Chapter 52: Hopes Devoured by Wandering Wights
Those who had set out for new lands harboring hopes ended up captured by wandering wraiths, their flesh and blood torn away before their dreams could come true. Over a hundred such souls. Yet even that wasn't enough for the Wights, who licked their chops and smacked their lips in hunger. Some even quarreled over who would eat what.
Then they turned their heads. As one did, the others fixed their gazes in the same direction. Not far off loomed a massive wall. And though it was distant, a pulse of life emanated from it—fresh blood and meat from delectable living beings.
The Wights tossed aside the bones of their leftovers. There was no more "food" here. Surely, far more awaited them there. The Wights began to move. One stirred, then two, then four, eight... thirty... a hundred... five hundred. Thus, over a thousand Wights marched onward.
The walls of Harma Territory, stretching fifteen meters high, had fallen into disrepair after prolonged monster incursions. In monster-prone areas, walls needed meticulous checks and repairs wherever they crumbled. But Harma received no proper supplies, leaving it vulnerable—not just in wall maintenance, but in arrows and bows for defense, siege weapons, and more.
"Argh! Damn lunatics!"
A soldier on watch atop the wall spat curses. The spot he'd just stepped on had given way beneath him, nearly sending him plummeting to his death. At that height, survival was unlikely; even if luck prevailed, he'd be crippled for life.
"Shit, standing watch here makes me anxious as hell!"
His comrades, sprawled on the wall playing cards amid discarded gear, chuckled slyly.
"What can ya do? Reality sucks."
"Yeah, we can barely feed ourselves—how're we supposed to fix walls?"
"And with refugees piling up? Wall repairs are a joke; our rations got cut too. Can't get worse."
"Ugh, why take 'em in at all?"
"Beats me. Knights say, 'Refugees are still Ronia's people!' while they feast in luxury..."
"Do they know we're digging roots to survive?"
"Maybe it's a blessing. If the west or east demands troops, we just conscript refugees."
The soldiers laughed. It meant their own safety was likely assured.
"Man, at this rate, I won't retire comfortably. Thought I'd settle in the countryside once this damn war ends... but no money for that! Found a nice village, though."
"Where?"
"Not far from Harma. Has a monastery—five days' walk?"
"Oh, that one... burned down."
The soldier's eyes bulged. "What?"
"Bandit raid, looks like."
"...No safe spots left! It was such a kind village."
Curious, the others asked, "Which one?"
"There, at the mountain base."
The soldier who'd slipped was grumbling and pointing toward the hills when—
"Wh-what...?"
A horde approached. Refugee groups numbered ten at most, a hundred if lucky. But this was easily over a thousand.
"Refugees...?"
As confusion spread, one soldier shouted.
"No! That's an army! Armored—blue tabards... Ronia Eastern Army! Why here?! This is neutral ground!"
"D-damn! With troops short, they're invading to conscript..."
"No."
One soldier, frozen, pointed rigidly at the approaching mass toward Harma.
"......?"
"Look closer. That's not the Ronia Eastern Army..."
The soldiers peered where he indicated. A figure raced ahead at terrifying speed. Blue-tabarded armor, but its face was grotesquely rotted.
"Those... are all Wights."
As the sun dipped into sunset, swallowed by the mountains, darkness fell. Villagers extinguished candles, locked doors, and settled for sleep in silence.
"Everyone up!"
"Alert! Emergency!"
"Anyone who can move, grab weapons!"
"Gather anything that can be used as one!"
Soldiers dashed about with torches, rousing households and herding street refugees. The sudden uproar left residents bewildered and anxious.
Soldiers burst into the inn where Loki rested over a continental map.
"......?"
"You—the pharmacist?"
"...Herbalist."
"Whatever. You can assess wounds or illnesses, right?"
Loki disliked the rude bellowing. Glimpsing soldiers rushing past the entrance, curiosity piqued, he asked,
"What's happening?"
"...A plague horde's coming. Prepare yourselves."
"Plague horde?"
He'd heard of rebel hordes, but plague? As Loki stood puzzled, the soldier groaned,
"Worm Pest. Wights infected with Worm Pest are heading here. We need every able body now."
Less than eight hundred gathered atop the walls—makeshift militia lacking proper arms or armor. Weapons? Boiling water, scattered stones, a few bows and arrows. Conscripts included elders and boys.
Poorly equipped and untrained, victory was impossible.
"We... gotta run, right? It's the plague! Normals can't fight it!"
"C-can we slip out the back gate?"
"No way. Look at their speed! We'd be caught quick."
Amid refugees' despair, the commander bellowed,
"It's fine! Terrifying plague or not, they're untrained! Dumber than smart monsters! Our numbers match theirs! Sieges need double to breach! We won't fall!"
A rare knight's morale boost rang hollow. Refugees lacked experience too—no real weapons against sword-proof, shield-breaking monsters carrying fatal contagion. Without walls, they'd be instant fodder.
Loki climbed the wall to observe, Salat and Ash following. He muttered mockingly at the commander's words,
"...Even with walls, we can't win."
Salat paled at the distant black mass, hiding behind Loki; Ash blanched similarly.
Desperate to live, Ash demanded of Loki, "What now? Stay put?!"
"Indeed. No need for needless trouble. We leave."
Ash, terrified, jabbed at the thousand charging Wights. "Leave? Facing that? You or I, we'd be meat the moment we step out!"
"Not me. You, maybe."
Ash gaped at Loki's jesting tone, then backed away, eyes on the horde.
"We... stay here. Safer! They're not human—no smarts like monsters. They won't climb!"
True enough. Wights, born of parasitic Worm Pest plants, couldn't siege. But they wielded weapons—as seen in the village where Loki met Salat.
They could use ladders. Just none visible.
Most were bare-handed. Unarmed foes meant no siege threat, monster or not.
Loki narrowed his eyes, studying them. But their physical prowess is monstrous.
He foresaw defeat in this defense.
The Wights spotted wall soldiers, eyes reddening, jaws unhinging with rips of torn flesh. Black blood and Worm Pest oozed forth.
-GRRAAAAAHH!
A horrific screech erupted as one charged full-tilt at Harma. Bounding bipedally, it shifted to quadrupedal predator sprint. Armored human forms, but speeds beyond mortal limits. One led; the rest surged.
"Hey! Fire the catapults!"
At the knight's order, soldiers loaded stones. Harma's were small—hurling head-sized rocks in clusters.
Effective against armies, perhaps...
"Loose!"
The knight drew sword; the arm slammed forward, flinging stones like meteors. Most missed, but hits thudded heavily, scattering Wights.
"It works!"
Knights grinned, but Loki tsked. "...No effect."
Fallen Wights twitched, rose. Skull-crushed ones pressed on undeterred. Armored bodies were weapons; undead tenacity endured.
"......?!"
"They... ain't dead?"
"Keep throwing!"
Stones rained, but Wights dodged or shrugged off, charging at cavalry speeds. Quadrupedal, drooling black blood and maggots—demons from hell.
"Th-they're coming?!"
Terror gripped soldiers at the onslaught.
But heavy thuds shocked them moments later.
THUD!THUD!THUD!
Wights reached the wall, leaping for prey—but fifteen meters proved insurmountable. Brute force smashed them back, rebounding.
"...H-ha... Haha! What idiots! They're dumb as rocks!"
One cry sparked cheers from the fearful. No climbing? Victory assured.
But...
That hope began to fade.