Blue Blood
From the outer walls, the remaining Winterband soldiers surged toward the inner keep. The Boatmer troops who had barely seized the southern inner walls were cut down one by one or pushed back relentlessly. The inner keep's defenders had resisted fiercely—each worth ten men—but the outer wall soldiers were all veterans without exception. There were Aura Users among them, and even those who weren't wielded skills rivaling them. They not only cleared the gate's interior but began shoving back the enemies swarming toward Bergheim from atop the walls.
"You're late, Lucas."
"A horned male beast showed up and gave us some trouble."
Bergheim looked like hell, but Lucas wasn't unscathed either. Wool stuffing poked out from his gambeson in every direction, crusted with dried blood—blue or dark brown. He hadn't lost as much blood or suffered wounds as deep as Bergheim's, but the gashes across his body stood out starkly, and exhaustion was plain on his face.
If Bergheim handled the beasts that slipped past the outer walls inside the keep, Lucas's role was to tackle them on the outer walls themselves—buying time while the Goethe Count cast his spells, or dealing with beasts that didn't require magic or resisted it well.
"Did you get it?"
"It was like the one we fought last time."
"So you did. Your being here means the outer walls are secure?"
"Yes."
"Ha, I really thought I was done for."
Bergheim collapsed flat on his back. His legs had no strength left.
"You alright?"
"No, not alright. If I just doze off like this, maybe I'll go peacefully."
"Get up. It's not over yet."
"I really feel like I'm dying here? Just lemme rest a bit. My body's not moving. Just a sec. That guy, that guy? He's no pushover. Even for you..."
"This one?"
Lucas pointed his sword in one direction. The blade that had blocked Walter's strike was already broken. The power had been immense, but Lucas wasn't all that surprised. He'd seen his share of monsters on the outer walls.
Bergheim turned his head to look at Walter.
"Why's he like that?"
Walter was on his knees. His bloodshot eyes streamed crimson tears as his body shuddered. Was it backlash from overusing aura beyond his limits? It didn't quite fit—his movements seemed off somehow. He hadn't collapsed or slumped; it was as if his knees had been forced down against his will.
"Take a guess."
"Oh, right, the gate! The gate..."
"No need to worry about the inner gate."
"Huh?"
Lucas tapped the floor with his boot.
"What the...?"
Bergheim stared puzzled at the walkway floor. The walls atop Winterband were usually blanketed in snow and ice, but this was different. Frost covered the entire passage—not just the floor, but the battlements too. Thick layers encased the walls like a fortress of ice. A sight worthy of its nickname, the winter fortress.
"...When did this happen?"
Bergheim's puzzled look melted into a wry smile. Only one person in Winterband could pull off a feat like this.
"Good work, Berg."
In the midst of the fierce battle, someone ascended the walls with a leisurely gait that somehow felt relaxed. Golden hair, blue eyes, bushy beard, a face like granite. It was the Goethe Count.
"You've arrived. As you see, we're in no shape for noble pleasantries."
"Just flop there comfortably."
The count, his fur coat in tatters draped haphazardly, had a pipe clenched in his teeth as he approached Walter.
"It's you, then. The one who's been steadily killing my soldiers."
"He, shouldn't, use, magic, on people."
Walter glared at the count with murderous intent.
"People? You still think of yourself as human?"
"If you, kill me..."
Walter shakily raised a hand, aiming to grab the count's throat. But it never reached. Lucas casually swung his broken sword. Walter's arm severed clean off.
What spilled out wasn't red blood. It was blue blood, like a beast's. Not blood mixed with mana, but blood made of mana itself.
"...What the hell?"
Bergheim's eyes widened. It happened sometimes. Warriors pushing aura to the limits of their bodies and vessels unleashed superhuman power. When a cherished comrade, lover, or family was in mortal peril—or had died. When they felt they'd be torn apart by the monster before them unless they drove themselves to the brink. In those moments, their blood mixed red with blue mana, turning dark navy or murky purple-black.
Bergheim himself had neared that edge moments ago, his arms caked in nearly black blood. But not blue like Walter's. Unless it was a beast, a body ran red with blood.
"Lucas, take his head."
"Grrrrr—"
With a beastly growl, Walter resisted the magic. But the count's glowing blue gaze was unyielding. He couldn't escape the phase change prison. Slash. Walter's head came off. Blue blood sprayed from the stump.
"Your knight is dead!"
Lucas bellowed, hoisting the head. The tide had turned long ago. Ordinary infantry couldn't match veterans for whom tussling with beasts for nights on end was routine. And the severed head of Walter crushed Boatmer morale.
The mercenaries broke first. Already on the back foot, their flight deepened the siege troops' despair.
"Outta the way, move it! Get down, you bastards!"
"Don't push, fuck, don't push!"
"Don't come up, stop climbing!"
"Aaaagh—"
Winterband veterans reaped the enemy like farmers at harvest, while clueless Boatmer troops kept pouring up from below. Total chaos. Soldiers sensing defeat fought desperately to retreat down the walls, and more than a few tumbled off in the scramble. The icy surface didn't help.
"Not shocked?"
"By what?"
"A man's body spilling beast blood."
"Not a man—a beast."
"No, but it sure looked human."
"It was a beast."
"Ah... yes, sir."
Bergheim nodded at the count's words.
"But sir."
"Hm?"
"Why'd they attack like this? Don't nobles at least trade words on pretexts before fighting?"
The question bubbled up as tension eased in Bergheim's mind.
"You seem to have forgotten—you're a noble too."
"Well, yeah, but I've never played the part. Deep-rooted executioner stock."
"I'm curious myself. No letters from Boatmer Viscount to me?"
"None. I'd have passed it on pronto. Whew—"
Bergheim grunted, hauling himself up. His ass stung against the frosted floor.
"Viscount must be desperate. Pretexts can be cooked up anytime."
The count inhaled from his pipe, smoke curling.
"Gimme a hit too."
Bergheim took the pipe and puffed.
"Whew, feels like I'm alive again."
Clang—Kaching—
"Ack? Cough, cough—"
Bergheim choked on smoke spotting Lucas clashing blades with an opponent. Walter's headless body swung at the count, blocked by Lucas. The corpse, drenching the floor in blue blood, traded blows with Lucas a few times before collapsing on its own. Then it moved no more.
"Just now, the corpse—"
"A beast. Artificially made, it seems."
The count eyed the body impassively.
"Beasts... made? Is that possible?"
"Someone raised the possibility."
Marcel Reich hadn't just brought the First Prince's message that day with the long-range comms gear.
"Berg, can you move?"
"Sorry, not really. Eyes keep closing."
"I see. Keep the pipe safe."
"Huh?"
Bergheim's body floated up. The count's phase change magic.
"Lucas."
"Yes."
"Time to abandon the fortress."
"Understood."
Lucas pulled a horn pipe from his belt pouch.
Toot—Toooooot—Toot—Toooooot—
Isaac pondered, as always, thoughts chaining one after another.
Why had that happened? Why had that gone that way? The tales from dying old Yonas—of kingdom and family events. Gaps riddled those stories. Take the Blood Succession Rite. No one in the royal circle was blind to the Second Prince's madness. The royalists and parliamentarians had clashed for years. Surely the king, the First Prince, the royalists had guarded against the Second Prince and parliamentarians. The rite would have had ample guards, elite knights, maybe even mages protecting the First Prince.
Yet why had it ended in a bloodbath? Why had the king, First Prince, and royalists all perished? They'd prepared, no doubt. But the Second Prince's forces wielded power beyond their expectations. That had to be it.
Such thoughts had sprouted in Isaac's mind while observing Everbin fighting Carlson. Adel judged Everbin was pushing himself to the brink with iron will. But Isaac suspected otherwise. Per Lichtenhaur's writings, beastification at aura's limit took forms based on one's imagery and will. Yet both Shivali and Everbin showed identical early symptoms—and no more. Mutations, yes, but no full beastification.
Sixth Swordmaster, Everbin Foierhar. Kyle, who never became the seventh. Beastification. Mutations. Boatmer Viscount's knights. Boatmer Viscount from the Republic. Parliamentarians, Empire, Second Prince. The Empire's moves after the kingdom became its territory and the Second Prince took the regency. Karl's words: part of a grand stage.
"Ow."
Mid-thought, Isaac rubbed his aching wrist. The one twisted blocking Adel's strike. Not fully broken, but badly swollen. The Wolf King's rune stone granted exceptional regeneration, but not this fast.
"Couldn't you go easier?"
"Would they have listened if I did?"
Adel shot back. Battle raged outside the tent. Earth quaked everywhere, air shattered, sword gleams flashed, gales howled. Soldiers and mercenaries fought their war; knights and warriors theirs. But it wouldn't last. One-sided slaughter. The Granak warriors overwhelmed. Karl's knights fought valiantly, but it wasn't enough. While they tangled with Binvelt's Aura Users, Granak warriors pulverized the rest.
Isaac shivered watching. Each a match for a decent Aura User. A chill ran down his neck. How had such mighty Granak met extinction around the Second Prince's regency? What had happened then?
"Then why suggest a parley?"
Adel asked Isaac, lost in thought. She showed no shock at stabbing Karl. If Isaac hadn't, she would have.
"Needed to confirm something."
"Confirm?"
"Kuhuhu."
A sudden laugh leaked from the tent. The heads of Mark Baron and Hausen Baron rolled on the floor—no other movement. It came from Karl, sword impaling him from mouth to occiput. His body heaved with each chuckle. His head, lolling toward the ceiling under the blade's weight, slowly righted. He yanked out the sword piercing to his skull. The blood soaking the blade was blue.
"Ah, really. Unbelievable."
Karl muttered, cracking his neck side to side.
"Son. What... is that?"
Even Adel was stunned now.
"Guess we'll find out from here."
Isaac shrugged.