Chapter 160: Blackout (2)

The orcs were already being pushed back one-sidedly. With their tribe's greatest warrior and chieftain both slain, they shattered like dominoes toppling over.

To make matters worse, even the orcs guarding the chieftain at the center plunged into a state of mass panic.

"Groor!"

"Out of my way! I said move!"

The ones who fought the best were blocking the path, paralyzed by fear, and the outcome was all but certain. The remaining orcs couldn't even flee and were annihilated.

"Make way. Even a great host shall scatter."

Eugene looked down at the chieftain's corpse, split in two, and murmured.

"Was this what 'make way' meant?"

The axe blade of hell was a tool of sorts. A tool for prying open the flesh and drawing out the soul within.

"Sir Knight. May I approach now?"

Rex asked with a sly grin.

"That's not a very amusing joke."

"It's not a joke, but a compliment. You have no idea how terrifying you were during the battle. It felt like a windmill with blades was spinning through them."

"The cutting sensation was superb. And it's a weapon that suits me perfectly."

In the combat of the cold steel age, the operational breaking point meant the collapse of the battle line. Casualties also occurred most severely when striking the rear of a routing army.

For Eugene, who served as both commander and vanguard, what mattered was 'how quickly can the enemy's morale be shattered?'

When Eugene led from the front and ground the enemy down, even elite troops lost their will to fight and crumbled. And that was greatly influenced by what kind of weapon he wielded.

What required ten swings of a one-handed sword needed only five with the flail, and with this axe, it seemed two or three would be more than enough.

"What in the world was that scream just now?"

Rex rubbed his long ears. The dark elves had detected the spiritual scream that spread across the battlefield. As a race with superior hearing and bodies partly akin to spirits, they were sensitive to such occurrences.

"How should I explain it? Think of it as something similar to magic wielded by a spirit."

"So there was a reason why our witches were watching as if entranced."

The tribe's warriors looked upon the hell axe with awe for its pure strength. But the witches watched with eyes of excitement and longing.

To explore and communicate with the other side of the world was their life. A spirit born from the abyss of another world was practically an angel. One that came bearing a book inscribed with God's truth, no less.

"It'll be incredibly useful in future battlefields. You saw how the orcs were trembling in fear, didn't you?"

"It doesn't activate just from cutting down anyone. Just as small fish slip right through a large net, it must tear away a large and powerful soul."

"Even Grond, who challenged you, Sir Knight, was a tough one. I suppose he fell short?"

"Physical strength isn't always equivalent to the strength of the soul. I'm satisfied. As a weapon for tearing and rending enemies, it's utterly flawless."

The axe, tempered by countless deaths, had changed from before the battle. It seemed pleased with its new life of ranging across the battlefield of the present world through its master.

'The feel of it has changed.'

It felt as though it was actively resonating with Eugene, who gripped the handle. As if two invisible arms and legs were coiling around Eugene's hand.

"Have you decided on the weapon's name, then? You've held a debut celebration with a great victory like this; if it lacks a name, the fellow will surely feel disappointed."

"A fitting name happened to come to mind."

Eugene raised the massive axe high. The dark axe blade, which seemed to drink even the light itself, remained razor-sharp even after tearing through countless bones and steel.

"Blackout. I can't think of a name that suits it better than this."

Its appearance, its function, the place where it was born. It was a name that tied everything together.

Hummm.

The fierce axe blade quivered faintly. It was a reverberation born from the joy of the spirit within. It had rooted itself more firmly in the present world thanks to the name Eugene had bestowed upon it.

Knight, warhorse, weapon. The birth of a destroyer group bound by a strange sense of shared existence.

* * *

While the wounded were being treated and orc corpses gathered and burned, the skirmishers returned.

"We found survivors."

They carried starved and exhausted people on the backs of their horses.

"Where did you find them?"

"They called out to us from a nearby hill after spotting us. They said they had left the village ahead of time and came running when they saw a battle unfolding."

The skirmishers had already gathered information on the way and reported only the key points to Eugene.

"All the nearby villages were on edge because of the war. Then the woodcutters sensed something suspicious coming from the mountains and suggested evacuating..."

"I take it opinions were divided?"

"Yes. Half left, and half stayed."

"Then the ones who survived are in a neighboring village?"

The skirmisher nodded. The survivors were staring blankly at the village, now reduced to ashes.

"Those folks went back to try and persuade the ones who stayed behind one more time, and that's when they saw the orcs and hid."

"A small mercy in misfortune. Had they come sooner, they would have been captured and killed by those creatures."

The villagers' tearful lamentations drifted over.

"That's why I said we should leave! Why did you have to be so stubborn!"

They sat collapsed on the ground, crying out the names of their dead family and friends.

'Let's evacuate, it's dangerous.'

It seemed like an obvious thing, but for commoners, it was a burdensome action to carry out.

There were no banks to safeguard their possessions as in a city, so they had to carry everything of value on their backs.

But what were the odds that commoners owned high-value items like jewelry or gold coins... Inevitably, their luggage became bulky and heavy.

Moreover, leaving the village was akin to stepping out of line at a distribution point.

Which household would graze their livestock in the areas where the grass grew well? If they took turns, how would the order be decided?

How should the fruit growing on a tree between two houses be divided?

Which family would plant what seeds in the communal farmland?

It might seem trivial, but all kinds of rights were entangled in complex ways.

-Well, isn't this a fair way to divide it?

-Fair, my ass. That spot is right next to the waterfront.

-You bastard, have you sold your conscience? Your land is good, so you only take twenty percent.

-No, twenty percent is too harsh! Let's make it thirty!

It was a balance formed over generations by the elders of each household through fistfights and pointed fingers.

If they abandoned the village even temporarily to evacuate, these rights would be shaken. In this era, the rights and interests of rural areas stemmed not from documents, but from occupation and the recognition of neighbors.

The reason for having many children was not simply for labor. The members had to guard the domain where their household's interests lay, like sentries standing watch.

"Oh, heavens, how will we live now!"

"Grandfather... Grandmother..."

Some sobbed while looking at their utterly ruined village, while others wept bitterly thinking of the family who had stayed behind and met a gruesome fate.

-How much longer do I have to live, that I would abandon my home?

-Your granny's knees ache too much to have the confidence to walk to the next village. Don't worry ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠too much. Take care of our precious grandchild.

It felt like just the day before yesterday they had seen them off with gentle smiles, but looking at the empty village, it didn't feel real.

A man in his fifties who had managed to regain his composure prostrated himself before Eugene as their representative.

"My lord, you saved our lives. How could we ever hope to repay this debt?"

"I merely did my duty as a knight. You there, bring food and water to these people."

At the sight, the war priests drew the sign of the cross with sorrowful faces.

"Those were orcs that might have wiped out several villages if left unchecked."

"We are fortunate to have been able to cut short the misfortune here."

Just then, a warrior searching the village shouted.

"There are more survivors here!"

Haggard people emerged from the collapsed houses, guided by heavy infantrymen.

"Grandfather! Grandmother!"

The family that had been weeping rushed over in a group and embraced one another.

"Sam! Come out, quickly! We're saved!"

At the old man's cry, dust-covered families from several other houses crawled out with great difficulty.

For powerless commoners and serfs, the best means of survival was hiding. Those with a good sense of preparation had even constructed hiding places.

However, some survivors were so drained of strength that they could barely be supported, let alone walk.

"What could farmers busy making a living build as a shelter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in their humble homes? The result is obvious."

"They must have been starving, shivering and curled up in a place where you couldn't even stretch your legs..."

The mercenaries clicked their tongues, as if they had seen such sights before.

"This will help."

Cassandra approached. She was holding a waterskin made from processed animal stomach.

"What is this?"

"Orcish Bitters. A liquor brewed by orc shamans."

The moment Eugene opened the stopper, his expression soured instantly. An indescribably bizarre stench rose from it.

"They drink this filth?"

"They're a breed that will eat each other if things go wrong. They never bathe their whole lives and happily chew on skin dripping with grime. Do you really think they couldn't drink this?"

"I know they have strong stomachs."

"As the name Bitters suggests, it's a medicinal liquor. It grants the drinker a surge of vigor."

"Even so, recommending someone drink something like this is a bit much."

"The taste is terrible, but the effect is remarkable. We too always keep some when we capture it from orcs we subjugate. It's one of the few things they make that we acknowledge."

Some of the female warriors were already pouring Orcish Bitters into bowls and handing them to the exhausted survivors.

The liquid was reddish. A color somewhere between animal blood and povidone-iodine. Moreover, it had a high viscosity, like blood just before it clots, making it even more unpleasant.

"M-My lord."

"We don't know what we did wrong, but please, show mercy!"

When the foul-smelling bowls were thrust toward them, the survivors mustered their last strength to beg for mercy.

"It's not to torment you. It's medicine."

Eugene approached and said.

"Wh-What? Medicine?"

The survivors barely managed to swallow the words 'Isn't it poison?'

"Medicine is bitter and unpleasant by nature. Bear it and drink up."

It was truly doubtful, but as their life savior and heavenly liege lord commanded it, they could not refuse.

The survivors resigned themselves and brought their lips to the bowls. The mercenaries tactfully held their noses for them.

Their eyes flew wide.

The taste must have been even more horrifying than the smell, for their lips trembled violently.

"This is like forcing them to drink a death potion."

Feeling apologetic even as he helped, Eugene watched as they somehow managed to gulp it down. And the reaction was immediate.

"Wha—aat?"

"Hrk!"

Those who were half dead rose firmly to their feet. They clenched and unclenched their fists and looked around in all directions. Their faces showed disbelief at the vitality that welled up as if by magic.

Their pulse beat like a war drum, and the exhaustion and pain vanished like a mirage.

But there was one thing. An unpleasant sensation remained, as if a black campfire were smoldering inside their guts.

"It may be disagreeable, but it does not adversely affect the body, so rest assured."

At Cassandra's words, the survivors, their strength renewed, bowed their heads deeply.

"Astonishing. How is this stuff made?"

Eugene's eyes gleamed as he saw its potential as a military supply item, but Cassandra laughed and shook her head.

"Only orc shamans know how to brew it. All we know is that it's made using pig carcasses."

"That's possible? Isn't alcohol made by fermenting things like grain or honey?"

"It is so alien that the method of production cannot be known. Isn't that very much like orcs?"

"Wait... if it's made using flesh and blood, there might be parasites in it."

"Orcs are not fools, either. They process it during production to ensure all such things are eliminated."

Among the various spoils, the dark elf warriors handled the Orcish Bitters with the greatest caution.

'I thought I'd roamed far and wide for a year, but I've still got far to go.'

The world was still vast and filled with strange wonders.

Eugene, too, was debating out of curiosity whether to try a sip when the warrior-priests approached.

"Lord Viscount. These humble monks beseech you. Would you deign to take this ruined village under your wing?"

"There ought to be a lord of this place."

"Not a lord—a pirate. He was one of the chieftains who received this village as a reward from the former count. When the count was taken away, he got scared, abandoned the village, and fled."

Listening to their story, it seemed the man had never shaken off his piratical nature and had squeezed the villagers from every angle.

However chaotic the surroundings, the fact that nearly half the population had decided to evacuate was partly because they had been utterly sickened by the lord's exploitation.

"Left like this, this place will become a dead land forever."

"We beg you, take us in with your mercy."

"Now that the orcs have all been slaughtered, Your Excellency is the only one who can rebuild this ruin."

The warrior-priests implored him with one voice.

What Eugene had been promised in return for the crusade was three cities. However, in a case like the present one, it was customarily possible to claim ownership.

A criminal lord who fled without fulfilling his duty of protection as a noble. The subjugation of the orcs and the rescue of the villagers. Strong military force, wealth, and a title of nobility.

There would be no issue if Eugene, possessing all of these, were to simply declare, 'I shall take it.'

Eugene, who had been contemplating for a moment while looking at the ruined village, made his decision.

* * *

"Sir Mateo. Would you consider becoming lord and ruling this village?"

"You mean me, sir?"

"Yes. As my vassal."

Mateo stared at the destroyed village with an expression where joy and bewilderment coexisted.

Any other mercenary captain or noble would have accepted instantly, overjoyed at the thought, 'I become a lord, regardless!'

But Mateo considered it cautiously. Eugene found that demeanor all the more to his liking.

"As you can see, it's a village that's in complete shambles. The residents are scattered, the homes have been destroyed, and food and supplies are scarce. The farmland is devastated, and every last head of livestock has been slaughtered. All that remains are desperate people and the land itself."

"..."

That was the cold reality hidden within the wrapper of a lordship.

"Becoming the lord of this village will be an ordeal, not a privilege. I shall support you in many ways, but it will likely be your heir who first tastes the fruits of lordship."

"...That is more than enough. Had it not been for the Viscount, my fate would have been to return to the Peninsula penniless and alone."

Mateo placed his fist over his chest and spoke with a resolute face.

"Rather, I shall regard this as an opportunity. I will revive this ruined village into something respectable and earn the Viscount's recognition."

"A fine attitude."

Eugene admired his unusual way of thinking with genuine feeling.

'Worth investing in.'

If people returned and there was money, the village was bound to be revived in the end. Besides, to Eugene, the materials and funds required for restoration were on a negligible scale.

If it earned him a loyal retainer who would give his life for generations to come, it was not a bad bargain.

* * *

A dispatch rider bearing Eugene's handwritten order for material support departed for Kitania.

"We shall remain here for a time and devote ourselves to relief efforts."

"May the gods be with the Viscount on his path. We pray that you safely vanquish the long-standing threat of this island."

The warrior-priests prayed as they sent off Eugene's departing army.

"I'm kind of tired."

Rex shrugged his shoulders. Reconnoitering for orc sightings was originally all they had intended. Yet the matter had snowballed into a major battle, and now even its aftermath.

"Still, wasn't it worthwhile?"

"We're not as merciful as you are, Sir Knight. When trouble comes, we can just pack up and leave."

The way nomads solved problems was always 'movement.' Whether that meant going somewhere to swing swords and shoot arrows, or simply fleeing from danger.

"Don't talk like it doesn't concern you. I plan to make your people settled folk someday."

"You're joking, right?"

"I'm serious."

Eugene swept his gaze over the dark elves following behind. Beautiful warriors possessing equestrian skills no knight could match and formidable martial prowess.

When their eyes met, they all bowed their heads, conveying respect and affection. At that reliable and heartwarming sight, Eugene's own heart swelled with emotion.

And that was precisely why it was a task that had to be done.

"Nomadic life is free and fierce. You can easily avoid any disaster, and when you fight, you become a disaster yourselves."

"You know us well. And the Wandering Castle, appearing here and there, travels with us too. So if things stay like this..."

Rex, who had been speaking with a laugh, closed his mouth when Eugene raised a hand.

"But across the span of history, it's only a golden age with an expiration date. It will end when the settled peoples you scorn as weak—those insignificant farmers—have multiplied into tens of millions."

"Tens ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of millions?"

"Can't imagine a number that large? But the day will inevitably come when you can shoot arrows until your fingers are raw and the enemy army still won't get any smaller."

As his time living as lord of the Wandering Castle and as a mage grew longer, Eugene's voice carried spiritual weight.

And then there was the gaze he sometimes showed, as if seeing a future beyond the age. As a sub-chieftain, Rex could not ignore it.

"The world is already ruled by numerous kingdoms. It's hard to carve out a place among powers that are already established."

"Of course. People look after their own."

There had been dark elf tribes in the past who had occupied territories through force. It was just that their rule had not lasted long.

An outside power settling within human lands. That fact alone was sufficient cause for other lords to stretch out their greedy hands.

The dark elves' lofty pride and their exclusiveness—which divided even their own people—also made stopgap measures such as marriage alliances unacceptable.

"Do you remember the prophecy handed down to the Black Hand Tribe? That the only salvation lies in the cradle..."

"Yet we may ascend as guests."

When Eugene broached the subject, Rex immediately picked it up.

It was a prophecy concerning the tribe's annihilation, so as a sub-chieftain he had reflected upon it countless times. Even now, having gained safety, he remembered it without a single mistake.

"The cradle is comfortable, but you must someday descend. However magnificent the Wandering Castle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠may be, it is but a process. Ultimately it is for settling your people somewhere."

"...If we are to be settled, where to, might I ask?"

"I don't know either. But I will find it someday. Empty land where your people can settle as a sedentary people."

The Black Hand Tribe, now blessed with abundant supplies and stable housing, had recently seen its birthrate rise sharply. Births among the other tribes were up as well, while infant mortality had fallen markedly.

The cry of birth that sometimes resounded when walking through the Wandering Castle.

Whenever he heard it, Eugene resolved to make the gift of a settled, civilized life to these beloved people without fail.

He did not wish to let them meet a miserable future like that of the Mongols in his memory.

* * *

"So that over there is the Water City."

When the area where the Hydra was last sighted came into view, the mercenaries whistled.

Fitting for a city nestled among three lakes, its transport routes and waterways formed an intricate, beautiful network. It was now territory of the Apostolic Council, ruled by a Bishop-Count.

"I'd heard older nobles often came here to recuperate. I can see why."

"The nickname 'Garden of the Gods' is no exaggeration. Ah! Though it's no match for Kitania, of course. Hehe."

The mercenaries who had been admiring the view suddenly came to their senses and gauged Eugene's expression. It was because his face had hardened.

"Isn't that the Hydra's trail?"

The reason Eugene's face had hardened was a different one, however.

In the dirt field his finger indicated, a trace was inscribed as though a serpent had passed through. Even at a glance, it was not comparable in scale to the Lamia Queen.

"At this size, it could swallow a bull in one gulp."

To roughly gauge the size, one of the heavy cavalrymen rode his horse and stood over the trail.

"Is the bull the issue?"

"Looks like it could gulp you down together with your horse."

Perhaps because even the tribal warriors had never encountered a monster this enormous, they all carefully examined the trail.

"Looks like it's already had a fight."

Following the trail, there was a battlefield. The corpses had apparently been recovered, but just the blood spilled everywhere told how terrible a fight it had been.

At that moment, a huge, monstrous howl rang out from the other side of the city.

Neigh!

Prrr!

"Whoa!"

"Easy, easy. It's a long way off from here."

While the riders calmed their startled warhorses, Eugene discovered some fragments on the ground.

"Eggshell?"

Dismounting from Might and picking one up, it resembled an egg at first glance. However, the texture was not as hard as a bird's egg, but rather tough and leathery like that of a reptile.

Field mice, birds, and insects had swarmed to the spilled contents, holding a feast. There were shattered eggs, and not merely one or two.

"Rex. Do you know the Hydra's breeding ecology?"

"I have seen drawings left by the ancestors. They do lay eggs, but not by brooding them within the body as lamias do; they carry egg sacs externally on their bodies. Like spiders or frogs."

The Hydra had not come merely to fill its belly by exploiting the island's chaos.

It had descended because its breeding season had coincided, and it appeared its egg sac had been torn open while fighting the subjugation force in the course of trying to replenish nutrients.

Once more, the monstrous howl came from the far side of the city. It was not simply the roar of a monster. It was a cry filled with the fury of a mother who had lost her young.

End

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