Chapter 857

Chapter 857

The flow of monsters was truly relentless.

“Is this some kind of trap?”

Rem was the one to speak, having caught the subtle vibrations through the soles of his boots. Beneath the surface, a cluster of Scalers lay in wait within excavated tunnels. These were the creatures that rode into battle atop the massive annelids known as Worms. Thanks to the downpour, their attempt at a surprise attack was futile. Even in dry weather, they likely would have been detected. They erupted from the soil in an attempt to box the group in, but the effort was wasted. Rem moved forward with fluid lethality, hacking and cleaving through them as he maintained his pace.

Naturally, waves of ghouls and the drowned followed. Occasionally, mutated versions appeared—horrific fusions of multiple ghouls merged into a single entity. They were the size of dire wolves, essentially towering mounds of animated marrow and muscle.

“Hey, priest. There’s your kin.”

Rem’s tongue remained as active as his blade.

“Heh-heh, the Creator is concerned for my sibling’s soul. Oh Father, shall we deliver another lost soul of the West?”

Teresa took up the banter.

“Right at this moment?”

One had to wonder what she and Audin actually discussed in their spare time. What exactly was supposed to happen “now”?

“Are you two plotting my murder when I’m not looking? Pay attention to these freaks.”

Ignoring the bickering duo, Pell and Rophod lunged into the fray.

“Want to wager on the body count?” Pell asked as he advanced.

“Does Count Audin’s cousin over there count for ten?”

“You’re on.”

Their exchange didn’t escape Audin’s ears. Rem let out a soft chuckle, while Audin, watching the two charge off without a word, finally spoke.

“Do try to come back in one piece, you two.”

The words were frigid. To Pell and Rophod, Audin’s calm warning felt far more menacing than the corrupted atmosphere of this territory.

“Return to the Creator’s embrace, return to the Creator’s embrace.”

Teresa murmured a line from a familiar psalm. Dunbakel gave a short laugh. For some reason, the beastwoman’s rasping chuckle was starting to sound exactly like Rem’s.

“This rain won’t let up.”

Ragna voiced his annoyance. There was no fear in him, only irritation. With the deluge showing no signs of stopping, there was no way to start a fire for a hot meal. They were stuck gnawing on soggy strips of dried meat. Ragna craved something substantial.

“It’s going to be falling for a good while.”

A skilled scout interprets the heavens to predict the climate. Enkrid had experience in that field and estimated the storm would persist for at least three more days. Ragna, of course, was oblivious to such expertise. In his mind, a true scout simply kept walking regardless of the downpour. To him, there was no such thing as being lost; one simply wandered until the goal manifested itself.

The competition between Pell and Rophod resulted in a draw. Pell took down Audin’s “relative,” but Rophod managed to clear the rest of the field, slaughtering more ghouls and drowned than his rival.

Even after that skirmish, creatures continued to emerge from the gloom. Among them, a solitary gnoll left the deepest impression on the group. Despite attacking alone rather than with a clan, it was remarkably cunning.

*A candidate for a knight? No, perhaps not quite there?*

That was Enkrid’s assessment. It couldn’t consciously harness Will, but its exceptional physical prowess—reflexes far beyond human limits and raw, innate power—served as a substitute. It trailed the group’s rear with incredible silence. Earlier, several owlbears had tried to use the shadows as a shield for a head-on charge, but they hadn’t surprised anyone; this gnoll was different. It masked its presence so effectively it brought Jaxon to mind, even factoring in how it used the wind at its back to hide its scent. It didn’t rush blindly; it drew near with calculated movements, closing in until it was within striking distance.

*It possesses restraint.*

Enkrid noted. This wasn’t a mindless beast. It knew how to maximize its natural advantages.

*A monster that thinks.*

It was a creature that had clearly learned tactics from humans or another sentient race. The warnings of the Imperial knight Valphir Valmung echoed in his mind. Regardless, the gnoll—acting with a stealth reminiscent of Jaxon—targeted Ragna at the very back. It was an ambush heavy with a predator’s intent.

The second Ragna sensed the bloodlust behind him, he pivoted. Whipping his body around, he unleashed a strike that seemed to fracture time itself. It was the result of heightened perception, a focus that entered a silent void in a heartbeat, and his constant mental preparation to slice Rem whenever the man opened his mouth. Everything merged into one blow.

As Ragna’s torso twisted, his horse’s legs gave way under the sheer violence of the movement in the saddle.

*Crack—, Hiiing!*

The sound of snapping bone was followed by the horse’s pained cry. Even as his position collapsed, Ragna’s blade, Sunrise, followed its path and bifurcated the stalker who had lunged from the shadows. Though his balance was compromised, he channeled power through his core and arms to stabilize the strike. The technique was so flawless it was hard to believe it was a reactive slash thrown in a split second. His reputation as a prodigy was well-earned.

“They certainly have variety out here,” Ragna remarked, holding the pose of his finished swing. It was a dry acknowledgment of the South’s hostility.

“A strange one, that. Sure it wasn’t a stray cat in a suit?” Rem teased. The approach had been incredibly quiet; even the perceptive fairy and Enkrid hadn’t noticed it until the last moment. The heavy, damp air had helped mask its approach.

They had encountered this phenomenon before. Simply being near the Demon Realm clouded the perceptions of sentient beings. The South bordered that dark domain. Unbeknownst to them, the frequency of monster sightings had recently spiked, and the influence of the Demon Realm was bleeding outward, making the air in the South as suffocating as it was within the ramparts of Thorn Castle.

“The South seems full of entertainment,” Pell remarked.

Enkrid knelt to inspect the carcass of the gnoll. Its movements followed a pattern similar to the ghoul Jericks.

*A creature that can manipulate Will.*

By this point, such anomalies were becoming common. They were marching to wage war against the South, yet it felt as though the monsters were the true opposition. Regardless, their destination was finally within reach.

“I bet the Southern Front will be crawling with monsters when we get there,” Rem said, maintaining his habit of voicing grim possibilities.

“Everyone agrees that sounds like terrible luck,” the Dragonkin replied, acting as the group’s emotional interpreter. Lua Gharne felt that this particular brand of foul rain was exceptionally rare.

*Rain born of the Demon Realm.*

The water carried the essence of that dark place. Nevertheless, the group pressed on until they reached the southern boundary.

“This line has held firm for decades,” Rophod noted, feeling his pulse quicken. He wasn’t entirely sure what the feeling was, but one component was undeniable: pride. He had once been a member of the Red Cloak Order. Cypress was a name synonymous with heroism, and the Red Cloak Order that defended the South was viewed as an immovable fortress. A knightly order that served as a shield for generations was the stuff of legends.

The group came upon a sea of tents. Their attention was caught by a high-flying standard positioned between the structures, depicting a sun and three blades—the heraldry of the Naurillia royalty.

The rain continued to hiss down in sheets.

“State your business!”

A soldier with an empty sleeve where an arm should be stopped them. He stood guard at the gap in the wooden defensive wall surrounding the encampment. Enkrid noted a gloom hanging over the troops that was even darker than the gray sky. For a military force that had resisted for so long, their spirit was shattered. The reason was obvious. Rotting monster hides lay scattered about, and the stains of ichor were everywhere. The aura of the camp was like cold ash—heavy, soot-stained, and dying.

“Enkrid of the Border Guard.”

It was a simple self-introduction. The guard blinked, confused by the name, and remained silent.

“Reinforcements,” another soldier standing nearby clarified. Those words brought no relief. The atmosphere of desolation remained unchanged. Normally, the arrival of help would be celebrated, but here there was only silence.

While Enkrid dealt with the guards, Audin inspected several Holy Relics mounted on posts along the fence.

*Fading.*

A Holy Relic was supposed to be a vessel of divine protection. If they were functioning correctly, monsters should never have been able to breach the perimeter. Yet the evidence of fighting within the lines was everywhere. What did this imply?

*The corruption leaking from the Demon Realm is drowning the relics.*

The malevolent air was rapidly eroding the sacred energy within the objects. He could see the cause through the effect. His profound understanding of the divine allowed him to trace the decay.

*They need restoration.*

He thought. Just as wet metal succumbs to rust, these relics could regain their potency if properly tended to—assuming the priest who originally consecrated them was still present. If not, new ones would have to be forged.

The two guards exchanged looks and sent word inside. An officer watching from the rear approached with a heavy limp. His gait was slow and labored. One guard was missing an arm; the officer had a ruined leg. One of the soldiers kept his face twisted in a permanent scowl, looking as though he might unleash a string of vitriol if he so much as opened his mouth. The mood in the camp was toxic. As they waited for a representative, a completely unexpected figure emerged.

“We meet again.”

It was Ingis.

The Red Cloak Order had sent a representative in person. His sodden, dull blond hair reflected his current exhaustion. He looked like a man who had been dragged through a river. Despite his appearance, the fire in his eyes remained. Enkrid studied him.

“Have you grown stronger?”

Enkrid asked, gauging his stance and gaze.

“I had some luck. As for you, Sir Enkrid, I’m told you’ve changed so much you’re hardly recognizable,” Ingis replied. The guards could only watch in bewilderment.

*What? Why is the elite order greeting them? And Sir Ingis himself?*

Soldiers trapped on the Southern Front were isolated from the rest of the world’s news. They were too busy surviving to listen to rumors. They had heard of the Mad Order of Knights, but seeing Ingis personally greet them was a shock. In the South, the Red Cloak Order was revered as the pinnacle of martial might.

“The situation here is dire,” Ingis said, gesturing for them to follow him.

“So it appears,” Enkrid agreed, following behind.

Ingis’s eyes moved over Enkrid and then the rest of the company. Known as the Iron Mask for his legendary stoicism, even Ingis couldn’t hide a slight flicker of surprise in his gaze.

*A Frokk and a fairy.*

Those two were strange, though he had heard reports of them. He also recognized Rem, Ragna, and the bear-like beastman. These were the individuals he had been anticipating since learning the Mad Order of Knights was being sent as relief.

*And who is that?*

Even to a seasoned knight, one member of the group stood out as truly abnormal. His pupils were vertical slits, clearly non-human, and he walked through the freezing rain as if it didn’t exist. His pale blond hair seemed to catch the light despite being drenched by the tainted storm.

*Disturbing, as rumored.*

The Mad Order of Knights was famous, and that fame was tied to their namesake instability. They were far from a conventional force. Ingis pushed the distracting thoughts aside and regained his composure. He knew the importance of mental fortitude; that was his greatest strength.

*It isn’t my place to judge.*

At this stage, the Southern Front was desperate for any help it could get. The arrival of this order would provide a massive boost in strength, regardless of how “mad” they were.

*Though even this might not be enough to turn the tide.*

If this conflict could be settled by the strength of a few knights, their Master would have ended it already. What was the true crisis of the Southern Front? The enemy controlled the skies, and the defenders had nothing but thrown spears to fight back.

*And that’s only the start of it.*

If all of this was part of the South’s grand strategy, it was being executed with terrifying precision. The rain continued its steady rhythm, soaking their gear. In place of Gryphon Riders, the rain brought the drowned; the sanctuary of the relics was failing; casualties were mounting; and a sickness was beginning to take hold. Nothing was going well. On the Southern Front, survival was the only goal.

*And even survival is reaching its breaking point.*

Rihinstetten hadn’t engaged in a traditional war. They sent infiltrators into Naurillia to cause internal collapse, while to the front lines, they sent only “monster inflation” and their aerial units. Based on his briefings with the king and his own front-line experience, Ingis saw through the South’s plan.

*Bleed them dry.*

Or wait until the entirety of Naurillia’s military was concentrated and exhausted here. What could be done on this front? And what was the vow that Cypress, their Master, held in his heart? These were the heavy thoughts weighing on Ingis.