Inevitable Fate (5)
Volf County lay shrouded in a violet mist, sunk in the silence of death. Kyle peered through his telescope at the gates. His brow furrowed—whether from the fog obscuring his view or the grotesque scene beyond, it was hard to tell.
"Serina."
"...Yes, my lord."
Serina, who had been watching the front lines beside him, had gone pale as a ghost. The violet mist billowing from the ramparts was the count's final desperate measure—a berserk drug scattered in his hour of need. He'd exposed not just the commoners left outside the gates, but everyone.
"The situation's way worse than the reports. They didn't just hit the forests or villages. They've blanketed everything right up to the gates."
From the fog came screams, followed by horrors that weren't horned orcs like before. A man clutching a farming tool, his skin twisted purple. A woman hugging her child, tumors sprouting from her back... Ordinary folk of the county who hadn't made it to Eisengrad in time, locked out when the count slammed the gates and turned them into meat shields.
"P-people... They're just like us!"
Chaos rippled through the Eisengrad ranks. Their weapons were state-of-the-art rifles ahead of their time, but the soldiers were still conscripted serfs. Aiming at faces that might've shared a drink yesterday was a terror no drill could shake.
"Steady!"
A sharp bellow cut through the field.
"Listen up! They're already dead. What you're seeing aren't people—they're corpses writhing in agony."
He barked at the trembling troops, his voice ice-cold but brimming with certainty.
"Pull the trigger. That's the last mercy you can give them."
Pointing forward with one hand, he commanded.
"Everyone, ready to fire!"
At his order, veterans like Boris hit the dirt first, urging the rookies down. In a medieval battlefield, prone meant death. But for their army, it was the steadiest, deadliest firing position. Soldiers fought back tears or terror, sighting down barrels at monstrous neighbors.
"Range two hundred. Fire!"
With the volley, the cursed horde danced in death. Heads exploded in black fountains of blood. No matter their shrieks or speed, they couldn't outpace twitching fingers. Fear and guilt melted into mechanical slaughter. Clack, bang. Clack, bang. Brass casings ejected in golden showers under the sun.
Soon after the monster wave ebbed, he ordered the advance. But the troops hesitated at the gates, daunted by the thick violet fog.
"Everyone, wet a cloth from your canteen! No dry ones! Soak 'em good and cover your nose and mouth tight!"
One soldier voiced doubt at the urgent command.
"M-my lord? Why wet the cloth? It'll just make breathing harder..."
"Dry cloth won't stop that fog!"
He snapped like it was non-negotiable.
"That's no ordinary smoke. It's aerosol—tiny toxic particles floating in the air! Dry fabric lets 'em through, but wet fibers trap 'em like a fine mesh!"
The men didn't grasp aerosol or adsorption, but his iron conviction had them uncapping canteens.
"Water blocks the poison! Want to live? Breathe through wet cloth!"
Once ready, Kyle raised his hand.
"Engineer squad, forward!"
At his call, a detachment with heavy packs dashed to the gates, rifles slung, coils of wire and bags of gray clay in hand. No hesitation—they charged the stout oak-and-iron gate, a medieval fortress that'd withstand rams for half a day. But engineers saw differently. Not brute force like before; these were pros here to dismantle.
"Left hinge, right hinge! Center bar!"
Squad leader's orders flew. They unpacked oil-wrapped bundles of red sticks—dynamite—sweat beading as they jammed bundles into gate cracks, fuses primed.
"Fuse connected! Ready to light!"
"Charges set! Evac! Evac! Everyone back!"
They unspooled wire, retreating fast. Safety distance reached, the leader gripped the detonator.
"Clear! Blow the front! Blow! Blow!"
BOOM! The blast wave hammered precisely, ripping steel hinges like taffy, shattering the bar. Dust billowed as the gate crumpled inward. Not magic—a triumph of calculated physics.
"Breach!"
He plunged through first, rifle ready. Clothed soldiers followed, shaking off fear into the mist.
Inside was worse. The count had dosed his remaining retainers and maids for a last stand. Stepping over corridor corpses, Kyle headed deepest—to the lord's office. Before the heavy oak door.
"Boris."
The bearish veteran stepped up at the curt call. Silently, he boot-kicked the door.
CRASH! Hinges tore; it fell inward.
The room reeked of chemicals. And there sat Volf Count, perched on his desk, jabbing a thick needle into his arm. Empty vials littered the table—lethal overdose.
"You've come, Kyle..."
He looked up. Eyes unfocused, blackened; bloody foam at his lips. No victor's face anymore—just a deathbed grudge.
"No future left for me anyway. Empire, house—all gone..."
Violet liquid pulsed through veins, purpling his face crimson.
He cackled hoarsely, poison hammering his heart.
"But... you won't leave alive either. We're going to hell together."
Crack, drip. His body twisted grotesquely. Whites of eyes vanished to black; swollen muscles shredded clothes. Drug-forced power rivaled a knight's.
Kyle tsked at the pitiful sight.
"Tch. Dreaming of mutual destruction, huh."
The count's resolve was admirable—burning his life for one killing blow. But Kyle didn't lower his slung rifle or retreat. One self-designed, tested gun was plenty.
"Too bad. Your math's off."
Clack.
"You won't touch a thread of my clothes before you die."
"You... mana-less arrogant shit!!"
The count roared beast-like, stomping off. Blinding speed—claws slashed for Kyle's throat. Katarina twitched for her sword, but his finger was faster.
BANG!
Dry crack in the tight room. The count's right knee exploded mid-leap. Drug-muscle couldn't defy lead spinning at hundreds of meters per second.
"GRRAAAH!"
Momentum lost, he flopped pathetically. Rolling, he struggled up.
"Urgh... not yet! Not...!"
Clack, chunk. Kyle ejected the casing, chambered fresh.
"Get up, Count. Gotta regrow that knee, right?"
BANG!
Left shoulder this time. He screamed, crawling worm-like.
"Ah... aaa..."
Prone, thrashing. Kyle's boot toe inches away, unreachable. Limbs crushed, he glared up through blood-tears.
"Why... I bet everything... my life too...!"
He'd forsaken humanity for power, yet this man hunted him mechanically, face unchanged.
"Betting your life doesn't change outcomes. That's just gamblers' excuses."
Kyle's tone was brutally cold.
"You're just rampaging high on drugs, dying alone. Leaving nothing behind."
Nothing. It stabbed the count's heart. He'd slaughtered his people, turned himself monster—yet couldn't scratch Kyle.
Kyle stood over him slowly. Smoking barrel on the count's forehead center.
The count gaped for curses, voiceless.
"Farewell, Volf."
BANG! Head lolled. Unspent grudge soured his foam-flecked lips. Black blood from the hole; bloated flesh deflated like a punctured balloon.
Situation clear. Silence blanketed the room. Late-entering Serina and sword-drawn Katarina stared blankly. For a north-commanding grand noble, too pathetic—no heroic end, no tragedy. Just scrapped machinery, coldly discarded.
"Boris."
Pocketing a stray casing, he called the waiting veteran.
"Situation's done. Clean up. Incinerate all drug-tainted corpses, ventilate the keep first. Plague would be a headache."
"Understood, my lord. The monsters outside... er, corpses?"
"Same deal. Burn 'em fast. Prep handover to Investigator Serina."
Short orders given, he strode to the window. Below, the domain was carnage—blood seas in the keep, black smoke everywhere. Once-proud county now ownerless ruin.
'Messy.'
He frowned, tsking—like a janitor facing another's trash heap. Turning indifferently, as if done here.
His answer to the Empire's test was submitted.