Chapter 859

Chapter 859

A heavy downpour saturated the landscape, the freezing rain chilling the bone while a foul odor permeated the air. Dozens of people huddled together, shivering with trepidation. On these frontier farms that sustained the city, the grain was housed in sturdy stone structures, while the people themselves resided in flimsy wooden shacks. It was a grim reflection of their status.

One could describe the fertility of this land differently: it was a harvest of misery, grain nourished by blood. Within the city’s high walls, sunlight was a rare commodity, making large-scale agriculture in the center impossible. Consequently, farms were established on the outskirts, featuring stone silos designed to withstand the assault of monsters. Farmers gambled their lives daily to till the earth; the wheat remained safe behind stone, while the people perished defending the very soil they worked. Such was the systemic cruelty of the city.

Since urban centers had a finite capacity for life, was this cycle of sacrifice simply a tragedy to be ignored?

The Enkrid of years past could not walk away. He had been traveling to serve as an escort for a noblewoman when his path was diverted by this local plight.

“This is the entirety of what we can offer.”

The elderly man speaking had fingertips stained black from a lifetime of labor. His spine was permanently curved, and his head remained bowed as if he no longer had the strength to look up.

He looked out at the wooden perimeter of the farm, the rain lashing against the residents. The authority over the stone storehouse rested with a soldier, and the local lord’s protection extended “only to the city” walls. These displaced farmers refused to abandon their land; to lose this year’s crop meant certain destitution. In a desperate bid for survival, they pooled their meager belongings to hire protection.

It was a common tale: a lack of resources, blood-soaked harvests, a struggle for existence, and leaders who looked the other way. The “wealth” the old man presented consisted of nothing more than a single copper band and a few cheap glass baubles.

Having served as a guard for the nobility, Enkrid possessed a discerning eye for value.

“This isn’t even worth a solitary gold piece,” he remarked.

The sum was laughably insufficient to commission a mercenary unit, which was precisely why they had turned to him in desperation.

“We beg of you, help us.”

At the old man’s plea, Enkrid reached out and took only the copper ring.

“I am a solitary traveler; this will suffice.”

A young man nearby watched with skeptical, narrow eyes, his sodden hair plastered to his face. The rain showed no signs of relenting.

“We could hold them off ourselves,” the youth grumbled.

“Don’t be a fool. We are helpless without a proper swordsman,” the old man snapped back.

It was a bitter dispute between the elder and a man two decades his junior. This region had been fortunate thus far; they had repelled a few beastman raids in the past. There had been casualties, certainly, but they had not yet been broken by total despair.

“Tom, you poor soul, I’ll make them pay for what they did to you,” one man hissed, spitting on the muddy earth. His gaze was feral with a thirst for vengeance. Enkrid observed the group in silence.

The presence of a single leader wouldn’t magically transform this motley crew. They were barely clinging to life. Though he could have easily walked away from the doomed farm, he chose to stay.

Through the thick curtain of late-summer rain, a predatory pack emerged. Wolves and foxes comprised the bulk of the force. These beastmen weren’t interested in the stone silos; they were hunting the humans. Unarmed villagers were easy targets.

“…There are far too many,” a young man whispered. Internally, Enkrid could only agree.

Over twenty famished predators circled them. But should they simply surrender to the end? Every person capable of wielding a tool—save for the women and children—stood ready.

They rallied, fighting back-to-back. Even when teeth sank into legs, they fought on, crushing a fox’s skull with a heavy mace. Enkrid’s strength, honed by relentless daily practice, was formidable.

However, this wasn’t a predicament that could be solved by one man’s physical prowess alone. They were seconds away from being slaughtered and left as carrion on the farm.

Limping from his wounds, stabbing with his blade and swinging his mace, Enkrid held the line.

“This fellow is absolutely touched in the head.”

The voice belonged to a mercenary who had just arrived. At the head of the group, the captain spoke.

“Damn this weather, it’s coming down like a deluge.”

The mercenary captain swung his sword as he spoke. To the Enkrid of that time, the man was a master of his craft. With a fluid strike, he sent a lunging fox beast reeling back with a pained yelp. His comrades surged in behind him.

There were fifteen of them—seasoned, well-equipped warriors who far outclassed Enkrid.

“So, what’s the deal? Did someone promise you their daughter’s hand for this?” one mercenary joked. It was a blunt way of asking why anyone would risk their life for such a pathetic reward. The immediate danger passed, and the rhythm of life resumed.

“Seriously, your technique is mediocre at best—what were you betting on?” the captain asked.

“I simply couldn’t bring myself to leave them behind.”

“…A truly, remarkably insane bastard.”

That encounter led Enkrid to join their mercenary company, where he gained invaluable experience. While he wouldn’t label the captain his primary mentor, the man was the one who had taken him under his wing.

“Drop the blade. It doesn’t suit your nature. If you can’t stay away from the life, go be a lapdog for some noblewoman.”

Had that been his advice as well?

The recollection of that rainy day blurred into the present. Enkrid focused on the man standing before him.

“…Tim?”

“To hell with that. Who is Tim? My name is Bunion.”

“Ah, of course.”

Enkrid gave a slow nod. Bunion. That was the name he remembered.

“If you weren’t sure, you could have just stayed quiet. Why guess another name entirely?” Rophod grumbled.

“He’s always been this way. Why act surprised now?” Pell chimed in. Rophod had been unusually irritable since their arrival, perhaps a reaction to the grim atmosphere of the front lines.

Existence is a series of random events—one can never predict how things will shift. The decisions made between birth and the grave alter everything.

“Didn’t they look alike?” Rophod muttered, causing Enkrid to tilt his head in thought. Bunion simply smiled and looked forward, choosing to ignore the comment. He had always been good at that.

“I had my suspicions, but you’re really the ‘Mad Knight-Captain’? Well, well. I knew you’d end up as someone significant.”

Bunion’s nose wrinkled—a telltale sign of his smile. Despite the deep shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, his grin remained.

“And didn’t you once suggest I should give up the sword?”

“Me? When would I say that?” Bunion shrugged, affecting an air of innocence.

Enkrid let out a soft laugh and extended his hand. He recognized that specific brand of shamelessness; Bunion was the source of it. The two men shook hands firmly.

“I’m genuinely glad to see you—I could almost weep.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“True, my ego won’t permit me to blubber over a man.”

Their rapport was easy and familiar. Bunion now served as a squad leader in charge of ten men. While most units on the Southern Front rotated in and out of the defense lines, Bunion belonged to a permanent fixture.

Bunion took it upon himself to show them the layout of the camp, explaining the placement of tents and the current tactical outlook. After listening, Enkrid posed a question.

“How is it that you’re still stationed here?”

“Because the job needs doing, and I’m the one here to do it.”

It was a deflection. There was a deeper motivation hidden beneath his words, but it wasn’t the time for a heart-to-heart. Bunion had always been surprisingly compassionate for someone who lived by the sword. That compassion was why he had looked after Enkrid years ago.

“You’ve come to assist us, haven’t you, Enkrid? If so, then do it. Give us your strength to protect this territory.”

Grace and kindness.

They were bound by those very threads. Bunion had once saved Enkrid and taught him the ways of the world. Even Enkrid’s habit of making jokes with a straight face was a trait he had inherited from Bunion.

“Rest easy.”

Goodwill is cyclical. What is given eventually returns. Bunion had heard rumors of the “Mad Knight-Captain” and was stunned to find his former pupil was the man in question.

“Can a single knightly order truly turn the tide?”

If they pushed past the Southern Front and initiated a charge? Could they win a standard war?

It was a daunting prospect. Truly daunting.

The Southern Rihinstetten forces possessed a devastating secret weapon: specialized anti-personnel ballistae. These were modified engines of war that fired bolts thicker than wooden spears.

“Even for knights, charging through that is a suicide mission.”

The weapons were limited by their fixed positions, but the terrain between their current location and the Southern army was a maze of narrow passes and steep hills. Any frontal assault would require them to scale those heights and squeeze through bottlenecks while being pelted by bolts faster than any arrow and heavier than a javelin. It was a logistical nightmare.

“What if they flanked us?”

A few elite knights might manage to break through and circle back, but the Southern knights wouldn’t simply stand by and watch.

The situation was bleak, and Bunion was fully aware of it. He knew that even with reinforcements, their options were limited. And there was still the problem of the monsters—the Gryphon Riders.

“It will work itself out.”

Enkrid spoke the words despite the lack of an immediate solution. He had processed the reality of the situation, yet he maintained his stance.

Strangely, at those words, Bunion’s expression flickered with a tremor of emotion.

“…Have you crossed paths with Sir Cypress?” Bunion asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

Enkrid shook his head. He didn’t know the mind of the Southern Front’s commander, nor did he care why the man hadn’t appeared yet. He had met with Crang and defined his own mission. That was all that mattered to him.

“Is that so? How odd,” Bunion remarked. Enkrid was unaware, but “It will work itself out” was a signature phrase of Cypress.

A man who refused to surrender. A man who radiated hope in the darkest hours. Such was the knight who guarded this land.

—

The majority of the soldiers holding the South were cut from the same cloth as Bunion. This was a place where only those with an ironclad sense of duty could endure. The rain brought the threat of drowning, monsters could strike at any hour, and the Rihinstetten military was a constant shadow.

The recent emergence of Gryphon Riders and the fading power of the Holy Relics had created an era of unprecedented misery. Yet, there were no deserters. The men on this battlefield did not abandon their posts. They went on patrol while crippled by injuries and fought while covered in bandages. If the Holy Relics failed, they simply fought harder with their own hands. If an enemy attacked from a distance, they hunkered down and waited for the moment to strike back. They even extended their protection to the newcomers. They were a people who simply did not know how to quit.

“Is it possible for us to enter?”

Audin and Teresa had located the tent housing the group of priests. The air around the structure was thick with the scent of mortality. Mingled with the metallic tang of the Demon Realm’s rain was the unmistakable odor of decaying life. Audin, in his years as a monk, had encountered this many times. That heavy, suffocating smell of ammonia—the scent of the dying—clung to the tent.

A soldier, though clearly struggling, moved to block the giant man’s path.

“State your identity.”

The soldier’s mind was clouded. Between the pounding headaches and the tainted rain, it felt as though his thoughts were mired in sludge. His mental faculties were severely diminished, leaving him with only his sense of duty to guide him. Without that focus, he would have likely succumbed to the whispers of evil spirits.

“I am a servant of the God of War.”

The guard wavered. The people inside were likely beyond help anyway. Admitting a priest couldn’t make things worse. Still, his orders were to stand guard.

Audin could have easily overpowered the man, but he chose to show respect for the soldier’s resolve.

“We are in the heart of your camp. If I were to betray your trust, you would be well within your rights to run me through.”

Had they been enemies, they never would have made it this far. Furthermore, the priests inside were essentially on their deathbeds. There was no practical reason to deny entry, yet the soldier hesitated to abandon his post.

“Stand down and let them through.”

The voice came from behind Audin. It was Lapild, an officer who held authority over the sentry.

Lapild had been attempting to rest when he heard about the servant of the God of War. Finding Audin wasn’t difficult given his massive stature. Moreover, the two were standing directly in front of the tent where Lapild’s own benefactor lay dying.

“Officer Lapild.”

“Move aside.”

Lapild spoke firmly and nudged the soldier out of the way. The guard, his eyes glazed and unfocused, stepped back.

“You intend to go inside? You risk contracting the ailment yourself,” Lapild warned.

Throughout this ordeal, Lapild had held onto a single hope. The people suffering inside that tent were too noble to perish in such a godforsaken place. Even if the rain ceased, this land would continue to drain their vitality. His only wish was for them to be safely transported back to the city.

“It is quite alright, brother with the grieving eyes,” Audin replied.

Lapild winced slightly at the description before his face softened.

“That is a peculiar way to address someone.”

As the sentry retreated, Lapild held back the tent flap. Audin offered a respectful bow and stepped into the gloom. Inside, men lay amidst the stench of waste and infection.

There were ten priests in total, crowding the small space. Despite the dire conditions, there were signs of care—bowls of water and clean rags were scattered about.

“If they are left like this, they won’t last,” Lapild whispered from the entrance. In truth, they were on the very brink of death. He clung to the hope that even one might be spared.

However, his next request was born of grim reality rather than optimism.

“If there is no hope for their lives, then I ask you to at least perform the last rites.”

Lapild’s voice broke. The crushing weight of his own powerlessness forced him to seek divine intervention.

*Lord, if You can hear me, I beg of You.*

Save them.

*If You spare them, I will dedicate every breath of my life to Your service.*

It was a desperate, total vow—one that gambled his soul and his future.

“You arrived a bit late,” Audin noted. Lapild felt a fresh wave of agony; even though he expected the worst, hearing it confirmed was devastating.

“It will take at least a month for them to fully recover.”

Lapild was stunned into silence by the sudden shift in the priest’s words.

“Sister, begin the song.”

“Yes.”

As the melody began and the scene transformed, Lapild collapsed to his knees.

Teresa channeled pure sanctity into her voice. This was no dirge for the dead; her song acted as a living Holy Relic. The ten priests had been ravaged by a plague born of the Demon Realm—a sickness that had infected the entire front.

Before Lapild’s eyes, a miracle took shape.

Radiance flowed through the lyrics, and that light became a lifeline for the dying men. As they struggled for air, glowing threads of energy passed over their darkened, spotted skin. The priest who had once saved Lapild’s sibling slowly opened his eyes.

“…What has happened?”

The man had been unconscious for three days, during which Lapild had tirelessly tended to him to prevent bedsores. Now, he was awake and coherent.

“Lapild?”

The priest could not see Audin or Teresa in his weakened state; his vision was occupied only by Lapild, who was weeping and praying in profound gratitude.

“You’ve returned to us, Father.”

Lapild moved toward him on his knees, his sobs echoing through the tent. It was the crying of a man who had known deep sorrow—but now found his joy too overwhelming to contain.