Chapter 882

Chapter 882

Both Cypress and Crang had identified at least one layer of the southern strategy.
“Regardless, they surely wouldn’t dispatch a full contingent of knights merely to harass our rear?”
That was the King’s assessment.
Damaging the kingdom’s back and severing supply routes carried weight, yet if the primary front-line engagement was lost, those sent behind the lines would be reduced to nothing more than disorganized raiders wandering the interior.
How many knights of calamity-level strength could one spare for such a secondary objective? Surely not a significant number.
“One cannot be certain of that, Your Majesty.”
Cypress disagreed, giving a slow shake of his head.
“I am analyzing this from a logical, tactical perspective.”
“Conflict is far more unpredictable than the whims of a woman’s heart.”
The observations of a veteran who had spent decades on the front lines with a blade in his grip carried a unique gravity.
The theater of war was like fire and water—it shifted and evolved without regard for planning. One never knew where the flames would jump or the currents would pull. You could attempt to steer the chaos, but reality rarely conformed to intent.
Cypress understood that fundamental truth.
“We have deployed only Enki as our knight. What if the opposition has brought at least two?”
Faced with Crang’s inquiry, Cypress took a moment to reflect on the man known as Enkrid.
‘Two, at most.’
Unless they possessed extraordinary talent, they wouldn’t pose a true threat. Enkrid’s prowess was far beyond the norm. Cypress possessed an eye sharpened by countless duels with knights, a vision as keen as a Frokk’s.
Even without the formalized theory utilized by Enkrid to categorize knightly tiers, Cypress had his own metric for measuring a warrior’s caliber.
‘A ten-year survivor.’
His benchmark was how long a person could last within the Demon-lands. He synthesized everything—physical conditioning, stance, demeanor, even their manner of speech—and processed it through pure instinct.
This was why his method couldn’t be taught as a system; it was a judgment born from a lifetime of accumulated wisdom.
By his estimation, if Enkrid were stranded in the heart of the Demon-lands, he would endure for more than a decade.
In the context of surviving those cursed wastes, that was the highest possible commendation.
‘Every one of them.’
Furthermore, it wasn’t just a lone individual or two. The Mad Order of Knights was a gathering of men who all looked capable of surviving ten years in that hellscape.
He ranked typical knights at a single year—five if they were exceptional.
“He could manage two,” Cypress stated quietly.
Naturally, the leap from facing two knights to three wasn’t just a matter of dodging an extra blade.
The variables of a fight multiplied exponentially. If the goddess of luck decided to intervene with a cruel joke, even a battle-hardened mercenary could find his throat slit by a novice teenager who had just picked up a sword.
Even so—
‘I don’t envision that man falling easily.’
His intuition proved accurate. Enkrid had not yielded an inch against the pair of knights. He had dominated them. Despite spending the day traveling cramped on Odd-Eye’s back, with minimal rest and food before the clash, he had slain two knights.
There was a valid reason why the observing infantry roared that “the knight is the flower of war.”
Everyone who witnessed the feat felt a chill of awe that made their skin crawl.
Cypress shifted his attention toward the rest of the Mad Order of Knights.
The knights of the south were notorious for their volatile temperaments, yet—
“If you bash a gryphon’s skull a few times, will it eventually stop obeying?”
“Do you have a secret for transforming into an eagle, you barbarian?”
“The deity who oversees battle proclaims: ‘You lot already possess sturdy legs.’”
These were the jests exchanged by Rem, Ragna, and Audin, in that order.
Whether it was the holy knight who seemed merely fatigued after manifesting the impossible miracle known as declaration of sanctuary, the barbarian who claimed he could beat a monster into submission, or the northern-style swordsman telling people to become birds—they were cut from the same cloth.
‘They are all lunatics.’
That was Cypress’s internal verdict.
Perhaps when this conflict concluded, even the legendary aggression of the south would be eclipsed by the sheer insanity of these individuals.
It was the conclusion of a man whose years on the battlefield were piled high with scars. His gut feeling confirmed it.
“Then what if there are three?”
Crang, the sovereign of the realm, pressed. When Cypress hesitated to answer, Crang repeated the question.
“If he is pitted against three?”
“Your Majesty, increasing the number of knights from two to three is not a simple linear progression,” Cypress answered, his voice remaining level and clinical.
“Are you implying it would be too much?”
“I am saying the outcome is only revealed once the steel meets.”
“What is your estimate of the total number of southern knights?”
This time, the reply was instantaneous.
“No fewer than twenty.”
Had the Demon-lands not served as a balancing force, the disparity in power between Naurillia and Rihinstetten would have been so vast that war would have been unthinkable.
“And how many have you personally faced?”
The man who, alongside the Demon-lands, had filled the vacuum between the two nations’ armies, let a grin touch his lips. Back when titles like “the man who finds a way” or “the one who can do anything” were first linked to his name, Cypress had once pinned down five knights simultaneously. The jagged line across his torso from that encounter remained as a prominent scar, and the warrior who had dealt the blow was likely still drawing breath.

—

Ester took a quiet look behind her. In her vision, she could see the ramparts catching the morning light and the regiments forming up in front of them.
“Ester, when the fighting starts, how many do you think will perish? Ten? A hundred? A thousand?”
The cynical remarks of that wretch Kraiss echoed in her mind. She hadn’t liked him when she was a leopard, and her opinion hadn’t shifted.
He had gone out of his way to intimidate her and try to push her aside. She would have stepped forward regardless of his interference. Yet he had made a point to come and say those things. She despised that arrogance.
Nonetheless, the Will behind his actions and his speech had been genuine.
‘I will do whatever is necessary.’
Kraiss was prepared to do exactly that to preserve the city in its current state.
‘So, what about me?’
The presence of these people had altered how she perceived her spell world.
Jury, the marmalade merchant; Vanessa, who established the library; the woman who prepared the jerky; the former soldier who was skilled with a needle.
The existence of others had awakened new sentiments within her.
“I will protect them all.”
She whispered the words, feeling a wave of self-consciousness. Was such a sentiment appropriate for a witch of struggle? What would her mentor have thought, had she still been among the living?
Fortunately, she knew exactly what her mentor’s response would have been.
“Follow your heart, Ester. Child of the Star or not. A witch’s greatest talent is living exactly as she pleases.”
She had truly been a magnificent teacher.
“Master, we are prepared.”
A voice called out from her rear. Now, Ester was the one being addressed as master. That, too, felt strange. Given the way she had been trained, she couldn’t simply teach spells; she had been forced to relearn everything from the ground up, like an infant learning to walk. Only then could she instruct others.
That was the foundation of this magic unit.
It had started with just a handful of gifted soldiers, but their ranks now exceeded twenty.
Some had natural talent, but others—lacking any innate gift—had marched, labored, and struggled until they forced open a portion of a spell world.
By opening a spell world in that manner, one would never truly reach the stars. They would remain a mediocre practitioner for their entire life. She had once asked one of them why he pushed himself so hard, and the man had replied:
“I won’t regret it. This is how I keep my wife safe.”
He had a fiancée waiting in the city. He mentioned they were to be wed the following month.
Ester wondered if his conviction was what had led her to this moment.
If Enkrid had been the catalyst, these people were the evolution. Every word they had uttered had shaped who she was now.
What had happened to the witch who disregarded the opinions of others to carve her own path?
“It is time to welcome our uninvited guests.”
At the very least, the witch standing here now was a different creature than she had been. Who could say how she might change by tomorrow, but for the moment, this was her reality.
The witch who had once been fascinated by the man named Enkrid now held people dear. Everything she was about to do was for their sake.
“I offer a prayer to Rutrarlatra, who rose from the mire to command the world.”
Typically, a witch for whom “Drmul’s Scythe” was a sufficient expression of her power would not need such things, but she began a long, rhythmic incantation. Her voice, layered and resonant, made the very atmosphere vibrate.
“In exchange for your dominance, your miracle, and your craft, I surrender this territory.”
Following her instructions, the twenty soldiers pooled their mana and offered it to her. As an act of devotion for another, they channeled the mana they had meticulously refined within their spell worlds.
The soldiers’ eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible, and they began to salivate. Many of them were gripped by violent tremors.
If any mage who had constructed their own spell world had been there to witness this, they would have recoiled in terror.
An honorable mage would have been the first to cry out:
“Forbidden magic!”
The technique her unit had just executed was a dark art. The spell was known as “Worshiping Corpse,” a ritual that expanded one’s own world by consuming those who had built spell worlds mirroring one’s own.
Normally, everyone involved in this spell died. They were left as husks, frozen in a kneeling position with their heads to the dirt and their palms toward the heavens. That was the source of the name.
Alternatively, a mage who prioritized power over morality would have been stunned for a different reason.
“Warping a forbidden spell?”
Ester had not claimed the lives of those she had trained.
She was a prodigy. She had dissected the architecture of the forbidden magic, mastered its framework, and then rebuilt it entirely.
To the uninitiated, it might sound like a simple adjustment, but to those who studied the mystic arts, it was a feat beyond comprehension.
To put it in perspective, it was like identifying a stranger’s birth date and location just by glancing at their face—no, it was like dismantling a person’s very soul and reconfiguring the pieces into a completely different being.
Ester couldn’t actually discern birthplaces by looking at faces, of course.
It was only because she possessed a primal, innate sensitivity to the structure of spells that such things were possible in the realm of magic.
She had taken the forbidden rite and redirected the devotion. She had altered the mechanism of a borrowing spell—a system where power is taken from an external entity in exchange for a toll.
‘I am borrowing strength.’
The toll was a segment of the earth.
The pact was sealed. Among borrowing rituals, this was of the highest order. An entity from another realm performed a miracle.
The ground began to groan.
The dirt within the targeted zone liquefied under the influence of the borrowed authority. Water bubbled up into the parched soil, and thick, muddy gases hissed at the surface.

—

The Ocher Corps was renowned for its endurance on the march. They were an army composed entirely of foot soldiers, devoid of any mounted units. That legacy meant their marching drills were far more grueling than any other regiment.
For such a force, Naurillia’s Safe Road was little more than a casual stroll.
“Did they pave this path because they’re eager for us to kill them?”
The Ocher Corps advanced with total confidence. *Squish*—the lead scouts felt their feet sink into the terrain.
“What is this?”
“A mire? It’s a bog!”
“Quick, get the ropes!”
Magic was a phenomenon of wonder and impossibility. To an average person, it was a sequence of events that defied logic. The first soldier to sink hadn’t realized the severity.
From an external view, solid ground becoming a swamp didn’t look like anything special.
They had traversed far more treacherous landscapes in the Demon-lands. The vanguard of the prisoner corps were men who survived by gambling their lives daily.
Those experiences had granted them an uncanny sense for spotting lethality.
“Hold. Something isn’t right.”
A few veterans spoke up.
“What the—”
“When did this—?”
“Wait!”
The world around them had transformed into a marsh. In the brief time it took to call for help and for soldiers to scramble for ropes, their legs were already submerged to the calves.
“It’s a swamp back here, too!”
Steps were being swallowed even on ground that had been solid a moment ago. Several men were buried to their shins; others were already waist-deep in the sludge.
“Where did this fog come from?”
A sudden, thick vapor rose from the ground. There was no body of water nearby, and the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. Yet the mist persisted. Sunlight filtered through the haze in strange patches, illuminating the earth that had turned to muck.
Normally, the heat of the sun would have burned off such a mist, but the natural laws were no longer in effect.
Ester had sacrificed the land to summon a fog of hallucinations.
The leadership was more composed than the rank-and-file. Only the forward scouts were currently trapped.
“A spell has been cast.”
This came from the mage attached to the Ocher Corps. The south, of course, had its own practitioners, and three had been dispatched here by the High Pontiff’s command.
They were known by their titles: “Blood Appraiser,” “Master of Moles,” and “Corpse Collector.”
All three were skilled enough to deduce exactly what their adversary had done.
“Hmph, they must have traded their own life force for this.”
It was a grand-scale enchantment, large enough to catch the entire corps. At this magnitude, the mage maintaining the spell world would be clinging to life by a thread.
“This must be the work of that Child of the Star girl.”
The Blood Appraiser remarked. They were well aware of Ester. The south possessed more intelligence than most assumed. They had tracked the rumors and taken them seriously.
Because they knew, they were prepared.
“Gurupeng Panisha.”
The third practitioner hailed from a mountain clan on the southern western border. The man, his face masked in red and black pigments, muttered incantations in an ancient tongue. The other two mages were familiar with it.
“A way to dismantle it.”
The commander appeared suddenly among them, demanding a solution.
“Eliminate the caster.”
The Blood Appraiser stated. He was of the vampire kin. His crimson eyes looked like pools of fresh blood.
“Pustis, go and kill them.”
The corps commander immediately ordered one of his subordinate knights. A mage would be helpless against a blade, after all.
“And you three?”
He looked back at the casters.
“We will go as well.”
The Master of Moles spoke and began to move.
“Can you reverse this swamp?”
The commander asked the final mage.
“Impossible. They’ve paid with their lifespan.”
The vampire replied.
The commander gave a curt nod.
“Then go. Even if the ground remains as it is, the effect will cease once the caster is dead, correct?”
“The probability is high.”
The Blood Appraiser said before trailing the others. The shaman who had been chanting also grabbed a spear adorned with eagle feathers and hurried after them.
It was just as the three mages faded from the commander’s view. Just as they were about to utilize their unique skills.
At that precise moment, it was as if no one had been prepared for anything at all.
Within the Mud Order of Knights, the knight Pustis had not even begun his departure.
Among the three mages whose ambition had outpaced their caution, the Master of Moles had his throat slit before he could even begin a chant.
*Thunk*—
Compared to the distant wails of the soldiers crying for salvation as they sank into the mire, the sound was nearly silent.
A translucent blade was pulled back, missing the spine and dripping with gore. Its shape was only visible where the blood clung to it. it was a sharp, needle-like weapon.
One mage was dead. Given the power he wielded, it was a pathetic end.
That was the nature of an assassin’s work—but even so, the shock was profound.
“……Gah!”
The vampire recoiled in alarm. The shaman with the eagle-feather spear did the same. The fallen mage hit the ground, but the killer was nowhere to be found.
It was a bizarre sight.
“An infiltrator!”
The vampire roared. He shut his eyes and activated one of his innate abilities—a technique for interpreting sound waves. It was echolocation, perfect for finding a hidden foe.
“The earth!”
He yelled a warning.
The shaman didn’t even have time for a war cry before he drove his spear into the ground. The tip hit the dirt with a heavy thud. Only then did a human form become visible.
The attacker was clad in brown leathers that perfectly matched the soil. Even while pinned, he contorted his frame and rolled as he sprang to his feet.
The spear had passed between his ribs. Whether he had successfully dodged it or the shaman had simply missed in his panic, it was hard to tell.
the man who stood before them was hooded and masked, his features entirely concealed.
“Durudur!”
The shaman immediately yanked his weapon back and lunged again. For a practitioner of magic, he was remarkably proficient with a spear.
However, compared to a man dedicated to the art of murder, whose physical strength rivaled that of a knight, his movements were amateurish.