Assault on the Capital (2)
Assault on the Capital (2)
The royal capital, Arterium. The black night sky was shrouded in deep blue mana.
A magic circle flared brightly overhead, each stroke of its runes glowing with an unnatural presence.
On the ground, most people stared up at the spectacle as if watching a festival.
Laughter and chatter echoed through the capital.
But their smiles didn’t last.
“W–wait a second.”
“What is that?”
“A scream…?”
A sound like metal being scraped rang through the night sky—so grating and vile it made people want to plug their ears.
It was a wail that struck the human instinct to shrink away.
“Someone, make it stop!”
“Stop! I said stop!”
Panic spread through the crowd. Some clutched their heads and sobbed; others ran through the streets in blind frenzy.
People were losing their sanity one after another.
And the torment didn’t end. The sound only grew louder… closer.
“I can’t take it!”
“Please! Someone save me!”
Five hundred years’ worth of hatred—far beyond what a normal human could endure in a lifetime—poured down upon the city.
That hatred was now palpable, crawling across their skin.
Just as the entire city seemed to go mad, the night sky split open.
A horrific cry shook the heavens and the earth.
Figures of pure malice, the embodiment of grudges, emerged and plummeted toward the capital.
It was as if the gates of Hell had opened.
***
At the Holy Inquisition Bureau of the capital—the agency responsible for monitoring all forms of evil such as demons, heretics, and apostates—alarms blared.
The spatial transference array that had formed in the sky was disgorging thousands of fiends onto the ground.
Fortunately, there were no casualties yet.
The city’s divine barrier was burning away every demon it touched.
In addition, countless holy soldiers, priests, and paladins were standing ready for when the barrier eventually failed.
The capital’s anti-demon defenses were formidable.
The situation was still manageable, but the Bureau could not afford to simply watch.
The capital was home to the king and many nobles—the heart of the kingdom. If the defenses were breached even once, the kingdom might cease to function… or even cease to exist.
If there was any possibility of a threat, the Bureau was obligated to respond with everything it had.
Archbishop Rohagen, head of the Bureau, rushed out of the church and barked orders.
“Focus on defense until we have a full assessment! Keep all forces on standby and send an urgent request to the palace for reinforcements!”
His secretary followed, reporting breathlessly.
“Already done! All palace guards—except the Royal Knights—are gathered and on alert!”
Not only the church’s holy soldiers, but ordinary knights and palace guards were mobilized as well.
“And the beacon?”
“It’s lit! The Holy Nation will know soon enough!”
Reinforcements from all over the continent would soon arrive.
Until then, Rohagen intended to focus solely on defense.
Trying anything reckless could lead to disaster.
It had been two centuries since humanity last faced an assault of this scale; few here had any real combat experience.
It was better to follow the manual and respond calmly.
Rohagen nodded.
“Good. Now, call an emergency meeting and—”
A voice cut him off.
“Shouldn’t we form a special task force first?”
Rohagen turned to see a man in a white headscarf grinning at him.
“Azbal…?”
The 4th Seat of the Twelve Holy Emblems—Azbal. One of the church’s top fighters.
“Yes, Director. Azbal at your service.”
“How are you here?”
Most of the Twelve Holy Emblems had been dispatched to the southwestern Holy Containment Zone to deal with the appearance of an ancient demon and the White Horn.
Azbal scratched his head.
“I went there for a bit, but came right back. Didn’t see the hide nor hair of the White Horn—don’t know if it sank into the earth or flew off into the sky.”
Investigations inside the divine seal continued, but no clues had been found.
In truth, it was more reasonable to assume the White Horn had escaped the barrier entirely.
That was Azbal’s belief.
Rohagen sighed, looking pained.
“You’ll never stop doing as you please, will you.”
Azbal grinned.
“But you’re glad I’m here, aren’t you? Let me handle it—I’ll figure out what those bastards are.”
He pointed toward the sky.
Near the spatial transference array vomiting demons, three dark silhouettes were visible.
Likely the ringleaders of this whole affair.
From here, it was impossible to make out their identities. The barrier was too dense, the distance too great.
They’d have to get closer to identify them.
Rohagen hesitated, then said, “I can’t spare you any troops.”
“That’s fine. I work better alone—extra people just get in the way.”
This wasn’t baseless confidence.
Each of the Twelve Holy Emblems was a monster in their own right—had they been born five centuries ago, they would have been hailed as heroes.
In truth, Rohagen felt relieved to have Azbal still in the capital.
“Act as you see fit,” Rohagen ordered. “But give me a full report afterward.”
Azbal snapped a mock salute.
“Yes, sir! For Saint Marziel!”
Rohagen shook his head and went back inside. The emergency meeting awaited.
Left alone, Azbal looked up at the sky.
“Attacking the capital, huh… just who the hell do you think you are?”
A smile played on his lips.
***
High above the capital, Mapheltan muttered as he looked down.
“A bit lacking.”
Countless fiends poured endlessly toward the ground. People ran screaming, panicked beyond reason.
Their fear was a delicacy to demons.
It was a satisfying scene, but there was a problem.
The quantity and quality of fear fell far short of expectations.
The capital was simply too safe.
As long as the divine barrier stood, the people didn’t feel true mortal danger.
They were just startled by the presence of demons and running in fear—that kind of fear was not enough to satisfy Mapheltan.
Having taken some risk to be here, he wanted a bigger reward.
He spoke.
“Illea, can you bring down that barrier? Even for a moment?”
The black-hooded girl sitting on her broom shook her head.
“Sorry. I’m almost completely out of mana.”
She had pushed her body for days to power the spatial transference spell.
Such high-order magic always demanded a price, even from a witch.
In truth, she was nearly exhausted.
Mapheltan clicked his tongue.
“Can’t be helped, then.”
He was about to give up when the Dark Elf standing on her broom spoke.
“I can do it—briefly.”
“You?”
The Dark Elf nodded.
“The barrier’s weaker than it was 500 years ago. A minute or so should be possible.”
Mapheltan’s lips curled.
“That’s more than enough. My thanks.”
“No need for thanks. If you grow stronger, it’ll make fulfilling the contract easier.”
Black light began to gather in the Dark Elf’s hands, twisting into the shape of a massive bow—larger than Mapheltan’s own body, a weapon of at least the seventh rank.
He nocked an enormous arrow, the scene resembling a siege engine preparing to fire.
Mapheltan murmured in mild admiration.
The arrow loosed with a thunderous crack, a black lightning bolt ripping through the sky toward the barrier.
KWHAAAAM!
With a terrible roar, the barrier cracked.
Shock spread across the city.
“No… no way!”
“The barrier’s breaking!”
“Run!”
A second bolt struck.
The golden veil covering the capital shattered like glass.
Pandemonium erupted.
People screamed and fled; many were frozen in place from the shock.
Fiends rained down like a storm.
Mapheltan’s red eyes gleamed with ecstasy.
Pleasure washed over him like a wave.
To keep from losing himself entirely, he repeatedly inflicted pain on his own body.
He was getting used to it now.
…Damn.
Zal’karin and the other demons abandoned restraint, reveling in the carnage.
The frenzied Elves unleashed hideous screams.
SKREEEEEE!
They were slaughtered by holy magic and defenses, yet could not hide their joy.
“Intercept them!”
“Don’t let a single one set foot in the capital!”
Black blood sprayed through the air; torn bodies rained down on the streets below.
Even without a single demon breaching the ground, the city was already hellish—humans trampling one another in a frenzy.
Mapheltan closed his eyes, focusing.
Just don’t lose yourself… one minute is all you need to endure.
As he kept control, Illea tapped his arm.
Mapheltan opened his eyes to see a massive white bird ahead.
On its back sat a man in a headscarf, cross-legged. His narrow eyes opened slightly.
“The White Horn?” Mapheltan asked.
Illea whispered, “This might be bad.”
Mapheltan felt the same.
The man radiated dangerous power—his divine aura was blinding, and his smiling face exuded effortless composure.
The Dark Elf narrowed his eyes.
“Even after 500 years, such irregulars still exist.”
On rare occasions, humans like this man were born—heroes chosen by the Moon. Thanks to them, humanity has endured.
The man grinned.
“Are we gossiping? Or is that really the White Horn?”
The description from reports matched almost perfectly.
The one who should have been trapped inside the divine seal now appeared above the capital.
“Yes,” Mapheltan said calmly. “And you, mortal—what is your name?”
The man clapped his hands together.
“Knew it. Azbal.”
Mapheltan had guessed right.
The “Flesh-Mincer” Azbal—one of the Twelve Holy Emblems, and a notable figure in the Bestiary of Men.
Mapheltan recognized him instantly because of the divine beast he rode.
A smile tugged at Mapheltan’s lips—Azbal was one of his personal favorites from the Bestiary.
“Azbal, I’d like to have a conversation with you,” Mapheltan said.
The man waved a hand dismissively.
“Demons don’t do that. I’m here to kill the White Horn.”
At once, he brought a hand to his mouth.
His throat bulged, and moments later a massive saw burst from between his lips.
Mapheltan watched with interest.
“Oh-ho… a Visored.”
Azbal grinned.
“That’s right. This’ll cut you in half.”
The Dark Elf loosed an arrow immediately—but Azbal vanished.
A relaxed voice spoke above Mapheltan’s head.
“Not interested in the lackeys. Going straight for the boss.”
And the monstrous sawblade came slicing down toward Mapheltan’s skull.