."
"Fuck, how without basics? You think I'm a genius? Huh? Figure it out solo?"
"You are a genius, Apostle."
"Well...... yeah."
Not pure magical prodigy—more a mix of factors—but to others, Yoahim was a genius.
Ugh, thought Jeron might unlock blood magic for me.Zero gains, just a scolding.
Yoahim pouted; Jeron sighed.
Then—pbwooo—a horn blared.
Jeron stood. "Assembly time. Talk later, Apostle."
"Yeah. Stay alive today, Jeron."
"You too."
As vanguard captain and magic corps leader, they rushed to their units. Soon, Haellagos appeared.
"A long, long time it has been, but the end has come at last. Hear me: We have one task today."
His speech was brief. Haellagos bellowed with power.
"Today, we kill Alzahar!"
Rooooaaar!
Thunderous cheers shook the earth as the massive army surged toward Biljera Castle.
The castle's defenses, having spotted Haellagos yesterday, were tighter than ever. Endless undead lined the walls; gargoyles wheeled overhead. A sinister aura oozed from the battlements, tainting all who approached.
No pre-battle surrender demands. Coexistence was impossible—one side had to fall.
The horde encircled Biljera, weapons trained on the foe.
Haellagos raised his staff high, then slashed it down.
No charge order left his lips.
"Dark flame."
A single word. Then—
KABOOOOOM!
"Kieeeek!"
"Grraaaaaah!"
A colossal blast shattered the gates in one hit. Hundreds of waiting undead behind them turned to ash instantly.
Basic attack magic, yet it pulverized the gates—proof of Haellagos's black magic mastery.
The castle undead's morale didn't waver. They obeyed their master unquestioningly; enemies charging in was what they craved.
The lich's domain of death. Sending troops inside was no joy.
But Haellagos didn't hesitate.
"Advance! Today, we reclaim our rightful glory!"
Rooooaaar!
Ear-splitting roars rent the sky. Cavalry charged bravely inward; infantry followed the breach.
"For Kakarli!"
Yoahim shouted too, riding his summoned ghost horse tight behind the cavalry.
He knew his bold charge boosted morale. As Kakarli's apostle, slashing foes fearlessly let soldiers feel her presence.
Thus, Yoahim rode relentlessly, cleaving enemies.
But that wasn't all.
EXP! All of it's EXP!
Yoahim was strong. Black magic level 5, elite swordsmanship with sword aura, plus Ha Meks Han's power. Objectively, a powerhouse.
But his level lagged: a measly 71. Terriot, similar skill, was 84. Serious underleveling from endless spars and magic drills, no real combat.
Upside? Situations like this. Games give less EXP from lower-level foes to prevent cherry-picking.
Yoahim's combat outclassed the undead, but levels matched. He could slaughter them easily, full EXP intact.
Opportunity. Max level gains here.
Levels meant stat points for growth. Stats were strength's foundation—skills meant nothing without them.
And to survive, levels are key.
This war ended with killing lich Alzahar. To outlast a foe matching great demon Haellagos, he needed every level.
"Aaaagh!"
Mid-zombie-and-ghoul frenzy, a desperate scream pierced Yoahim's ears. He whipped around: a fallen dark elf soldier, skeleton knight axe raised.
"Hya!"
Yoahim spurred his ghost horse, smashing the knight's skull in one blow.
The dark elf scrambled up, bowing deeply.
"Th-thank you!"
But Yoahim was already wheeling away, beheading another ghoul.
The soldier marveled at this noble, heroic apostle.
Jackpot—last hit!
Yoahim? Not a thought. Just EXP.