Mutation
Enet, dozing off with her head nodding, was the first to greet Bessimer as he opened his eyes. Her neatly braided dark brown hair had long since come undone, and dried black blood crusted around her small, pointed nose and cheeks.
“Ugh.”
Bessimer groaned as he pushed himself up. His gut felt like it was being ripped apart. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his abdomen—probably changed by Enet while he was out. Grateful for that, he briefly considered making her one of his women too.
But in the end, he shook his head. The kingdom was strictly monogamous. Bill had thrown a fit just at the thought of him touching Ingeris, which proved it. And Enet was Isaac's woman.
Can't touch the boss's girl.
Regaining his senses after who-knows-how-long, Bessimer grinned at the lust already surging through him. The pain in his abdomen was serious but bearable. He could move well enough. And his urges weren't just carnal.
My body's itching.
Bessimer wanted to fight. He had no idea how many days had passed, but lying in bed for so long had him itching to rampage. Especially against that knight of Rutger's. Sure, the bastard had fought dirty, but defeat was defeat. He craved revenge.
He rinsed his parched mouth with beer and immediately asked the soldiers where the prisoners were held. There were fourteen captives in total; aside from the enemy commander Rutger and Bishop Alquin, the rest were locked in pit cells.
The pit cells were exactly that—pits dug into the ground, covered with iron bars for solitary confinement.
“Oh? Boss, you're up already?”
“Shouldn't you rest more?”
“Guess Baitur folk really are tough.”
The soldiers greeted the awakened Bessimer with joy.
“Cut the crap. Tell me where that knight is.”
“That knight?”
“The fucker who stuck his blade in my gut.”
“Ah, that one. Over there.”
Bessimer entered the tent the soldier pointed to. Five pits had been dug, each holding a single prisoner.
“Where the hell is he?”
He searched with bleary eyes, but the knight he remembered wasn't there—the one with the venomous glare and weaselly face. The bastard he'd wanted to pummel to death was gone.
But something felt off, and Bessimer noticed it. At the sound of his approach, the other prisoners lifted their heads for a furtive glance, but one pit's occupant didn't stir at all.
The reason soon revealed itself.
“Fuckin' hell.”
The dirt wall between the pit and bars had been clawed away. And inside wasn't a prisoner—it was a tribesman. A dead one, throat pierced.
“You fucking idiots!”
“B-Boss?”
The soldiers guarding the tent panicked at Bessimer's thunderous curse. They realized too late what had happened.
“How the hell did he claw through frozen dirt with bare hands...?”
“Gimme your sword.”
“Huh?”
“Sword!”
Bessimer snatched the soldier's blade and bolted from the tent. His battle instincts guided him—toward the killing intent.
He hurled the sword in that direction. It tore through the wall of the tent housing Rutger and the bishop.
Clang!
A sharp metallic ring echoed from inside. Bessimer charged through the ripped side of the tent.
“Ha, the snake was hiding here.”
Blood splattered everywhere inside. Soldiers lay dead, pierced precisely through vital points. Rutger, their former commander, was no exception.
Bessimer's eyes widened.
“What the fuck is this...?”
The only one still alive was the bishop, eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched tight, trembling violently. Urine trickled from his red leather boots, soaking the floor. Before him stood the chevalier, sword dangling loosely, fresh blood dripping from the blade.
Bessimer's judgment was swift. Rutger's knight had killed his own master and was now going for the bishop. Motive unknown. Had to stop it.
He lunged at the chevalier. The blade aimed for Bessimer's throat.
Clang!
As he rolled on the ground, Bessimer snatched a fallen soldier's sword and parried.
“Ngh—”
The blow landed heavy. Overexerting tore his barely healed wound; blood seeped through the bandages. His guts might spill out at this rate.
But there was no time to worry. The chevalier's sword thrust savagely—nothing like their duel before.
Kiiing—clang! Clang!
“Ugh—”
Blood sprayed across Bessimer's forearm. Their blades crossed; the chevalier's didn't even graze him. Yet it sliced anyway. Aura.
“Damn it.”
His body wasn't fully recovered. He gripped an unfamiliar sword instead of his favored axe—wrong length, wrong weight. Disadvantageous.
Yet Bessimer smirked.
“Things got interesting while I was out.”
“Step aside, barbarian. Or this time, you die. For sure.”
“Old man! Get lost already. You're in the way.”
It was absurd for the bishop, who'd scorned him as a barbarian, to beg for his life—but he had no time for pride. He crawled out on all fours.
The chevalier tried to pursue, but Bessimer swung first.
Their blades clashed.
“You brought this on yourself, barbarian.”
“Still pissed? Orphan knight? Getting rattled by that kinda taunt means you're way too fragile.”
“I have a father.”
“Sure you do. Don't get too heated. I've got over twenty parents myself. We take turns to spread strong seed. To me, they're all siblings and parents...”
Clang! Kagang—kak!
Bessimer couldn't finish. The chevalier's blade blurred his vision. Fast. And every strike carried weight.
A blade vanishing from sight reappeared at his throat. Unable to track with his eyes, Bessimer relied purely on instinct.
His waist was soaked with blood.
Where are you? Boss, Carlson.
He gritted his teeth. From their first clash, he'd sensed he couldn't win. Conditions were poor, but more than that, the opponent's demeanor had changed. Or was it a different person altogether?
Gone was the craven knight who'd kept distance out of fear, slithering away. The chevalier's eyes gleamed a feral blue. Bessimer relished the chill.
The coward, the cheat—he was a true powerhouse. Bessimer's instincts screamed it.
“Carlson!”
Isaac's voice rang out, followed by soldiers' footsteps. Bessimer exhaled in relief.
That instant—
“I warned you.”
A bluish glow rimmed the chevalier's blade. Bessimer thought,
I'm fucked.
Kagagagak!
Everything in the chevalier's path shredded. Even the wolf king couldn't match that power. Bessimer sensed death.
No bruise to his pride in taking the hit. He'd seen knights aplenty, but never this level.
Boom. Like a trebuchet smashing stone.
But the sound stemmed from clashing blades.
“...”
His dazzled vision cleared. Carlson stood before him. Though the chevalier called him by another name.
“Kyle.”
“That's enough.”
“Father awaits you.”
“I have no father.”
Carlson replied curtly. Both blades were shattered.
“And you die here.”
Carlson raised his broken sword. He stood firm; the chevalier staggered.
The plan had been to exhaust his aura in a frenzy and flee amid chaos—but Carlson ruined it.
“...I can't die here.”
“That's your opinion.”
“Father's orders. I return alive.”
Crunch.
The chevalier chewed something. Hard bits shattered against his teeth, the sound leaking out.
“Freaky bastard.”
Carlson tossed his broken sword, snatched Bessimer's, and charged. Whatever the chevalier was doing, he wouldn't wait.
End it quick. Sever the arm, disable, interrogate.
Air warped around Carlson's blade—optimal path.
But it was blocked.
“I still have business.”
The chevalier's voice had changed, like a bear speaking. A growl rumbled with each breath.
Carlson's two-handed swing was parried by the chevalier's one-handed broken sword.
Kaang!
The chevalier knocked Carlson's blade aside. A casual one-handed strike forced Carlson back steps.
“That guy's human?”
“Dunno.”
Bessimer asked; Carlson answered. The chevalier wobbled, on the verge of collapse. Skin pale, veins blackened. Sweat poured like rain.
The air around him shifted. Thick mana choked like the Demon Realm or Black Forest.
Spearmen crept behind him.
“Don't wanna die? Stay put!”
Bessimer bellowed. The soldiers froze.
Crunch.
The chevalier's foot crushed the earth. Sickening cracks—bones breaking? Muscles twisting?
Whoosh.
In a blink, his form blurred, then he was ten paces back.
“He's running!”
Bessimer shouted. Carlson pursued.
A feint. The chevalier wasn't fleeing—his target was elsewhere.
Carlson realized too late. The chevalier leaped, beyond human limits in height and speed. Unfollowable.
His goal: Bishop Alquin, cowering behind the soldiers, trembling pitifully.
The broken blade slashed air like a greatsword. A soldier before the bishop split at the waist—grotesque aura.
But it didn't reach. Ghostly-faced, ragged soldiers blocked the chevalier. Unlike the frozen Binvelt troops gripped by terror.
Led by Sigbrand, the Winterband soldiers were calm. With expressionless faces, they met the aura.
Arms severed, legs chopped—they fought as if it were someone else's body.
Mangled corpses rolled on the ground. The time they bought was fleeting.
The chevalier pressed toward the bishop. Dark blue blade-glow gathered.
“Enet, lend me your hand.”
Isaac placed his hand over Enet's. Crimson flames ignited on her palm, swiftly turning brilliant blue, flaring wildly. They spread, erupting in violet radiance.
Purple flames engulfed the chevalier. He danced in agony as the world burned violet, then blackened.
No sight, no sound. His flesh crumbled like ash in ruins.
It happened before Carlson took ten steps in pursuit.