Chapter 889

Chapter 889

Even for an initiate of the mystic arts, conjuring a hex to snare a person’s feet is a simple task. Binding all four limbs isn’t much more difficult. If Esther were to evaluate it by her own standards, she could manifest translucent shackles or simply recalibrate a technique like Drmüller’s Mantle.

From the perspective of a mage, there is no functional distinction between a highly trained warrior and a peasant who has spent his life behind a plow. A person seeing a bow for the first time cannot possibly react to it; even as the string is pulled taut, they simply stand paralyzed, watching in confusion. Whether they are a soldier or a farmer, is the lack of familiarity not identical?

In that same vein, those ignorant of the spell-world cannot defend against its influence. This is compounded by the fact that spells, unlike physical bows, are not a visible form of weaponry that one can track with the naked eye. Thus, whether facing ten soldiers or ten farmers, the difficulty remains the same. Rooting them to the spot is trivial.

It is only when the numbers reach a hundred that the narrative begins to shift.

For one who does not navigate the spell-world with mastery, preparation alone would consume three days. A more adept practitioner might manage in two, while a novice might need five. If one were to etch a magic circle into the dirt and distribute reagents, those with sharp instincts would become apprehensive, their suspicion growing into a nervous, volatile reaction toward the unknown. Even someone unacquainted with a bow can sense the inherent threat in its silhouette and aura.

Naturally, if one possesses extreme proficiency in manipulating the spell-world, they can harass a company of a hundred without any elaborate preparation, though it would drain a substantial amount of mental energy.

‘But what if there are a thousand?’

At this threshold, the distinction between disciplined soldiers and commoners becomes vital.

‘Soldiers possess a commander.’

Leaders guide the masses beneath them. They bellow orders to prevent panic and coordinate movements to mitigate casualties. The presence of a leader fundamentally alters the collective. This is a factor that must be weighed even at the scale of a hundred, especially by the person tasked with stopping them.

‘Numbers paired with a commander.’

When these two elements merge, the line between soldier and farmer is drawn. When veterans of conflict gather into a singular mass, they cease to be mere individuals. They develop the instinct to cluster, to endure, and to bypass obstructions. Mages capable of standing firm against a thousand charging men wielding iron were exceptionally rare.

This is even more true if that military force has been hardened through constant battle, like iron under a smith’s hammer. Here, the tactical math grows dense.

‘I must assume they are elites.’

In her past indifference, she hadn’t noticed, but after observing the Border Guard’s units up close, she realized their caliber. Could they really be dismissed simply because they lacked magic?

‘An elite unit will not simply submit.’

Many soldiers would likely fight through the haze of hallucinations. Some would inevitably pierce through the mental interference and continue their advance. Just as the elite Border Guard units she had witnessed would have done, these enemies were surely capable of the same.

Halting a thousand disciplined soldiers was far more taxing than stopping a thousand refugees. It was a feat so daunting that the average mage would never even attempt it.

‘And I must account for the presence of a knight order.’

Even behind layers of protective barriers, their blades remained terrifyingly sharp. Even a junior knight posed a significant danger. While she wouldn’t simply freeze if one stood before her, the logical path was to maintain distance.

Her objective had been defined from the start.

“Stall the army for as long as possible.”

Those were the instructions of Kraiss. She didn’t possess a strategic view of the entire field, but she understood that this man—the one who had the audacity to desire a leopard’s claws and even dared to touch her to “verify her gender”—was exceptionally bright.

“I will.”

She couldn’t recall exactly when she had given that blunt confirmation.

Beads of sweat rolled from her forehead down her cheeks. Even before the first incantation, Esther had calculated every variable of the enemy’s strength. She had positioned herself where she could not be seen, then cast the spell that snared the feet of three thousand men, locking them in place. Though this was vastly more exhausting than simply standing before them and slaying dozens with a single strike, she maintained a facade of effortless control.

The inevitable consequence of her actions soon marched toward her.

“Filthy witch.”

An arrow whistled toward Esther, launched by human hands.

Commander Barik was managing his forces with cold efficiency. He identified the primary threat—the witch—and dispatched five knights to deal with her. Along with them, he sent seven junior knights toward the mage. This represented the total strength of the Mud Order. Simultaneously, he commanded a general charge. Before the main body of the army could navigate the mire and the fog, the seven junior knights tore through the obstacles to reach Esther’s position.

“With a bit of care, this is nothing!”

The shout echoed, serving as a beacon of hope for the army behind them. The soldiers moved forward, drawing strength from the knights’ advance.

The seven junior knights pushed through, intent on disregarding the mental phantoms. To navigate the ground she had turned into a morass, they discarded their boots and moved forward, testing the earth with their bare soles. Consequently, their feet were bloodied, shredded by jagged rocks and grit. Even a junior knight was said to possess power far exceeding a common man. Armed with rigid discipline and a burning spirit, they choked back the hallucinations and suppressed their terror to reach this spot.

Given how grueling their journey had been, the sight of the witch standing defiantly on a small mound incensed them.

“Fire!”

As soon as they spotted her, one junior knight gave the order. A companion immediately notched an arrow and released it in a single, fluid motion.

The string thrummed, sending the projectile screaming toward its mark. It looked as though the arrow would embed itself in the witch’s skull—but it stopped short.

*Thwum!*

A flesh golem, its skin a patchwork of crude stitches, stepped forward to deflect the shot. It positioned itself in front of the witch, raising a heavy square shield to protect its upper torso. Arrows are ineffective against such barriers; unless the projectile was infused with Will, a shield was more than enough. Bonhead’s capabilities had been refined through constant upgrades. It had intercepted a shot from a junior knight without being pushed back by the force.

“She even has a sentinel.”

“Insane woman.”

“Let’s settle for half and half. Don’t kill her instantly.”

“We can have our fun later. If we stall, the commander will have our heads.”

The knights remembered Barik’s feral rage, recalling him tearing monsters apart with his bare teeth. The memory sent chills through several of them. Their commander was a source of primal fear, a terror etched into their very marrow.

“Duty first.”

They moved in unison. The seven knights advanced. If arrows failed, steel would suffice. No swamp or phantom mattered now; if they could just dismantle that heap of flesh, the golem, the job would be finished.

As she maintained her grip on the three thousand soldiers, Esther felt her endurance reaching its breaking point. As the enemy soldiers used ropes to haul their comrades out of the mud, those trapped in the illusions let out horrific screams before regaining their senses.

‘This is harder than I thought.’

Large-scale, wide-area spells were not her forte. In truth, they were her greatest weakness. She had never been formally taught how to claim an unseen territory and impose her spell-world upon it. She had wandered that path alone, relying on raw instinct and sudden inspiration to forge her own methods.

If the three enemy mages she had already killed had known this, they might have died from the shock alone. Or, more likely, they would have tried to feast on her blood and pillage her unique spell-world. They would have been paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of her untapped talent. Had she chosen the sword over sorcery, Enkrid would likely be the one following in her shadow today. That, too, would have been an interesting life.

She shook off the distracting thought. Her eyes locked onto the six remaining knights—one having already been accounted for—who were bristling with murderous intent.

“Surrender, and I might let you live,” one of them taunted, flicking a tongue as long and grotesque as a Frokk’s. It was a repulsive sight, dripping with saliva, looking more like something born of a serpent than a man.

“Disgusting. I’ll take your tongue before I take your eyes,” Esther replied. She snapped her fingers.

*Click!*

‘Drmüller’s Hammer.’

She whispered the incantation within her mind. It was a feat made possible only because she had achieved Mugin, the Tacitus stage. She watched as the air condensed and plummeted.

*Boom!*

The concentrated wind slammed down, crushing two heads. One knight was tossed aside by the gale, while the other tried to resist. Their fates were sealed. Despite the strain of holding the army, Esther managed to burst a junior knight’s skull.

The remaining six were shaken. This was a form of magic unlike anything they had encountered. Esther intended to be thorough; the spell she had just used moved with a velocity and force that even a knight’s reflexes could not evade. It was a technique she had perfected while training against the Mad Order.

‘Magic is a matter of technique.’

The more one practices, the more versatile and refined the applications become. It isn’t just about the volume of mana. Esther was a specialist in facing superior forces with limited resources and a narrow repertoire of spells. This was the hallmark of the Witch of Strife.

The air had crushed the man’s head into a mess of gore and bone shards. Simultaneously, a trickle of blood escaped the corner of Esther’s mouth.

“Master.”

“Captain.”

“Goddess.”

Behind her, twenty of her followers finished their prayers and spoke up. Each possessed the potential to tap into the spell-world, and each was a distinct individual. She nearly smiled at the ridiculous title “Goddess” used by one of the jokers in the group. It was a word that felt entirely foreign to her.

“You mentioned my tongue,” the snake-tongued knight growled. It was a tactical distraction, but Esther had learned well from Enkrid. If magic was technique, it had to be rooted in combat pragmatics.

“Your tongue is quite large,” she replied, tossing out words to clutter their thoughts.

One of the knights tilted his head, seemingly confused by her response. “No, that’s a head,” he muttered.

Esther remained perfectly poised. “You insignificant things, where are you looking? I’ll tear those eyes out next.”

The most observant among them realized the trap. “Don’t listen to her! She’s talking nonsense!”

Esther steadied her breathing. She would have to push herself. Bonhead could manage one of them, but the remaining six were now on high alert.

‘I should have taken out three with that first hit.’

Maintaining the swamp and the mist while anchoring three thousand men was pushing her to the limit. Her mana reserves within her spell-world were nearly empty. Vertigo washed over her, and she felt a surge of nausea. Her nerves were on fire, and she could feel blood threatening to rise in her throat.

Even though she could retreat, the thought didn’t cross her mind. She simply envisioned a certain man’s back.

‘What would you do?’

He was a man who found a way out of the most hopeless situations. He was the type who, if buried seven levels deep in a labyrinth, would claw his way back to the surface. He was someone who looked death in the face and did what was necessary.

‘A truly beautiful person.’

She thought of her master’s old prophecy. *“You have a penchant for the beautiful, the noble, the proper. You’ll choose a man who embodies those things.”*

Her master’s wisdom was often inscrutable, possessing a depth that marked him as a true sage.

Esther prepared to manifest another spell, even if it broke her. The six knights braced themselves, maintaining a cautious distance. They were willing to lose a few more to her magic if it meant they could finally close in with their blades and hammers.

‘Can I afford a defensive ward?’

No. She would have to rely on the enchanted artifacts she wore. She ran the numbers again and again.

“My name is Graham. I once served as the castellan of the Border Guard. In my twilight years, I have finally found true purpose.”

An elderly, white-haired swordsman stepped up to her side. Graham was a man who had surpassed the level of a junior knight. Even if he wasn’t the strongest, his achievements were undeniable. He was a warrior who had challenged his limits every single day of his life. He was among the first to be transformed by Enkrid’s influence. He had always stood for his city, and he would not hesitate to stand here now.

“Dame Esther, I will protect your flank.”

The others had already donned their armor and prepared for battle. One of the approaching knights veered toward Graham, intending to cut through the old man. Even a cursory glance revealed the gap in their power; Graham was physically outmatched in every way. Yet, the old soldier smiled.

He had pushed past his limits, but he could feel the stiffness of age creeping into his joints. His prime was always the space between yesterday and tomorrow. Eventually, he would have to put the sword down—but not today.

“Let this atone for the errors of my past.”

The voice came from behind them. It was Kraiss, the man who was supposed to be in the rear, managing the strategy.