Chapter 220
Chapter 220
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 220
Chapter Title: We Are the Rock (1)
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At that moment, evacuation efforts were in full swing outside the city of Libye. A long line of citizens streaming in from the farmlands beyond the outer walls clamored to enter the city.
Looking down at the scene, Rene clicked her tongue. Too late. The people of the nearby territories weren't accustomed to evacuations. Even during the height of the war, Libye had never been on the front lines—it was merely a rear outpost.
And far off in the distance. Beyond the ridgeline, shrouded in darkness. Somewhere in that distant western direction where flames were rising, an unknown legion was undoubtedly marching even now.
“Father……!”
The moment the duke received the report, he drew his sword and stood. The greatsword nobles who followed him were veterans who had survived nearly every kind of battlefield, and they gripped their blades without hesitation at his sudden order to march.
A not-insubstantial force—likely nearly all the territory's troops—rose to block the march of the undead coming from somewhere beyond the west.
“Lady of the Duke. You must retreat.”
“Uncle.”
Court mage Antaen had approached unnoticed and spoke quietly. His aged face was pale, perhaps from fear. Rene bit her lip and shook her head. With the duke absent and only peacekeeping forces left in the territory, if even she fled, there would be no one to defend the land.
Prioritizing the territory's defense implied defeat for the troops who had marched out. At the visceral realization and its sticky implications, Rene shuddered.
The territory was under attack. Not by the sultan beyond the front lines, but by undead of unknown origin.
“Even if you won't retreat, head to the palace. It's better for everyone if you oversee the situation from above and issue commands.”
“Yes, I'll do that.”
Antaen's face was ashen as he staggered ahead. Rene clicked her tongue at the sight. Antaen, once an exceptional battle mage, seemed to have grown frail with age. As she followed him, she glanced at the refugee lines.
* * *
“Bora! What's the situation?!”
“Individual engagements aren't going badly! But the enemy's numbers have no end!”
Grand Duke Erv listened to Bora's shout from horseback. The duke's legion consisted of elites who had weathered countless battlefields together. The onslaught of skeletons and undead was unfamiliar, but not impossible to counter.
The problem was the mages. Unidentifiable spells were erupting sporadically from all directions. Should he call for Antaen? Erv grunted and gazed at the slowly retreating front line.
-BOOOOM!
Whenever flames crashed like a storm, flesh and bone fragments exploded alongside them. The firestorms embedding into the front line incinerated everything in place without distinguishing friend from foe before dying out.
Basic battle magic, nothing impressive. But their forces lacked the strength for a proper magical exchange. And whenever a gap opened in the line, the spectral horde inexorably filled it. The front pushed back.
If they fell back further here, they'd collide with the refugee columns. Chaos would follow. These were troops conscripted without thought for supply lines. They couldn't hold the line for more than a day. Only after the civilians finished evacuating could they fight from behind the walls.
“Great Chieftain! Where is the Great Chieftain?!”
“Out on patrol!!”
One of the beastkin warriors shouted in response to the duke's call. An ill-timed absence. Unknown undead launching a sudden raid. And the Great Chieftain vanishing at that exact moment……
Suppressing his unease, the duke spoke to Pascal, who was inspecting the front.
“Brother Pascal! Can this be seen as a declaration of war from the Wasteland's spectral legions?!”
“Their magic use, troop deployment, and soldiers' attire are completely unlike Ashit's. Your Grace, this is undoubtedly an army of a necromancer!”
“Damn it, what nonsense is that? A necromancer?!”
“Look at those soldiers' weapons! Sickles, pitchforks, pickaxes…… They're not soldiers—they're peasants. Or rather, they used to be!”
Pascal scanned the surroundings with sharp eyes. Too late. His mission had been to stop the necromancer infiltrating this territory before they could pull off some vile scheme. But the situation had already spiraled to the extreme.
Cockroaches. Sparks flew from Pascal's eyes. A single heretic. Even one cultist burrowing into civilian society with enough time and resources could unleash something like this.
That's why they had to root them out at the source. Pascal was tormented by guilt. Even if not all of them were Beitasser's people, at least they had been devotees of the Pantheon. Tenant farmers pioneering new lives beyond the Pantheon's domain.
Burn a hundred innocent corpses to deny even one evildoer. That was the Inquisition's teaching—precisely to guard against situations like this. Hundreds of lives were undoubtedly heavy. But when the comparison was clear, it became cold arithmetic.
If burning hundreds of innocents saved thousands or tens of thousands from a single heretic's harvest, it was an acceptable loss. The evil born in that process would be his own burden to bear.
Pascal was a devout Heretica of Beitasser. Rage blazed from his eyes like flames. The mage hurled fire at the line again. Reading the flow, Pascal wheeled his horse.
“Your Grace! I'll track the mage. Hold the line! If it breaks, the duchy’s people will all be buried under ashes, groaning!”
“That's my concern! Go do your duty!”
Pascal nodded curtly and spurred his mount. It charged toward where the mage lurked beyond the front. He drew his saintmetal longsword, kissed the blade.
“Macto Superaudo.”
Their judgment belonged to the Lord. But dragging them to His courtroom was his role. The Heretica repeated this to himself as he raced through the darkness.
* * *
Fernandez watched the spectral horde advance from atop a hillock. At least thousands strong. Without a necropolis burial priest, sustaining a legion this size would require tremendous sacrifice.
‘Impatient, aren't you, Manderson.’
A master black mage's soul held immense value to demons. Manderson must have pledged his own soul as collateral to raise this army.
At least a dozen settlements had been abandoned. Their vanished residents marched toward Libye as corpses clutching farm tools. Impressive at first glance, but with clear limits.
No matter how skilled the mage, they couldn't sustain this legion for more than a day. It exceeded personal capability.
Thus, Manderson had overplayed his hand—pledging his soul to start this, only to collapse before a day passed. Enough to divert eyes, but far short of burning or conquering all of Libye.
Come dawn, they'd be dust. And the hyper-vigilant Heretica would drag the mastermind out by any means. Anyone pulling this off should have anticipated the backlash.
‘What’s your game?’
Fernandez gazed down at the battlefield from horseback. Beastkin warriors and ducal troops held back the surging horde. Despite numerical inferiority, qualitative superiority wasn't easily overturned.
‘What did you hope to gain?’
Too much damage for a desperate lashing out in a corner. Manderson wasn't that foolish. At that moment, flames erupted in the center of the line.
“……!!!”
A firestorm struck the front, obliterating skeletons and ducal troops alike. The line retreated once more.
Fernandez narrowed his eyes, observing. The mana burning in the flames, the spell's composition. The magic's structure and afterglow……
‘Explosive spell.’
-Not necromancy. It's Imperial Philleinail Academy technique.
‘Not Manderson's magic. Another mage. An Imperial battle mage. Fairly skilled……’
-Court mage Antaen.
“Damn it.”
Fernandez groaned. Puzzles clicked together in his mind, forming an unexpected picture.
‘The heresy incident erupted just before the Imperial envoys arrived.’
-The investigation started too quickly. As if someone had tipped them off in advance.
‘Philleinail Academy is a tactical school directly founded and run by the Imperial court.’
-Connected to the court, no doubt. And the court……
‘Doesn't want the western campaign.’
Traps upon traps. The duke had walked into a noose laid by the court. How far back did it go? Probably from the moment Antaen reported the summit. He was the duke's closest aide, right beside him in the chamber.
Likely, the black mage in the western settlements was bait prepared by the court. They wanted the duke as a scapegoat by any means. Blaming the 50 Years' War failures on him would please the emperor most.
Even without Fernandez's involvement in Libye, it would have fallen. Probably branded a frontier lord colluding with a black mage, exterminated. But right after Antaen's report, the court swiftly redrew their plans.
Use the prepared bait to ruin the duke's scheme…… divert attention……
“Rene Philippa…….”
If the duke were assassinated at the front. The heir was just one duke's daughter. Capturing her would puppet the entire duchy. The court's plan was meticulous, insidious, lethal.
With all troops and knights committed to the front. The duke's daughter would be alone managing the people. If the front-line mage was Antaen, where would the black mage stirring this be……!
“Kirhas. Head to the front. Aid the duke.”
“Benefactor, but what about you?”
“I have other business. Protect the duke at all costs. He can't die yet.”
“The battlefield isn't fierce enough to strike the command structure. Why not have me assassinate the mage?”
“No, we need to guard against their assassin. The court is targeting the duke. If he falls, everything unravels.”
Go. Kirhas asked no more questions. With the order given, she nodded with resolute eyes and galloped toward the duke's command.
Fernandez glanced at her back briefly, then rode toward Libye's outer walls.
* * *
Heretica trained more for search and pursuit than combat. But that didn't mean they lacked fighting prowess. Pascal cleaved through rising skeletons and ghouls.
Saintmetal inflicted lethal damage on necromantic minions. Each time the gleaming white blade caught moonlight, skeletons scattered like autumn leaves.
-Thundering hooves!!
The afterglow of magic flickered before him. The stench of foul black magic assaulted his nose. The sticky reek of malice, evil, and lingering thoughts from the gathered undead shook his mind.
“Come out!! Face the Lord's judgment!!”
Pascal swung his blazing sword of fury. The blocking skeleton crumbled weakly. Then, sparks flew. His horse's eyes burned, convulsing in agony.
“Urk!”
Thrown mid-gallop. He tumbled across the ground several times before stopping. He rose immediately, sword raised. His hands shook from impact, but steadfast rage burned in his eyes.
“The Inquisitor fears heretics…… only when they lurk within civilized society.”
The skeletons backed away. Through them, a robed mage far off aimed his staff and spoke. Pascal stepped forward on trembling legs.
“A lone Inquisitor is just a warrior good with a sword. Some forget that occasionally and charge in, deluded by their own grandeur. Pathetic.”
“No.”
Pascal drew a deep breath. Cracked ribs from the fall. Breathing, standing—agony.
Yet another step. Forward.
“One sword. Light armor. Even as just a single warrior. You fear Inquisitors not because we hold sway in society, heretic.”
Sword drawn, advancing. Toward the mage's silhouette, elongated sneer on his jaw.
“We swore to burn ourselves if that light becomes a beacon for civilization. So fear us rightly. We burn your evils, yet declare our lives the rock.”
“Boast all you want. Show me that pose after death.”
“Death is no end for us, but a beginning for the Lord's world. Declare our lives the rock.”
-Shing.
Breath ragged, pulse racing, hands shaking. What if he were Demonica? Pascal laughed bitterly. A Demonica would have died horribly in worse fields long ago.
“Pray, heretic. To any god, any words. Just earnestly.”
Night deepened, dawn far off. Moonlight gleamed on undead skulls. Across the white plain, the Inquisitor charged the mage.
