Chapter 10
Chapter 10
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Every Heretic Has a Plausible Plan
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*
Knights are what you call living, breathing weapons of war. Humans who wrap their entire bodies in sturdy steel armor (though of course, not all knights can afford that) and charge into enemy lines astride warhorses.
Assuming magical forces are in a stalemate, they are the cold steel that breaks it—and the powerhouses capable of upending the flow of battle in short bursts.
The Royal Griffin Knights of the Fairn Kingdom.
The Cross Banner Knights of the Montague Order of Doctrine Guardians.
The Wild Prince Householt of the Elven Trident.
The Imperial Ironhide of the Levineiter Empire.
The Immortal Battalion of the Kirazat Sultanate.
There were other renowned knightly orders besides those, but at any rate, they were mighty humans—each one holding a semi-noble title, "blue bloods."
The problem was that the life of a wandering knight wasn't particularly pleasant or honorable.
*
They had set out from Dragonsting Fortress and marched straight for Gloridein City on foot for three full days. Chewing on jerky and hardtack without pausing for even a moment.
According to his past life memories, Demdrizad wouldn't start its machinations in earnest until late autumn, and now it was early summer. They still had plenty of time, but Zephys never stopped.
"If Brother Cartiero is still alive, then for every moment we rest, he's seeing hell. Brother."
"Were you close with Sir Cartiero?"
"I know his face, at least."
Fernandez was walking, laden with weapons, armor, and a heavy pack on his back, sweat pouring down his face. Zephys, by contrast, rode leisurely on horseback. Zephys shrugged his shoulders.
"That's enough. Baltazar. How many demons do you think there are in this world?"
"···?"
The number of demons? It was meaningless to count. Demons were fundamentally spiritual beings, after all; you couldn't tally them physically.
"On the other hand, we're finite. The Demonica numbers fewer than thirty at most. Even if we take in new recruits every year, more veterans fall in battle than that. The Heretica? They don't number in the hundreds either. Dozens are in training right now, and by the time they can pull their weight, the hundreds we have will be dying on the field."
Zephys's eyes deepened.
"Close or not? It doesn't matter. The reason we call each other 'brother' is a vow that we value our brothers' lives above our own. Status, origin, sect—none of it matters."
"What if... a brother falls to a demon?"
A demon's appearance leaves behind mana corruption. Mortals can't escape corruption of mind and body. Sooner or later, any human exposed to a demon's hellish mana will fall.
"I've seen more brothers corrupted by demons in front of my eyes than I can count on two hands."
"And they...?"
"I'm the only one of them still alive."
After that, Zephys fell silent for a long time.
*
The [Galloping Horsehoof] was a cheap inn. Among the many inns in Gloridein, it was nothing special. Zephys and Fernandez tied their horses in the stable and entered the inn.
The place was rowdy with drunken travelers and mercenaries chugging beer well past dinnertime. As Fernandez scanned them, Zephys nudged his side.
"Baltazar. Be careful."
"Ah, yes."
As the two heavily armed brutes entered, wary and suspicious stares stabbed into them. They headed straight for the counter.
"One room."
"Heh heh, bunking together?"
"Curious?"
"I ain't got that hobby, see. Heh heh heh."
The innkeeper's words drew chuckles from the men around. Zephys tossed a coin down without changing expression.
"Half a Merlyn silver? Ain't got change for that... How many nights?"
"Three."
"Three nights'd be five copper coins plenty..."
"Keep the rest. Has a knight named Cartiero stopped by here?"
"Why would a knight noble grace a dump like this?"
"He has. Three days ago. Forties, trimmed mustache. Blond. Height about my shoulder."
"Hmm..."
The innkeeper eyed Zephys's coin pouch slyly, and Zephys reached for more money. Fernandez swiftly drew his dagger and slammed it between the innkeeper's fingers.
-BAM!
The dagger plunged deep into the worn bar table, and silence fell over the room in an instant.
"You dare insult a knight?"
"Hmm. Baltazar."
The innkeeper gulped as he stared at the dagger embedded in the wooden table. Then a man at the bar shot to his feet.
"These country bumpkins causing trouble..."
"Country bumpkins?"
-BAM!
"Guh!"
Fernandez drove a short punch into the rising man's solar plexus.
As the man clutched his gut and doubled over, Fernandez grabbed the back of his head and smashed it into the table. It was a strength hard to believe from his slender frame.
"Any commoner who wants to face noble insult charges, raise your hand."
"This crazy bastard. What can you do alone..."
-Thwack!
"Next time, it's enforcement."
Fernandez grabbed a wooden mug from the table and hurled it at the shouting man. The man's front tooth shattered, and he collapsed unconscious. The men in the tavern swallowed hard, glancing at them sidelong.
These weren't ordinary thugs. The confidence to start a brawl without hesitation... The men quietly sat back down.
"A bit rowdy, isn't it, Baltazar?"
"Filth like this needs to be put in its place properly."
"...Not bad. You pass."
Fernandez grinned and hauled the innkeeper up by the collar. He effortlessly lifted the fat man with one hand.
"Guh!"
The innkeeper dangled and flailed in Fernandez's grip. Fernandez yanked him close to his face and growled.
"For the crime of insulting a noble. Your wrist will pay."
-Shing.
Fernandez drew the dagger from the bar table as he spoke. The man's face turned ashen.
"M-mercy! Please, milord! I was just, just!"
"Just? So you have a hobby of casually insulting nobles?"
"N-no, not at all!!!"
As Fernandez's dagger hovered over the man's wrist, he burst into tears and thrashed.
'What strength!'
A slender youth? No, he looked almost boyish. The armor made him seem bulkier, and his build was fairly sturdy and defined. But his face was so youthful.
Yet the innkeeper couldn't escape the grip of this young man half his size!
"You know how to crush their spirit well, Baltazar. Where'd you learn that?"
"Instinct, I suppose?"
In his past life, Fernandez had spent half his years as a Wildcast (wandering mage). He'd survived every dirty encounter imaginable and risen to lead a cult.
Zephys gazed at the trembling man clutched in Fernandez's hand. Then, from a quiet corner of the tavern, a ronin clansman stood and spoke.
"How about calling it there, sirs knights?"
"?? Who're you?"
The ronin clansman rubbed his hands and smiled as Fernandez glanced over.
"If you're curious, wouldn't it be better to ask quietly? No need to spill blood and deal with the city guard—that's rarely a pleasant experience."
"Smooth tongue. Fine, you tell us."
-Thud.
Fernandez chuckled and set the innkeeper down. The innkeeper shuddered and crawled under the bar table.
"A big knight with blond hair and a mustache? I know where he went."
"Name?"
"How would I exchange names with a knight noble?"
The ronin clansman smiled faintly. Fernandez and Zephys's eyes met briefly.
*Shall we drag him along?*
*No, let's hear him out first.*
"You know where he was headed too?"
"To see Baron Sebastian, I heard."
Baron Sebastian? A name Fernandez didn't recall. It must not have been anyone important, given it wasn't in his memories.
"You heard, huh... From who?"
"Some mercenaries. Baron Sebastian's gotten into the slave trade lately... collecting strong laborers willy-nilly..."
"Planning a civil war?"
"No! Dispute with the slave market overseers. So that knight figured he'd make some coin too..."
"Hmm..."
Zephys glanced at Fernandez.
"Baron and slave market."
"I'll head to the slave market."
"Hm? Ah... alright. I'll check the baron."
He understood the noble-born urge to stick to nobles... but he had business at the slave market. And he had no clue who this Baron Sebastian was.
*Probably an alias or proxy... Can't stick my foot in that. This life, only the sure path.*
*
Gloridein City's center was bustling. Fernandez gazed toward the slave market, lost in memories.
*The place I bought my first sacrifice was right here...*
The largest slave market on the western continent, in a port city. No, the city itself funded most operations through slave trading, drawing heretics seeking human sacrifices for black magic.
*So many underground sects, no single big one dominates.*
Small factions proliferated, but it was right under the Inquisition's nose. Mutual checks kept any massive cult from forming.
The Cult of Demdrizad that sold him Kirhas Hearttaker was just one of many.
*Better to crush those guys first...*
Fernandez plunged into an alley without hesitation. Drug dens lined it, with addicts slumped everywhere, eyes glazed, staring blankly into space.
A hive of drug holes and cheap brothels. No sane person came here even in broad daylight. Fernandez entered one marked by a red lantern.
"Welcome!"
A one-eyed ronin clansman greeted him cheerfully. The necklace around his neck looked familiar. Fernandez had dredged up the memory correctly.
"I'm here for old lady Persitt."
"Who might you be...?"
Fernandez grinned and traced the sect's holy symbol. [De'Rakaz Swarm]. A barbarian folk religion, devil-worshipping cult. He didn't know where the Cult of Demdrizad had its hideout at this time...
*But De'Rakaz Swarm, I know inside out.*
"Oh, brother! Human brothers are rare—good to see one!"
"Where's the old lady?"
"Sleeping now! Where from? Come inside!"
The ronin clansman extended a friendly hand, grimy with long, filthy nails, and opened the inner door.
Soon, simple gruel and bread arrived. Fernandez dipped bread in the gruel, brought it to his mouth, and smirked.
*Makssancho? Devil worshippers and their paranoia.*
Makssancho was the base herb for narcotic truth serums. What the ronin overlooked: unrefined, essence-extracted mush like this couldn't touch a Demonica's veins.
The blood of an Inquisition heretic hunter baptized in Demonica rites was all but immune to material toxins.
"Thanks for the hospitality, brother."
"No trouble! Glad to see you! Which parish trained you?"
"Southern Grand Cathedral."
"Grand Cathedral? Perlica?"
"No, Desaksan."
"Then what business with our bishop?"
"What's your rank?"
"...Warrior."
"Then I have nothing to say to you. I need to see the old lady."
"Wait just a moment!"
Seeing no sign of drugging, the ronin blocked the door in panic. Then a woman entered from outside.
"A foreign brother?"
"Oh, granny."
"Few call me that, and from Desaksan?"
Cascading long black hair. Sun-bronzed skin, lithe and toned figure. Violet-glowing eyes... The woman who entered was strikingly seductive.
"Al'Persitt. My apologies."
"How's old Karazankol's pup?"
"That geezer raises cats?"
"Hmm..."
The woman stared at Fernandez silently and sat across from him. She snapped open an embroidered fan.
"My mistake."
"Age happens."
"You know me, young man? Quite rude."
She gestured to the ronin youth. He glanced nervously and slunk out.
"Or is that rudeness... because of the man you came with to the city?"
"Eh?"
"You caused a scene right away, they say?"
"Oh."
Fernandez humbly admitted it. Even a small faction, being locals. And surviving as 'locals' under the Inquisition's chin meant they were no pushovers.
They'd have solid future plans and ruthless methods. Like all heretic faiths. Everyone has their plausible schemes.
Until they meet an Inquisitor.
Fernandez grinned.