Chapter 870

Chapter 870

*Ping—*

It wasn’t a noise that vibrated through the air. Instead, it was a sensation, a shape of sound perceived only by the gut. Elma’s gaze sharpened.

*‘If you rely on your eyes, you’re already dead.’*

Gripping her hilt, she funneled every ounce of her concentration into her fingertips.

In the southern lands, the knightly orders had once been five, known as the Five-Color Orders. However, as decades rolled by, their ranks thinned to three. Among these remaining pillars, the Amethyst Order was widely considered the least formidable. Elma lived to shatter that perception. Every warrior steps onto the field for their own truth. Some fight for the crown, others for a name. For Elma, the blade was a tool for validation. From the age of twelve, she had conditioned her body with iron, clashing against gnolls, satyrs, and lycanthropes. When she finally joined the order, the regime only grew more brutal.

The imperial knight Valmung had established his own philosophy of cultivation, just as Enkrid had carved a unique path toward the peak of knighthood. Was the south to be left behind? Their training began with the sensory: identifying lethal toxins by scent alone and maintaining a state of combat readiness even while dreaming.

Then came the trials of scale. She was tasked with facing entire swarms rather than lone beasts. For three consecutive days, she was the prey, forced to dismantle a lycanthrope colony to survive; she even faced named satyrs—monsters with the legs of goats and the cunning of men. These were not mindless brutes; they were masters of martial craft. And they were legion.

She had waded through that carnage and emerged whole. Through sheer merit, she rose to become one of the premier geniuses of the Amethyst Order.

*‘Forge your power with your soul as the collateral.’*

That was the southern code, and Elma was the prodigy who had mastered it with flawless marks. Her weapon was a massive two-handed sword, nearly as tall as she was. Having battled giants since her youth, the weight felt natural in her hands. The edge was jagged, resembling a row of carnivorous teeth. She had carried this blade since childhood, eventually reinforcing it with high-grade steel to transform it into an engraved weapon.

Its name was Mane.

Her pupils narrowed to slits. Her depth of field expanded, snapping into focus on the object she had previously missed.

*‘A stone?’*

To be precise, it was a rock polished into a perfect, glass-like sphere. It was a projectile that Rem referred to as a bullet.

Elma swung her greatsword in a vertical arc. The edge met the incoming projectile with mathematical precision. The musculature of her arms flared as she channeled her momentum into the strike.

*Kiiiii-kangg!*

The iron shrieked as it split. A concussive shockwave rippled outward, kicking up a sudden gale. The severed halves of the stone slammed into the dirt with twin impacts, each cratering the earth and throwing soil as high as a man’s head.

“Phew, I cut it.”

Elma let out a soft, controlled breath. Was it a heavy blow? Extremely. It had to have been the enemy’s maximum effort.

“He resorted to a throw because he’s terrified of a close-quarters exchange,” Galluto remarked, analyzing the situation. Elma gave a curt nod. She had missed the first stone, leading to chaos among the ranks, but the second had met her steel.

“……Whoaaa, Amethyst!”
“Elma!”
“Violet Elma!”

They called her by that title, and the soldiers roared her name. Yet, even as they cheered, the man responsible for the projectile and his comrades strolled into view.

“So you stopped it.”
“They weren’t all going to be misses.”
“Southern knights, eh? Let’s see if they live up to the talk.”
“If you get yourself killed, I’ll make sure your bits are collected. Should I toss them in some ditch?”
“Who’s getting killed? I’m starting with you.”

The leader had hair the color of ash. He approached with a relaxed gait, swinging the hand that held an axe with casual indifference. Beside him walked a beastman with the golden, predatory eyes of a hunter, followed by two human men. The pair in the back were Pell and Rophod, their voices carrying clearly. They made no effort to hide their approach, their footsteps heavy with confidence.

*‘A bluff?’*

Galluto scrutinized the opposition.

*‘No.’*

It wasn’t ego or bravado. It was familiarity.

A knight should be accustomed to violence, but these men were too at home. They looked as though they had navigated this exact scenario dozens of times. Galluto’s intuition was spot on. Rem, Dunbakel, Rophod, and Pell had survived countless bloodbaths. They had nearly decapitated one another during their own training sessions. Facing knights didn’t make them flinch; it was just another day.

*‘They act as if they’ve slaughtered knights by the dozen.’*

But the southern knights were no different. They did not retreat from blood. Survival against the horrors of the Demon-lands required constant warfare. Gellik scowled, tightening his grip on his twin short swords. Elma rhythmically flexed her hand around her hilt.

Elma was a specialist in high-velocity strikes using a heavy-blade framework; her engraved weapon could claim a limb with a mere graze, and its jagged edge could ruin the blades of lesser men. It was Mane, often called the Grinder’s Blade.

Gellik, on the other hand, possessed a burst of speed that was unrivaled in the order. His twin blades were like the venomous fangs of a viper—an engraved weapon forged from the remains of a legendary beast.

*‘A toxin without a cure.’*

That was Gellik’s trump card. He had woven his Will into the monster’s venom. He had to; otherwise, he would have perished in the Amethyst Order long ago, succumbing to the bite of the Lamia—a creature with a woman’s torso and a serpent’s tail. Every time Gellik triggered his internal chemical cocktail, his face contorted—not out of malice, but as a physical reaction to the strange corruption that had taken root in his veins when he survived the poison.

“That one is mine.”

The beastman pointed a steady finger directly at Gellik.

“Fine, you’ll be the first to drop.”

Gellik accepted the challenge. He didn’t recognize these faces, and Cypress was nowhere to be seen, but he remained vigilant. Simlak had been erased above them just moments ago, and that single projectile had already claimed the lives or limbs of over ten men. The air was thick with the sounds of the dying. There was no room for error.

“Archers!”

Galluto signaled the detachment. The specialized squad pulled their heavy strings back.

*Kkigigik!*

These were modified anti-personnel ballistae, each requiring a three-man crew. Two drew the mechanism while one slotted the bolt. The bow itself was as thick as a human torso, anchored firmly into the dirt.

“Release!”

The air was filled with a rapid succession of thuds. These bolts were faster, denser, and far more lethal than standard arrows.

*Boom!*

Rophod and Pell knocked aside all four massive projectiles. The vibration rattled their bones, leaving their arms momentarily numb. They would recover in seconds, but they couldn’t allow the barrage to continue. Rophod realized he had to act.

“We have to break the soldiers.”

With that, he signaled Pell and lunged toward the knight who was commanding the archers.

“……You absolute lunatic.”

Pell offered the remark as a backhanded compliment. If someone had to disrupt the formation, let the knight be his. Rophod’s intent was clear in his movement. Pell didn’t argue. This was a war, not a game. Experience taught you that being a hero was less important than being efficient.

“Coyote bastard, I’m holding a grudge for this.”

In the wild, sheep might ignore a wolf, but they fear the coyotes of the wastes that hunt with relentless persistence. They were predators that didn’t care about the size of the prey. To Pell, calling someone a coyote was the peak of respect.

“Sure, sure,” Rophod replied dismissively as he stepped in front of Galluto.

“Try to stay alive. If you last long enough, I’ll finish these guys and come help.”

Galluto roared, ignoring the banter. The southern leader gritted his teeth. It was time to stand against the storm.

The storm had brown hair and unnervingly long arms. He walked forward, his limbs swaying like heavy pendulums. The three southern knights knew a slaughter was imminent, but they couldn’t stop it. Galluto saw the terror beginning to crack the discipline of his men, but his options were limited.

*‘Let the army buy us the window we need.’*

That was the only way to ensure they weren’t overwhelmed by numbers. If even one knight could secure a kill, the momentum would shift. Were these men truly the replacements for the Red Cloak Order? Should he order a retreat? Was there any other path?

“Hoo.”

Galluto exhaled, purging the doubts. Hesitation was a death sentence.

“I’m tired of waiting. I was going to just end you, but I held back—if you apologize now, I might consider it.”

“……What?”

Rophod successfully grated on his opponent’s nerves, a trademark tactic of the Mad Order of Knights. He leaned into the provocation. From his position, Rem heard the exchange and smirked.

“The kid’s got a mouth on him.”

All those years of trading insults and blows had clearly paid off. It was almost touching.

“Drop the act, you gray-haired freak.”

Elma spoke up. Rem shifted his stance and lifted his axe. Elma held her greatsword with both hands, the edge angled toward him. She looked through the steel and silently dismissed Galluto’s previous claim.

*‘He’s not confident in a melee?’*

Ridiculous. She couldn’t take her eyes off his hands—the veins bulging against the grip, the way his gauntlets seemed to strain against the sudden expansion of muscle beneath the metal.

*‘One exchange.’*

Elma didn’t want a marathon. The outcome would be decided in the first heartbeat. Life or death, nothing in between.

*‘Everything I have.’*

She centered her soul. The veins on her own hands stood out in stark relief. She raised her blade high, transitioning into a perfect overhead stance. Her arms formed a rigid triangle, narrowing her focus until only the enemy remained. A knight’s awareness transcended simple vision.

The opponent, his face unreadable, raised the axe in his right hand. Elma’s mind raced at the speed of battle.

*‘Once he realizes this ends in one strike—’*

She had learned this lesson as a child facing monsters that dwarfed her.

*‘There are too many things in this world that won’t die in one hit.’*

She had adapted. If one strike failed, she would strike twice; if two failed, she would strike three times.

*‘Into the silent world.’*

She held her breath and lunged. The sheer atmospheric pressure generated by her blade bore down on Rem’s skull. In his vision, the light of her sword stretched into a lethal line.

*‘A vertical execution—’*

A strike designed to pin the target in place. The sheer kinetic energy was comparable to Pell’s heaviest blows.

*‘Still,’* Rem thought, *‘she’s not as good as that lazy swordsman.’*

Rem swung his axe upward. If he relied on pure wrist strength, the bone would snap. Instead, he locked his wrist and rotated his entire frame, using his right foot as an axis. It was the Flowing Sword technique—deflecting the energy rather than meeting it head-on. It was a skill that had been refined to a razor edge during his duel with Temares.

*Kang!*

Engraved weapon met forged steel, and a shower of sparks erupted. The massive greatsword was redirected, sliding harmlessly to the side. Expecting the deflection, Elma yanked the sliding blade back and transitioned into a brutal horizontal slash. Rem batted it away again, letting the momentum carry the blade upward.

*Takang!*

Both weapons whistled through empty air.

*‘Three strikes.’*

Determined to outpace him, Elma suppressed her breath and brought the sword down again. Rem intercepted the blow with the throwing axe pulled from his right hip.

*Kwang! Udeuk!*

This axe was a masterpiece of dwarven craft, but it wasn’t an engraved weapon. Elma’s Mane tore through it. The steel shattered, and the oak handle—carefully seasoned and oiled for over a week—burst into a cloud of splinters.

*Ppeok.*

The following sound was quiet. Compared to the screaming of metal and the boom of air, it was almost delicate—but it was the sound of a life ending.

Elma’s world turned crimson. She tried to speak, but her jaw wouldn’t follow the command. Her hearing remained, however, and she caught the man’s final words.

“You just have bad luck. I spend my days sparring with a maniac who swings a greatsword like a possessed man.”

Rem had spent countless hours clashing with Ragna. Compared to that lethargic but terrifying swordsman, this was simple. Rem shrugged. He pulled another throwing axe with his left hand, while his right hand brought his main axe down through her guard before he stepped back. He hadn’t bothered to block with his primary weapon; he had simply flooded his right arm with every drop of spell power he possessed and crushed her defense. That single strike was the culmination of every technique he had absorbed, even the subtle lethality of Jaxon’s stealth.

There was no need for a fancy name. He had seen an opening and swung. He hadn’t expected to need that much effort, but then again, she wasn’t a novice.

—

Regardless of Rem’s progress, Pell stood before the advancing army, dragging the tip of his sword through the dirt to mark a line. He had seen Enkrid do this once and found the theater of it appealing.

“I’m not interested in a massacre. Stay behind this line, and you stay alive. It’s a simple rule. Anyone need a translation?”

Total silence.

It was a beautiful quiet. Pell felt a surge of internal pride. But the silence was broken when a squad of archers, working in groups of four, pulled their mechanisms.

*Kkigigik! Thud-thud!*

Three bolts whistled toward him. Pell shifted his weight, his body reacting with preternatural instinct, and the bolts passed harmlessly.

*Ppeobeobeok!*

The projectiles buried themselves in the dirt. It was a vicious attempt.

“……Didn’t I tell you not to cross?”

Pell regained his stance, his eyes burning with a sudden, dark intensity. The evasion had forced him into a clumsy position.

“Only the bolts crossed! The men stayed back!”

The enemy officer yelled back. It was a pathetic technicality.

“Wait, what?”

Pell stared, genuinely confused. What kind of logic was this?

“No man stepped over the line!”

The officer shouted, though his face was a ghostly shade of blue. He was a dead man walking—he was arguing with a force of nature.

“Are you joking?”

Pell’s brow furrowed.

“You’re really going to play word games with me? A knight, acting like this?”

The southern officer wasn’t a coward; he was a desperate man who had found a semantic loophole and was clinging to it with everything he had. Pell could have easily disregarded it. He could have crossed the line himself and painted the field red. But that would mean breaking his own word. It wasn’t a formal vow, but it was his statement. Should he compromise?

“Fine. We’ll play it your way.”

Pell conceded. As long as no one physically stepped over, he would hold his hand. That was his choice.

Watching from the sidelines, Crang broke into a boisterous laugh.

“Only a pack of lunatics would follow a captain like that.”

The royal guards found themselves nodding in silent agreement—while also realizing that their king’s laughter held a note of genuine admiration. He didn’t crave a mindless slaughter, even if those on the receiving end were his enemies.