The Scariest Thing Descends (4)

The name alone suggested it would be a terrifying place. The warriors wore grim expressions, trying to mask their unease.

“A graveyard? A house?”

It wasn’t until they overheard the prisoners from Graveyard Valley, whose eyes had widened in disbelief, that the truth came out.

“That place…? It’s a hospital?”

A pitiful clinic in the slums, run by some deranged philanthropists. There were even testimonies that they treated incurable patients and children. So the bizarre name had just been bravado. What a relief.

Having reached this bright conclusion, the northern warriors burst into loud laughter. With much lighter hearts, they headed toward the appointed location, cracking jokes only they found funny—about turning the Graveyard House into a real graveyard, for instance.

“Let’s go—! Time to rip some guts out properly—!”

It was probably the worst misunderstanding of their entire lives.

----------

‘This is supposed to be a clinic?’

A yeti slammed violently into the building and collapsed with a lump on its head. Having lost yet another monster, Warlord Reshe felt like he was losing his mind.

‘Isn’t this a monster den?’

“Push forward—!”

“Run— Chaaa—!”

Once again, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shouts from the front and rear lines clashed. The battle situation was turning unfavorable on all sides. The only screams echoing were those of the berserkers, and even those were scattered as their formation tore apart.

Warlord Reshe ground his teeth.

‘This is exactly why you don’t bring kids under two hundred years old on raid parties.’

Though even if he had brought veterans with plenty of pillaging experience, they would have been just as flustered in this situation.

‘If they call a shithole like this a hospital, then those lunatics must be the patients.’

There was a flaw in his logic. They really were patients.

First came the one-armed, the lame, and those suffering from various mental illnesses and homesickness. The berserkers, who had imagined patients on the brink of death, were promptly kicked by orcs sobbing from bipolar disorder or centaurs with mechanical legs. Many of the severely injured patients were proven fighters—ground warriors who, like Nathan, had been kidnapped to fighting arenas across the lands, suffered major injuries, and been abandoned.

The Eleim, vastly inferior in muscle and size, were swept away like autumn leaves. Then there were the mana-disease patients. The incurable Eleim whose mana hearts had shattered from magical overuse were, for today only, reliving their glory days. Thanks to four or five high-density mana IV drips. They would probably suffer vomiting and aftereffects for months, but that didn’t matter. An excuse to use magic without restraint didn’t come every day.

Hail and magical gales raged beneath the clear sky’s roof. Sudden disasters shattered the invaders’ skulls and shins. The warriors hastily raised their yeti-hide shields. The magically formed attacks scattered and vanished the moment they struck the leather. The warriors, embarrassed by their own fear, let out stupid laughs.

But it was too early to feel relieved. Frying pans flew unerringly into the backs of their grinning heads. Because they had triggered the traps underfoot.

Just how many damn traps were laid here? Step on a stair and a snare would spring out. Lean against a wall and a rope-tied boulder would come flying. The pride the berserkers had built over hundreds of years of debauchery proved utterly useless against just two days’ worth of preparations.

The patients, whose home had been attacked only recently, fought with razor-sharp fury. To protect their sanctuary.

“Damn it, what the hell are those stupid hairy bastards doing!”

The most decisive factor in their defeat was that the beasts they had brought could not participate in the battle. The bulky yetis could not fit through the narrow doors. Enraged, they pushed against pillars and pounded on walls. But the building, with its solid frame, did not even budge, let alone collapse.

They had expected a flimsy shack built by weak idealists since it was called a clinic. Who would have thought that in the middle of this slum there would be a structure like a thousand-year fortress of ice walls? It made no sense.

‘In the end, there’s only one choice left. Subdue that mayfly bastard and take him.’

Warlord Reshe glanced sideways at his rival, the one-eyed Kori. Only the two of them remained as warlords now. Because—

“I already caught one two days ago, didn’t I? One on one. Smashed his head with a helmet.”

Nathan Maia sneered.

In the open space where two Eleim and one human faced off, Nathan, standing between the warlords, let out a long yawn. His arrogant expression was clearly visible through the open-front helmet.

“You thought you had the perfect opportunity, but you’re wrong, you long-eared worms. You were the ones lured here.”

Reshe glanced at the upper windows visible from the courtyard. Unlike the outer windows, there were no waiting troops inside.

“Lured? That’s an obvious lie. What if I go up there and come back with one of your brats?”

“The defenseless patients and children were evacuated long ago. You think we’d leave kids on a battlefield? Your worthless parents might have raised you that way… Actually, looking at you, maybe they really did. My apologies. I offer my deepest condolences for your presumably passionate childhood.”

The one-eyed warrior growled. The pendant swaying on his chest was probably a portrait of his mother, proof of filial piety.

“What did you say, you meat-stew dreg?”

“Dreg?”

Nathan ignored the nonsensical insult.

“I’ll say it again—you were lured to me. In case things went wrong, I needed to quickly subdue you and take you hostage. But at this rate, it looks like I won’t need to rush. Your subordinates can’t even get up to the second floor, can they? Beni, what’s the casualty report on our side?”

He even spoke into a tablet. The warlords’ faces twisted with rage.

“Sapiens, your arrogance is—”

“Quiet. I can’t hear.”

“Ramkaf lost a leg? Didn’t Sweetie drag him off? Tell me if anything happens. I’ll head up right away.”

“Head up right away? You?”

The one-eyed warrior’s fist, wrapped in knuckles, trembled.

Nathan nodded.

“Right away. Me. Why?”

“I’m curious what gives you such confidence.”

Reshe quickly reached out to restrain the one-eyed warrior.

“You wouldn’t provoke two of us without any basis.”

“Just by looking at how you two hold your weapons, I can already tell. Gripping both axe handles close isn’t good. If the opponent has a longsword, one hand should be extended. How are you planning to counter? Yeah, I’m talking to you. The one with both eyes.”

Nathan barely suppressed a second yawn. To the warlords, it was even more humiliating than the first.

“I’ve thought this before, but why is the skill gap so severe? What the hell have you lot been doing for hundreds of years? Hibernating?”

The one-eyed ear-scratcher growled and charged from behind. A considerably large opponent. A heavy fist wrapped in knuckles flew toward his head. A raw, unrefined strike. And much slower than that Mornid bastard.

No. In a way, it was thanks to that guy. If he hadn’t faced Mornid, he probably ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wouldn’t have seen it so clearly. The trajectories of strikes exchanged at the risk of his life were still vivid before his eyes.

‘Fighting that demon-possessed madman really did open my eyes.’

Should he be grateful? Thanks to it, he had come to understand his father’s teachings more deeply.

Nathan recalled the way the opponent had swung his lead hand.

‘Then where will the weight shift?’

A prediction born from experience. Nathan extended his sword backward as if sheathing it. The blade tip sank into the belly as naturally as flowing water. “Sucked in” might have been more accurate.

“Ugh.”

A horrifying resistance filled his hand. Schwaaack. He hadn’t deeply pierced the intestines. But the hide tore hideously outward. The agony of the peritoneum being shredded. The powerless fist flailed past the back of his head.

“Grrk—”

“If I knew you couldn’t even react properly, I should’ve stabbed with the pommel.”

Nathan swiftly withdrew the blade and sheathed it. He turned to check on the one-eyed warrior, who was kneeling and groaning.

“Take off the knuckles, cry that you surrender while begging upstairs. They might treat you.”

A wound like that was enough to break one’s will to fight. No need to waste energy on a finishing blow. There was no telling when Ulukabo might show up dragging demons.

With his two-hander resting on his shoulder, Nathan turned his head toward the next opponent.

“What about you? Gonna surrender?”

The warlord ground his teeth and drew another axe. Spinning the twin axes like a circus performer, he spat out a threat.

“I’ve killed plenty of Sapiens, but you’re the first prey like you. If I cut off your limbs and bring back just the torso, it’ll make quite the trophy.”

“Prey?”

Nathan blinked.

“You’ve killed people?”

There would be no further questions. Reshe had intended to make sure of that. But the Sapiens simply stepped backward and easily dodged the two axes Reshe swung with his entire body. Light footsteps that didn’t match someone carrying a heavy blade on his shoulder. In fact, the longsword was no longer on his shoulder. The blade, which had spun half a turn, pierced through Reshe’s boot.

Reshe screamed loudly and fell to his knees.

“I asked you a question. Have you killed people? Why?”

The victor of the battle of wits was Nathan. Since Nathan wished it, the conversation continued.

Blood vessels bulged in Reshe’s eyes.

“How many? Explain who and how you killed them.”

“Countless times, you son of a bitch. I stuffed your mother in a stew and covered her with her own—”

The embedded blade tip pulled free, slicing through the ankle bone. The scream turned into a sob.

“Why? Was there a justifiable reason? Self-defense, perhaps?”

Reshe did not answer. Instead, still kneeling, he swung his axes wildly. A response born not of courage but of fear. Naturally, Nathan had no intention of getting hit. Sighing as he retreated, he quietly observed the opponent.

Still, perhaps because the man held a title, even in those seemingly reckless swings there were traces of training…

‘Strange.’

The odd impression stimulated Nathan’s keen eye. The pattern was eerily similar to that of the northern barbarians on the ground far below. The style that had been dissected hundreds of times in swordsmanship manuals produced by the Federation’s martial artists. The origin of that style. Or a path even the barbarians had already passed.

‘If there’s any connection, I’ll find out eventually.’

Nathan shook his head and raised his sword. Then he beat the opponent, who had exhausted himself swinging his axes, with the flat of the blade, the crossguard, and the pommel. Avoiding vital points, but mercilessly. Until the man finally threw down his axes and collapsed.

“Stop, stop—!”

What finally broke his will was a strike to the shoulder. As the dislocated shoulder twisted in a grotesque direction, painful drool dripped from the Eleim’s bruised face.

“Explain who and how you killed them. Heteromorph.”

Startled by the two-hander rising above his shoulder again, the man stammered out what it meant. In the northern reaches of the Heavens, humans were allowed to roam free. When they struggled to survive the winter and built settlements, the berserkers’ festival would begin. After the festival, half were left alive. For the next festival.

“And the other half? What do you do with them?”

Of course he wasn’t asking again because he hadn’t heard properly. Nathan’s ears had clearly caught the word “boiled.”

Nathan felt blood rush to his head.

“Do you want me to kill you comfortably?”

Warlord Reshe shook his head. It was a denial not of “comfortably” but of “do you want me to kill you.” But when Nathan gripped the tip of the two-hander like a short spear, Reshe realized his mistake.

“So you know you’ve sinned, you beast who resembles a human.”

Reshe crawled backward in despair. He wailed in a way he would never want his subordinates to hear. But the sharp weight descending from behind with steady footsteps. The three-hundred-year panorama unfolding before him. Certain of death, Reshe lost his mind.

“I was told it should be made into a humiliating incident rather than a bloody retribution. Better to reduce any possibility of retaliation, even slightly. After all, the opponent’s scale is an entire kingdom.”

Nathan gritted his teeth and pulled out the longsword. Not from the one-eyed warrior’s body, but from the soft grass in the backyard. The unconscious warlord’s blood-mixed drool soaked the blades of grass.

The owner of this house was Beni. If that was truly Beni’s wish, then Nathan, as a guest, could not rudely slaughter someone in the yard.

“But let’s meet again whenever you have time.”

Exercising restraint scraped from the very bottom, Nathan took a deep breath and exhaled. Then he climbed the wall toward the second floor.

“Clean the grease off your neck. It’ll make the blade smell.”

----------

Unlike the backyard, the atmosphere inside the building was bright. Thanks to the clear momentum of victory. The building was terrifyingly sturdy, and the young berserkers who had only hunted the weak had lost all momentum. Hrozka’s arrows had also played a part. Whenever someone fell into danger, the greatbow would unfailingly pierce the arm raised to swing an axe, saving their life.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to evacuate non-combatants so quickly. I admit that. I underestimated the director too much.”

Hrozka, who had just pinned both wrists with a single arrow, quickly nocked another and shouted.

“Still, I don’t understand. Why on earth—”

“—did we choose to fight in this cherished hospital instead of the gangsters’ maze-like sewer area? Two reasons.”

First. Methane leaks in the sewer area had begun to worsen. If those primitive heads figured out how to strike flint, they would be trapped and massacred. That was why the sewer gangs had tried to stop them from outside.

Hrozka nodded vigorously, as if he had never considered it. Aha.

“Now I get it. So what’s the second reason?”

The forest elf expected a more logical answer. For example: aside from magic and monsters, pure physical ability of Eleim was weaker than that of ground species. Given the northern custom of hating magic, berserkers relied on monsters. Therefore, by blocking the beasts from entering the hospital building, the rest could be handled by the ground-born warriors. Or that this was the only place prepared for something like an invasion…

But Beni’s answer was none of those.

Beni pulled a rope with a bright smile. The pouch, carrying centrifugal force, struck the head of a berserker who was grunting as he climbed through the window. When a pouch of finely ground and blessed salt burst in front of one’s face, even if one wasn’t a demon, one couldn’t help but scream. Clutching their eyes and shedding streams of tears, several fell from the ladders. Emergency treatment was urgent, but unfortunately the Graveyard House clinic was closed today. For personal reasons.

“Since you’ve already turned my building into your playground as you pleased, shouldn’t I test it out at least once?”

The cheerful building owner detonated a second salt bomb. Amid the echoing screams, Hrozka shook his head.

“You told me not to remodel it, but once you started helping it looked fun, so you went ahead and did it anyway. Is this romance?”

“It is romance.”

A few minutes later, in front of two hundred berserkers sprawled outside the hospital, a warlord wrapped tightly in bandages appeared. Suspended from something, dangling outside a third-floor window. Of course, unlike the northerners’ methods, he wasn’t hung by the neck from a pole or nailed to a frame. But which was more humiliating was unclear.

The one-eyed warrior was cradled like a baby in the arms of the alligator doctor, Tuzetey.

“Damn it, Warlord—!”

“Warlord Resheee—!”

The warlord, whose face said he wanted to die, buried his face in the adult-sized swaddling clothes wrapped around his body.

Beni declared solemnly.

“Do you admit defeat, you idiots?”

“No.”

From behind the dejected berserkers, someone slowly rose. Unremarkable height, unremarkable build. But unlike the berserkers, he wore a cloak.

Nathan, looking down from the rooftop, tilted his head. The fatigue staining the corners of his eyes felt somehow familiar. He seemed to resemble someone.

Nathan looked to the side. Nilly, clutching her head, was trembling all over and trying to hide beneath the railing.

“Nilly?”

“Why is that bastard… here…?”

Nathan turned to look at the man. Now that he saw it, the cloak looked familiar too. Similar to those worn by the swordsmen who followed Mornid. The man removed his hood. Long ears appeared, and white hair. The same as Nilly’s.

“I, Protector Lord Morbi, do not acknowledge the defeat of the North.”

He waved his hand like a conductor. Ice fragments bloomed from his fingertips and drew a strange shape. The mages inside the building gritted their teeth in preparation, but it was not an attack spell. It was a kind of art composed of ice sculptures. The glittering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pieces shared halos of light. Intersecting and weaving, the light eventually transformed into a certain form.

An endlessly tall mountain covered in snow. At its peak rested a massive circular structure like a giant’s head. Inside the complex structure that vaguely resembled an astronomical observatory, a dragon was trapped like a taxidermied beast. If it existed in reality, it was probably the largest dragon Nathan knew. Not just in real life, but including history books.

The structure rotated. So did the body of the dragon nailed inside it. The scales, whose color had been hard to discern beneath piled snow and frost, were a sinister red-and-black hue like a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠venomous insect. The dragon’s head, writhing in agony, was fixed toward some faraway place.

“Judgment is now aimed at this very place.”