Chapter 171
Chapter 171
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 174
Chapter Title: Hazat Ashin, the Buried City (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
*
Kirhas's charge was no different from demonstrating the utmost capability a field commander could muster. It stemmed from meticulous calculations regarding the time until the allied formation disintegrated—right before the battle devolved into a massacre—the moment when the enemy formation's density hit its lowest point, and not a single foe glanced toward their rear.
She had executed all those computations on pure instinct and ultimately succeeded, which meant her tactical judgment was already near perfection. There was just one thing she hadn't anticipated: the allied cavalry's disengagement was slower than she'd calculated.
That was entirely due to her lack of experience. Up until now, the cavalry units under Kirhas's command had been elite troops from the Great Wilderness. But among the Northerners, their cavalry amounted to little more than "warriors on horseback."
The difference between infantry and cavalry wasn't merely a matter of a horse's height or speed. A cavalryman's prowess encompassed the unity between rider and mount, the sensation of reaching maximum impact, instinctive communication for maneuvers and withdrawals, and more. Simply adding a horse to a rider didn't mean their combat power scaled linearly.
There was no doubt that the Northerners were powerful warriors, each and every one. Yet as a cavalry unit, they had received zero training. And that was where Kirhas's misjudgment began. She'd assumed she was leading proper cavalry. Had she viewed them merely as swift-footed warriors, she could have deployed her forces in an entirely different manner.
"Hoo..."
Kirhas severed the neck of an approaching enemy, swiftly fell back, and scanned her surroundings. Enemies, enemies, enemies. Nothing but foe soldiers everywhere. Her stature wasn't particularly tall, and the Northerners towered a full head above the infantry of ordinary southern civilized nations. She felt as if she were surrounded by a hostile wall of sorts.
But even then, her eyes sought a path to survival. Amid the screams of allies, the shouts, and the deafening clashes of weapons filling the air from all directions, her ears suddenly perked up.
For some reason, she had the feeling she could survive just by holding out. Her instincts were screaming it. *Endure.*
"You dogshit heretics and apostates, that's far enough!!!"
-SHUAAAAANG!
Brother? Kirhas turned her head in a daze toward the source of the roaring voice. It was Brother Fabiano. Soon, the whistle of a projectile cut through the air, followed by a massive impact that swept across the ground.
-KWAAAAANG!
The sound and vibration of a solid shot upheaving the earth continued. Far off in the distance, a demon's head that had peeked above the warriors' heads vanished in that instant. Blood sprayed into the sky, and soon the heavy thud of the demon's body collapsing reached her ears.
"Brother...??"
How was he here? The warriors encircling Kirhas faltered, their gazes shifting in one direction.
*
A chaotic melee where friend and foe were indistinguishable. Zephys pondered as he overlooked the battlefield. When Kirhas had scaled the ridge and pierced the enemy lines, he'd judged that the side with the demon and mage was the foe. But in the thick of the frontline clash, distinguishing allies from enemies was impossible.
They seemed to differentiate themselves somehow with shields, cloaks, clothing adornments, and the like. Yet Zephys and the Inquisitors had no way of recognizing Northerners' heraldry.
Thus, they decided to focus on the demons rather than the frontline. Their strategy was exceedingly simple. 1. Demons are the enemy. 2. The demons' enemies are allies. 3. Anyone who attacks us while we're attacking demons is an enemy.
It was a profoundly sound tactic. Zephys nodded and lowered his helmet's visor. Fabiano drew the spearhead strapped to his back and stepped forward.
"You dogshit heretics and apostates, that's far enough!!!"
-SHUAAAAANG!
His deltoids, massive as a man's head, writhed visibly even beneath his pauldrons. The javelin in his hand soon shot forth with a whistling screech. The noise was like a siege ballista firing, and upon impact, the demon's head shattered, spraying blood.
"Let's go, Brother!"
"Brother Sergio, carry Brother Sarbelio and cover me. Brother Sarbelio, target the enemy mage. The rest of you, handle the demons. And Brother Fabiano! Rescue Sister Kirhas and rejoin the main force!"
"Macto!"
A prayer signifying affirmation or resolve erupted behind him. Zephys placed a hand on his sword hilt and charged down the ridge.
-Thud, thud, thud, thud.
The warriors visible on the battlefield numbered around three hundred. Assuming at least half were enemies, that left only five on their side. Five against a hundred fifty? Impossible without the War God descending.
Contrary to the prejudiced common knowledge widespread in society, Demonica were not invincible supermen. They too bled when pierced by spear or blade and met death from mortal wounds like any other fragile being.
But what set other Inquisitors apart from Heretica or Enmagicka—and Demonica themselves—was that divine essence flowed in their blood—
"Block those guys!!"
"Where'd these bastard mongrels come from!!"
-KWAAAAAANG!
Champions of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods, war engines forged by the human gods. That meant they were equivalent in force to demons. Just as archdemons forged their minions from souls, these were beings created by bestowing divine blessings upon select, exceptional souls.
The formation crumbled. Most spears and blades thrust at them merely scraped off the thick, slanted surfaces of their plate armor and glanced away. One attack, one counter. Any warrior who scratched a Demonica's armor soon lost his head, flailing before collapsing in a heap.
-KWAAAAANG!
A rift tore through the battlefield's center. Hazat Pallan's warriors, the demons, and their minions—all sensed the upheaval crashing into the fray and momentarily lowered their weapons. What in the world was happening? Who the hell were those guys?
-FWOOSH!
Zephys strode toward a warrior thrusting a spear at him, seizing the man's head with one hand. Beneath his grip, the warrior choked out a hot breath. With a crunch, his skull shattered under the crushing force, draining strength from the body. The awestruck warriors recoiled.
-Thud.
Through that gap strode the demon. A mature Demidraco specimen. Beneath his visor, Zephys coldly glared at it. One of the infamous breeds illustrated in demon bestiaries.
"How'd an Inquisitor crawl in here?"
The demon hissed in the continental common tongue. Zephys twirled his morningstar, flinging off the blood and flesh clinging between its spikes.
"Doesn't matter. Just kill 'em all."
It took less than a minute for that demon's head to roll. Around that time, the warriors—bereft of their mages, demons, and command—began fleeing.
The Hazat Pallan warriors stared blankly at the routed enemies, their faces a mix of bewilderment: should they rejoice in this sudden "gifted" victory, or beware these strangers?
*
At that moment, Fernandez rode northward on the horse Orion had prepared. According to Loft, a handful of Demonica had arrived on the battlefield and sorted things out. If true, his personal intervention would be overkill.
The north's winter winds blew fiercely. Fernandez tightened his collar and traversed the snowy plain amid biting cold and blizzards. He could feel the horse tiring rapidly from the chill.
Rough snowflakes whipped through the dark night sky. Fernandez exhaled hot breath and patted the horse's shivering neck. If he could use magic, fine—but expending it now to preserve the horse's stamina would be suicidal.
How much farther had they gone when the horse finally buckled at the knees and sank into the snow with a weary groan? It wasn't that it refused to go on; it simply couldn't.
"You did well."
Fernandez stroked the horse's forehead. It closed its eyes soon after. He drew his cloak tight and stepped into the snow. *Crunch*—his foot sank deep, heavy.
"Let's push just a bit more, friend."
Before he knew it, Loft was walking beside him. His unkempt hair whipped wildly in the wind. He continued his soliloquy at Fernandez's side.
"Ever heard? Real giants once lived in the old north."
"..."
Lacking the energy to reply, the conversation was one-sided.
"And Northerners truly are their descendants. Sure, their builds shrank over time, strength waned—but that giant blood runs in their veins. Giants were just a sort of oversized humans, mind you. Haha."
Loft conjured flickering sparks before Fernandez's eyes, dotting the path ahead. Fernandez followed the lights with his steps.
"Oh, right. My brothers and I... way back in the ancient days, we were one of those giants. So Northern humans are practically our kids."
The lights led toward a hill. Thick with snow, it resembled a crouching giant—or some ancient beast locked in eternal slumber. Fernandez ascended silently.
"And long ago—before we goaded these poor humans into eternal, everlasting strife—they lived pretty decent lives. Far superior civilizations to the puny southern humans, even! That's why we pinned our hopes on the northern giants to avert Ragnarok. On our children..."
The hill seemed endless. Or rather, Fernandez's stamina was flagging, sensation numbing from his extremities. His steps grew leaden. Now he moved purely on instinct.
"As eras passed, the world's mysteries withered, northern children grew slothful and complacent—their bodies began shrinking. Less a curse than degeneration; even we could do nothing."
The hilltop came into view.
"At first, those here saw their diminutive descendants as corrupted. To demon- and monster-hunters, corruption symbolized horrifying weakness. Exiled from tribes, some small humans burrowed underground, others sailed south."
Loft's words echoed hazily in his ears. What was he even saying? Fernandez reached the summit with half-lidded eyes.
The wind died. Snowflakes faded, and the guiding lights vanished. Fernandez stood dazed atop the peak, gazing at the vista below.
Loft draped an arm over his shoulder, chuckling.
"The giants forgave not their tiny offspring. Cast from tribes, scorned across the north, denied footing. So where'd those little humans go? Dug into the earth, sailed south..."
Below stretched a long canyon. Midway up, abandoned mines and mining gear littered the slopes. Each shaft seemed an ordinary worn-out tunnel. Yet Fernandez already recognized the entrance patterns leading into the galleries and the overarching road layouts.
Long ago. In his past life. The style he'd grown sick of seeing while delving deep dungeons toward the Steel Floor Seal to unbind Tyban.
"Those discarded, those chased out—the giants branded them with a slur."
The Steel Floor Seal's depths: intricate underground labyrinths of mighty mechanisms and advanced smithing. That hellish abyss teeming with traps. The arduous journey to free the sealed Tyban. Half-ruined edifices in that very style protruded jaggedly beneath the snowfall.
"Dwarf. Midget. Yes, that's right, friend. The race that last bore those masterful ancient northern technologies. Those little ones nowhere to be found now. We called 'em dwarves."
Hazat Ashin. The third city. Fernandez could envision the dwarf underworld at the deep end of these mine-like galleries. By exposed scale alone, it rivaled the Tyban seal he'd witnessed.
"That pup Erik found nothing here and left it be, but we're different, friend."
Let's see what we can dig up. Loft clapped his shoulder and guffawed.