Reunion
Two days of relentless shelling and catapult barrages had left Winterband's soldiers with dozens of casualties. Among the civilians who had evacuated to the inner keep, the injured and dead easily surpassed a hundred. Some had been burned by ignited pitch or oil barrels, their bodies burst open or crushed by boulders and cannonballs. But most of the victims had fallen to an unidentified smoke.
Liquids carried in jars tangled in nets shattered on impact, billowing thick clouds of haze. Soldiers and civilians poisoned by the fumes lost their minds and turned on one another with swords, axes, clubs, and stones.
"Die, die, die!"
They thrashed wildly to choke the life out of their fellows. Death was inevitable in war. But no one had foreseen it coming at the hands of comrades, neighbors, brothers, parents, or children.
Yet the bulk of Winterband's soldiers didn't view it as tragedy. They weren't outraged or despairing. These were men who had faced beasts in murderous cold for years. They were already half-mad. You couldn't survive here without it. Finding a squadmate you'd fought beside yesterday hacked into chunks tomorrow was routine—they'd just sweep the remains into a cart for the pyres.
Winterband was more than half immigrants, vagrants, criminals, exiles. Murder over clashing interests, cultures, or values wasn't uncommon. So Bergheim and his squad carried on as usual.
The count was still atop the outer walls, unleashing 5th Class majesty on the beasts with a torrent of spells. Winterband's on-duty soldiers killed beasts—and mad civilians and comrades alike. Chaos reigned. Man slew beast, beast slew man, man slew man.
"Winterband as usual," Bergheim remarked.
"Kinda fresh this time, though. The baron's lookin' like a demon."
"Yeah? To me, he's a horned pig."
Not one of Bergheim's squad was tainted by the frenzy. They'd breathed the smoke and stayed sane. Veterans numb to fear from daily beast assaults. The longer you'd lasted here, the deeper the terror etched in your soul. Hallucinations from smoke barely registered.
"What the hell's this smoke? Breathe it and you're fucked?"
"Shit, ain't we already fucked then?"
"No big deal. Been on extended shifts since Boatmer's bastards showed."
"Then just take out whoever attacks first. Kinda hurts when it's our own."
"Is that the baron? Voice matches, anyway. Got it!"
"Aye, Baron. Orders received!"
His squadmates replied with cheerful vigor to Bergheim's command. It wasn't just them—most Winterband squads were the same. They mowed down frenzied civilians and soldiers without hesitation. Accidentally killing sane comrades happened, but it was minor.
"Mad fools..."
An elderly druid, eyes rolled back to whites only, muttered in lament.
"What's the situation, Melgara?" Boatmer Viscount asked.
The druid stood before a broad stone slab, sharing senses with a red-tailed hawk overlooking Winterband.
"Th-they're just... killing everything. Ruthless."
"Good."
"No. They're really slaughtering them all. Beasts, civilians, soldiers. Hell itself."
"No sentiments—just answer what I ask. How many defenders on the walls?"
"Smoke's thick, hard to see. But the ones up top are mostly dead."
"The gates?"
"Empty."
"Walter, tell Baron Ripe to advance."
The viscount commanded the knight at his side.
"Yes, Father. And the other matter you mentioned?"
The viscount pondered briefly, then nodded.
"Proceed."
"Understood."
"Walter."
He called the knight heading to the camp center.
"Yes."
"Don't die. You're my son too."
"Yes, Father."
Walter bowed and departed.
"That's all, druid. I have what I need."
"...Hoo."
Melgara exhaled deeply. Pupils returned to her once-all-white eyes. Blood tears trickled from the corners. She'd overexerted on the viscount's orders. Sharing senses went beyond beast communion—overlapping souls entirely. Burden enough on its own, relayed for nearly half a day. She teetered on collapse.
But the viscount had one more question.
"Melgara. What you told me—is it certain?"
"What?"
"The prophecy. It's definite?"
"...I told you exactly what I saw. You stood in a great city's square, all looking up to you in awe and fear."
"Yes, that. Your prophecies have never failed so far?"
"In my life, I've seen such visions only three times. Not always perfect, but never wrong."
"That's enough."
"You're odder the more I see. Mingling with old and new church folk, shamans—and believing my reading."
"I believe what benefits me, druid. Even if it's from a stinking, worthless crone."
"...Business done? Leave. I need rest."
"Tomorrow too."
Melgara nodded faintly and shuffled off.
"..."
The viscount watched her ragged back. Fierce winds tousled his hair. The gale felt refreshing. All winds blew his way now. The kingdom's fall was inevitable. In the new order, Boatmer would seize the center—not as viscount, but house reborn. And Klaus himself would claim a new name.
It took long, Father.
He gazed at the overcast sky, indulging rare sentiment. The unease flickering in his heart was mere old woman's dread.
The Granak warriors emerging from the Black Forest numbered around three hundred. The forest from Oton lands to Binvelt was far more rugged, mana denser. Meaning far fiercer beasts lurked.
Yet not a single Granak warrior bore wounds. A few were drenched in blue blood, faces steel-hard. They'd even field-dressed slain beasts, donning hides and packing meat. From afar, they looked like beasts mingled among warriors.
Each warrior matched Bessimer's bulk—or exceeded it—regardless of gender. Isaac understood how Asra, a crone, could be so massive. It was their norm. Adel approaching him stood out instead—body like any kingdom woman, dwarfed among them.
No warrior scorned her. The two strongest auras flanked her three paces back, escorting like guards.
Isaac dismounted his hellhound, trudging slowly toward Adel. Endless worries swirled: Would she recognize his changed form? What if her thoughts differed from his? Did his seventy-year soul still feel her as family? Did his identity, gapped by decades, remain her son? Did she secretly resent him? Was dragging her into war right...?
Each step brought myriad thoughts. Fleeting ones.
"Isaac!"
One embrace sufficed. Adel buried her son against her chest, hugging tight.
"...Ah."
Isaac's hands flailed, lost. Where they went, where his feet stood—irrelevant. In that instant, time-buried memories surged vivid: laps lulling him in spring breezes, cradling his fevered thrashing, unyielding through mana rampages...
Long ago. His entire world. A firm embrace. Narrow against infinite magic realms, yet irreplaceable warmth no spell could match.
"...Mother."
At last, Isaac's arms encircled her. Small, rough, callused hands stroked his back.
Getting sappy in old age.
He swallowed the surging emotion.
"I missed you, son."
Adel pulled back, gazing at his face. Scarred hands caressed forehead, eyes, cheeks, jaw.
"You've grown so much in a year."
She smiled.
"When did this happen? All grown. Just like Helmut as a boy. No wonder Yonas said you've changed a lot."
She kept stroking his hair.
"No injuries?"
"None."
"Before war, even scratches need care."
"Got it."
"Eating well? Seem thin for your height."
Mother-son banter flowed.
"Wish I could cook for you. Miss Gisela."
"Can't drag Nanny to war's heart."
"Hans okay? Worried for the new dad."
"Deployed first. We'll join soon."
Small talk shifted to war.
"How'd you gather so many warriors?"
Via long-range comms, Asra had said her will wasn't all Granak's. Unless tied to great tribe bonds, factions split on aiding Goethe. Passing Ulern's trial proved outsider Isaac a great warrior—Granak kin, son of Brunscar and Asra's daughter Adel.
Views on Isaac, Binvelt, Goethe varied, so Asra doubted rallying all. Three hundred far exceeded expectations. Granak warriors: each an Aura User, survivors on beast meat from birth. Mana in veins like beasts, aura as natural as breath from hunting. One could rout ten common soldiers.
Just like the books. Amazing.
Bar Adel, they matched his imaginings: beast-blooded humans, yetis, something in between. Radical future mages dubbed them "demonic humans."
"They haven't fully committed yet."
"Huh?"
Isaac tilted his head.
"Half came from curiosity."
"What...?"
"Understand your mom a bit."
"...?"
"Brother!"
Bessimer's bellow rang from afar. Lightning flashed midair. A crow mid-flight bisected, plummeting.
"...I get it now."
Isaac blocked Adel's sword stroke. Wrist twisted, blade half-cleft, body trembling from sudden aura surge and exhaustion.
Few in the kingdom could beat Adel with a sword.
Isaac recalled his father's words.
You didn't mention this level.
Granak warriors' eyes fixed on the twelve-year novice. They snorted, bared fangs, twitched cheeks—each showing intrigue their way. The rookie had blocked a top warrior's strike.