Mar Silanatiell is an Eccentric.
Mar Silanatiell was an eccentric. She'd wake up at the crack of dawn from a dream and trigger a landslide, or pull out a book to read smack in the middle of a fierce battle. Setting off an explosion spell during stealth operations to draw attention was routine, as was chatting with the Demon King through the night and day. The rest of the Hero Party—and even the Holy Empire's saint—would tear at their nonexistent hair whenever she pulled one of her stunts. In Marhal's personal opinion, she was half the reason the saint shaved his head.
Her eccentricities were the source of her inhuman magic. Inhuman magic stemmed from histories built on inhuman antics. Without Mar Silanatiell's bizarre spells, battles against the demons wouldn't have been possible at all. That was why no one could tell her to cut it out.
Marhal realized what the relic prepared in these city ruins was for: it was something she'd left for him. If word got out that Bachea Empire relics lay in the West, Marhal could never just pass them by. No one fluent in the ancient imperial tongue would come all the way to the West under normal circumstances. Only Marhal in the West could open this door.
But even an inhuman mage couldn't see the future, it seemed. Marhal had come searching for the relic. And so had the Muet Empire princess. Someone who could read and write one of the world's rarest languages—the ancient imperial tongue—had entered alongside her. And she'd undone the seal in Marhal's place.
High Knight and war hero Strekl drew his sword first. Ching. Sparks flew between scabbard and blade.
"Demons. Draw your swords."
The Pubguk knights drew theirs, and Bayola's guards followed suit.
Krrrng. A beastly growl echoed. Just hearing it made hairs stand on end and minds go blank.
Strekl tossed his torch into the chamber. The flames revealed the sealed entity's form. A monster bound in chains. A horse's body with two heads—a mantis head and a snake head. Beyond its four legs, mantis forelimbs were sewn onto its torso like ragged doll parts. Body, legs, both heads, and forelimbs—all immobilized by iron chains. Black mist poured endlessly from its form.
Strekl's face hardened instinctively.
"Don't breathe the mist. Too much, and you'll turn into a demon."
Demons had devoured half the world in under a year. Even the Hero Party—said to possess inhuman prowess each—couldn't conquer half in that time. But demons had. By turning half the world into kin.
The Pubguk knights slowed their breathing and relaxed as much as possible. A war hero's subordinates were no ordinary folk. Each had seen battle. The Empire knights, by contrast, tensed rigidly. Unlike Pubguk, which bordered demon lands and fought ceaseless wars, the Empire lay far from the front lines. Its knights were skilled but green in real combat.
The door fully opened, and the chains binding the demon snapped one by one. It flexed its human-like head, arms, and legs, testing its body.
"Why're the good chains breaking...?" one knight muttered.
The reason was obvious. The seal was designed to shatter them upon the door's opening. It was written right there: Prepare to face the disaster.
'A demon...'
When the Demon King died, all demons vanished from the world. Marhal hadn't expected to see one again. This was the world's greatest mage's warning left for him. That demons still lingered.
Over the past year wandering unclaimed lands, he'd spotted demon-like traces here and there. But this was the first live sighting since the Demon King's fall.
High Knight Strekl charged first. The unsealed demon swung its mantis-like forelimbs. Clang! It blocked the sword with one forelimb. As Strekl's momentum pushed it back, it hastily used both. The demon pushed with all its might, but the human ahead stood immovable as a stake.
"Bind its arms! Finish it!"
The Pubguk knights split to the flanks like crashing waves. Tension rippled through the demon's forelimbs as it tried to shake them off. Strekl gripped its wrists. Thud thud. His sword bent the limbs oddly before wedging between the crossed forelimbs, halting their motion. He stepped in, jamming his arm into the mantis forelimb's joint at the forearm.
A risky move that could shatter joints or break bones—but he wore full plate. Protecting him wasn't frail human flesh, but masterfully forged metal.
As Strekl pinned the limbs, other knights slashed the exposed torso. Severing legs, stabbing deep and dragging blades to spill guts. Like vultures striking prey, they hammered weapons home then withdrew. Legless, the demon toppled sideways.
Strekl reclaimed his sword and arm for the killing blow. Before he could swing, the snake head spat venom. Spotting the black poison mist, Strekl leaped back.
"Not done yet. Stay sharp. Are the Empire lot just helpless girls who can't fight? Fine. Watch us hunt demons."
Strekl corrected his men's stances—and mocked the idle Empire knights to boot.
"Tell 'em exactly that."
The thick venom mist vanished like water doused on it. In its place stood the fully healed demon, glaring as before.
"Guts and legs on the floor. Not reattached—regenerated. Mist buys recovery time. Primary goal: overwhelm and sever the neck in one go. If not, gnaw till it can't heal."
Strekl was fully immersed. The force pushing him back earlier was pure horse-power. A regenerative demonic beast with equine might. Tricky foe. Show an opening, and they'd be done.
This time, the demon struck first. Warhorses terrify for their mass-born power and speed. Its four legs pounded the ground; Strekl advanced, swinging. Chaaeng! A louder clang echoed through the chamber.
The Pubguk knights split flanks again; this time, Empire knights trailed them.
Marhal observed the knights' clash with the demon. Strekl and his men fought like veterans; the Empire knights were clumsy but bridged the gap with superior technique and physiques.
They hacked the beast apart, even severing the snake head—only for it to spew mist, forcing retreat. When it cleared, the demon stood whole again.
'Tch...'
Marhal eyed not the demon, but the lone bookshelf in the empty chamber beyond. Alone, he'd have ignored the beast and rifled those shelves by now.
History holds power. Human strength is the might of accumulated deeds. Marhal's history outshone all in demon-slaying. He'd witnessed the Demon King's death. The demon Mar had sealed was meant solely to warn him: demons remain.
'Or maybe it's a blessing in disguise.'
Marhal had watched the world's—nay, history's—greatest, the inhumans, battle up close. Especially the Hero. Among inhumans, his supremacy was peerless. To Marhal, the knights' moves were transparent: blade trajectories, gaze flows, even intents.
Why did Pubguk knights' sword tips veer toward their own hero? Why did the princess's guards seek her vulnerabilities?
Amusing.
Thud. The demon fell. Its corpse crumbled to powder, sifting like sand.
Strekl swept the dust with his hand. Annoying pest, but no match for a high knight.
"No byproducts. Bag the powder anyway. Sell to mages for coin. We claim it. Complaints? Interpreter—translate."
"They're taking the powder."
"Grabbing filth like that? Pubguk high knights lack dignity too?"
Not the words of someone who'd hidden behind Rebela, head turned, throughout the fight. To Marhal, who'd watched it all... it was pathetic. Very.
"Word for word?"
"Aye."
Though she clearly understood already. Every translation drew stares, burning his face.
Surprisingly, Strekl ignored Bayola's non-taunt. His focus was on the belatedly noticed bookshelf. Just a few tattered books and papers. Meager for "face the disaster, claim the reward."
But Strekl wasn't disappointed. History imbues power. History-laden items hide in drabness, not flash. Poor condition was a boon. He couldn't read ancient imperial, but recognized it. Yet the books' script was alien.
"Aphranche tongue. Law codes and judgments."
Aphranche. The fallen kingdom this city once belonged to.
"You Aphranche?"
"Nah. Just read bits."
"...Who are you?"
Strekl finally clocked the oddity. Fluent in imperial and Pubguk tongues, plus a long-dead western kingdom's? He knew language-learning's toil. He'd even hired an imperial tutor—still mangled pronunciations. Rare talents picked up tongues sans study, but a nation fallen over a decade ago? Suspicious.
He'd accepted the interpreter to defuse the standoff, planning to kill him after. But this mercenary wedged between bickering knight groups. No normal sellsword move.
"Mercenary. Fluent imperial and Pubguk."
"That's the suspicious part."
"Me suspicious is one thing. Not taking that? Looks like checkbook."
"Checks?"
Strekl snatched a book like wind. Why he'd fled west with his men: no money, no power. Flipping the checkbook, ecstasy bloomed on his face. Checks. Usable now. Anonymous emergency stash. Cashable at any merchant house.
"Mine. Rest's worthless."
Real treasures—like grimoires—might lurk, but appraising and selling? Time sink. Strekl lacked both. Win land in the land race, and options exploded. New sights emerged.
Like the presumed princess high noble ahead. Pubguk elites—and many—gnashed teeth at Empire and Holy Empire. They'd bled in war. Victors deserved spoils. Demon-hit nations got interference, no gains. They'd pay top coin for Empire nobility.
Marhal watched Strekl stroke his sword hilt. Common nervous tic. Exiled war hero from his homeland. Plenty worries. But few when eyeing enemy nobility.
'Planned a discreet exit outside.'
Strekl's vibe screamed instant draw. Marhal scanned knights. Not all bilingual. Pubguk side: two interpreters. Empire: four. They relayed to all.
They grabbed the shelf's contents and retraced the passage.
"Didn't check the far end. We're going. You?"
"Checking far end."
"...Us too."
"Going too."
A dozen torches lined the tunnel. The far end appeared swiftly: upward stairs. One knight climbed, shoved the ceiling. Sunlight poured in.
Secret passage to outside. Obvious. Torch-accustomed eyes stung in glare. In that blinded moment, Marhal spoke—in imperial, then Pubguk.
"Her Highness's proxy! Clear the pesky Pubguk scum first!"
"Now! Kill Strekl!"
Light flashed from a nimble Pubguk knight who'd drawn eyes in demon fight; Empire knights stabbed Pubguk backs. Torches hit dirt, trampled. Shadows tangled over dim flames; dripping blood splattered walls and floor.
Bloodsight struck Bayola wordless; she fainted. Strekl clutched his throat one-handed, drawing sword with the other.