Chapter 14: Demons from 15 Years Ago
The demons that appeared fifteen years ago had swallowed half the world in less than a year, then waged war against the eastern nations, including the Duchy, for four long years. Ten years ago, the Hero slew the Demon King, and the demons vanished from the world entirely.
Marhal had met Marin right around the time when the demons' expansion was nearing its end. War had already broken out in some regions, like the Duchy, and the front lines were rapidly spreading elsewhere. Anyone who could flee had already done so, leaving the land eerily empty of living souls.
In that desolation, Marhal served as guide for the Hero Party, traversing the West all the way to the Bachea Empire capital where the Demon King had entrenched itself. Along the way, he cleared paths and rescued survivors as a bonus. The Thief had snapped that such things didn't matter, but he'd been the most diligent in looking after the children himself. Probably reminded him of his own orphaned childhood.
Marhal had a good memory, but even he couldn't recall every one of the thousand-plus people the Hero Party had saved. What made Marin stick in his mind was how rare children were among those they rescued. Even able-bodied adults struggled to survive back then. Irresponsible parents abandoned their kids and fled, while those willing to risk their lives for their children did exactly that—and died. In an environment where adults barely clung to life, a child surviving alone was next to impossible.
The refugee column that included Marin was the last one Marhal encountered. Over two hundred strong, mostly elderly, with a dozen or so children scattered among them. After that, he met only scattered survivors who'd endured in demon territory on their own. That's why she stood out so sharply.
'Still, never thought we'd meet again here.'
After parting from the refugees, Marhal plunged fully into demon-held lands. He had no way of knowing what became of them afterward. If they were lucky, they survived; if not, they died. That was the extent of his sentiment. In an era overflowing with death, there was no room to mourn every soul.
Strekl eyed Marhal with suspicion. He knew Marhal wasn't ordinary. But fainting at the sight of a person's face? That went beyond the pale.
"She looked shocked to see you."
"From her perspective, yeah. Never expected to run into me in a place like this."
"Even so, normal people don't faint just from seeing someone."
"True enough."
"What the hell are you, really?"
Marhal shrugged. He'd always drawn suspicion, but Marin's reaction had pushed it to the brink. At least it stopped at suspicion—proof that he'd built up trust over time. Without that foundation, swords would have been drawn by now.
"Western mercenary. Before that, something like a knight's squire."
"That's not what I'm asking."
Marhal caught a flicker of expectation mixed with doubt in Bayola's eyes. If her guess was right, she'd gain a connection dwarfing even Bachea relics.
"No lies there. Knight's squire. The Hero counts as a knight of sorts, right?"
"The Hero's squire...?"
"Not just acquaintances, then."
"Had to memorize the West's geography for the family business. The Hero Party needed a guide to navigate the fog-shrouded path to the Demon King's castle—barely visible even right in front of them. Traveled with them for a few years. Simple story, no?"
"Hardly. Not simple at all."
"Beyond running errands—actually part of the Hero Party's journey? Why hasn't someone like you been known?"
Strekl's brows hung heavy as boulders. The world knew the Hero Party as four members. A guide wasn't a minor role. Yet he'd heard nothing of this during the entire demon war, despite fighting on the front lines?
Bayola felt much the same. The Emperor was desperate to capture the Hero and his party. The Thief, a top-priority fugitive even before joining, was no longer worth pursuing. The Holy Empire's Saint couldn't be touched without declaring war. The Hero had already crushed a 30,000-strong army sent against him. As for the mage, no sightings since the final battle ten years ago.
"Ah."
Lightning struck her mind.
"To protect you. That's why the whole party kept quiet."
"Clap clap clap. Right answer—here's your applause. Spot on. Demon King died ten years ago, when I was just a kid. Everyone knew the East wanted the Hero Party dead after the 30,000 incident—no time for victory parades."
When the Hero returned after slaying the Demon King, invitations poured in. The Duchy declared the day a holiday for annual festivals. The Empire planned a grand triumph. The Holy Empire offered sainthood.
'What awaited the returning Hero in the East was an army of 30,000 from unknown nations.'
An army without banners. Born from a bizarrely prolonged war of attrition, remnants of fallen nations banding together into something purposeless and originless. If united, they could topple the weakened Duchy. All battle-hardened veterans, they could invade the Holy Empire or Empire and demand land—neither could ignore them easily. Endless options.
Yet that vast force targeted one man. The leaderless 30,000 clashed with the Hero, becoming fodder for his legend. How such an army formed, and why they attacked him of all people, remained an unsolved mystery.
Those in the know understood. Marhal did too. It was the coalesced malice of countless shadowy forces bent on killing the Hero. The blade of assassination from the powerful. A true assassination hides the killer's identity—no matter the blades or scale, as long as that stays secret, it succeeds.
"That mad bastard brother crushed the 30,000 and sent them home, but his backers' power lingers. He said we could fight the world and win, but it'd destroy everything. So the party scattered. Saint back to the Holy Empire, Thief to the alleys, Hero and mage to places eyes can't reach. The guide with no power or talent? Vanished from history."
Erasing records was easy. The Hero Party was already famed as four by the time Marhal joined deep in the West, beyond prying eyes. Their meeting was a miracle of coincidences. Few knew of him, so the guide who always read the fog one step ahead simply faded into obscurity.
"No leaks, no records— even the Muet Empire's Emperor has no clue who I am. Capture me, and he'd rocket to top heir or seize massive power in the Duchy. Tempting, no?"
"For a moment's bliss, maybe. But who stops the wrath of the moving disasters that follow? Don't tempt fate, Bay. Hah... Strekl, infamous for his cunning, and his disciple's this naive."
"I-I'm not tempted!"
Bayola shrieked, face flushing as she averted her eyes—clearly hit the mark.
"Thought Strekl might bite first."
"I know shame. Can't repay the man who saved my life twice by betraying him."
"Twice?"
"The Saint saved me once. No way to repay her directly, so her disciple it is."
"Appreciate it. He'd be thrilled to see good deeds circling back. Called it the cycle of karma."
"Karma? That's hermit ascetics' talk."
The Holy Empire, sustained by faith, tolerated no other religions. Even non-religious ascetics following incomprehensible beliefs were heretics under watch. A Holy Saint using their lingo? As absurd as mice flying.
"People change. No law says a Holy Saint must believe in God forever. Hell, not even a real god."
The Holy Empire preached an omnipotent creator god. Priests' miracles were divine blessings proving their chosen status. Witnessing shattered bones knit instantly or the dying rise, it didn't seem exaggerated.
But those privy to the world's secrets knew magic and miracles were one: born from "accumulations." The Holy Empire just cloaked vast, ancient ones in religion. If they called that religion itself "God," fair enough—a millennium-old faith wielded real power. But no omnipotent entity existed.
"So he abandoned faith?"
"Switched beliefs. Said he'd trust himself to escape this world. No clue what that means."
Strekl's heart churned. He hated the Holy Empire. Knew no such God existed. But the Saint believed—so he believed in her faith. Hearing she'd changed unsettled him deeply.
"Enough chatter. She's stirring."
Marin's body twitched a few times, then she shot upright like a salmon, spinning gracefully in midair to land poised. Twin daggers gleamed in her hands.
Her sharp gaze scanned the surroundings, then locked on Marhal and went blank again.
[It wasn't a dream...?]
[Of course not. You speak Duchy tongue? How fluent?]
[As many years as have passed: fifteen.]
[Native level, minus accent. Duchy it is.]
Marin shot a dissatisfied glance at the three behind Marhal. Vestrola let them talk privately. Duchy tongue meant the others overheard.
She trusted Marhal. Hero Party member, and technically her lifesaver. But the others? Duchy knight. Empire-style clothes on one, knight beside. Nobility for sure. Not her allies.
Orphaned after her grandmother died, the world hadn't been kind to a pretty orphan girl. Years of distrust forged her current self.
[They're fine. Didn't tie me up even after I said I was Hero Party.]
[...If so.]
If even the Hero Party ignored her, these people—mere specks compared to Marhal—would too. Quick math.
"Marin, from Vestrola."
"That's it?"
"What more you want?"
"...Better than nothing, I guess."
Marhal scratched his cheek. A woman entering the land race alone spoke volumes about her situation. Time would ease her doubts.
"Alright, then. Shall we go claim some land?"
In the West, land was always the top priority.